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Archive for April, 2008

The American-Lisa Marie Basile

Thursday, April 3rd, 2008

The American

By Lisa Marie Basile

I saw fog

and you said, where?

spineless

linear

direct

wretched crevice of a man

you don’t become god

because I come

in this wild tide

you won’t wash up

you’ll be eaten

you only knew how to play

the first few bars of

moonlight sonata anyway

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Dead People-Lisa Marie Basile

Thursday, April 3rd, 2008

Dead People

By Lisa Marie Basile

My Judas, he hung himself this Thursday.

Lee Harvey Oswald died on on the same date.

And he was trying to save the world.

The assassin who blew him to pieces was trying to save America.

And Martin Luther King. Shot to death.

Malcolm X.

Elliott Smith, even.

Took a knife to the heart. Himself.

Julius Caesar.

And Jeffery Dahlmer.

We don’t even know how Hitler died.

Jesus Christ was crucified in 33 AD.

That man was hung on a cross by his hands and feet.

They say his wrists could never have held him up.

Saint Francis of Assisi. Gone.

Jack the rippers’ mutilated whores made history.

Whores are people too, you know.

Che Guevara had his time.

Cancer took Marley out.

Don Quixote, and all of his love, died.

Rasputin: wiped out.

The Marquis de Sade probably died cumming.

Oscar Wilde died probably without a smile on his face.

Gandhi and Capone.

Lizzie Borden and good Nietzsche.

Anais Nin and Anne Frank.

Judas – the one in the bible.

And Judas, my Judas.

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Notes In A Taxi At 2 A.M.-U.V. Ray

Thursday, April 3rd, 2008

Notes In A Taxi Cab At 2 A.M

By U.V. Ray

down on the filthy side

of town

the phosphorescent

red tail lights

arc like bloodlines

through the static discharge

resounding in the night

and the tense intonation

of bar room blast

dissipates

in the vaporous stench

of gasoline fumes

piss stains

and whore scent

as the police sirens wail

and the parasites

suck sleeping dogs dry

oblivious in the violet hue

no one hears

the fragile scream

as the moths

fall to their death

in the headlights

beam

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One Life of Rain-Vanilla Simone

Thursday, April 3rd, 2008

One Life of Rain

By Vanilla Simone

wet raindroppity bodies

hit the windshield

splash and kersplat

from their journey

down into a strange new world

little bitty droplets or fat puddles

the size of the tippy top of my thumb

do they know they will

meet this life’s rainy end sooner

than their liquid brothers and sisters

who continue falling into the street

and the mini lakes there

related water

falling from Hindu

puffy gray mom and pop

Adam and Eve clouds

over and over

born live die

born baby particles

let fly

crash down

baby speckles break from drops

as they splash, squash watery faces

stare at me through the glass

and they move perpetually down

downer

in slavery to gravity

touching each other, bumpity

their drippy friends

along the way, changing courses

marrying or joining

to make long fluid snakes of rain travels

rain on my car

and they just wait

for the grim reaper wipers

to send them away again.

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Motion Sensors-Vanilla Simone

Thursday, April 3rd, 2008

Motion Sensors

By Vanilla Simone

New houses are built

electrified with special lights over the driveway

that know when someone is coming.

Small appliances, implanted on the corners

hidden away so as not to be obtrusive

or easily avoided.

They wait alone, watching,

not sentient, to know what they’re doing

but going on instinct

bred by a large manufacturer

bent on making every house the same.

Standard porchlights and driveway lights

that watch

are supposed to be comforting-

warning the household of anyone approaching.

They make it very hard to sneak out

when a person wants to stay unnoticed

(which is the point of these nanny lights).

So when a car drives up

the gismos come to life

screaming with floodlight brightness

that there is a visitor.

The lights sense the motion of something nearby

and make sure that everyone knows.

It makes one wish

that these tattletale know-it-alls

could be unimplanted.

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My Date with Anne Coulter

Thursday, April 3rd, 2008

My Date with Anne Coulter

By M.Christian

Despite apparent semiotic similarities, the female is, in fact, from a genus not at all related to its common mating partner, which in no way prevents it from various futile reproductive attempts.

This pseudo-positive assertive mating – the preference of one gender to seek out mates with similar or superior characteristics – has been likened to the behavior of a unique subspecies of baylisascaris that frequently attempts to reproduce with more developed species in an attempt to mimic their successful behaviors. Unlike these fecal parasites, the female is far more aggressive in its mating behaviors.

So aggressive, in fact, that few species can survive the attempt. For many years hypotheses regarding these common coitus fatalities were few and far between, more than likely because of the high incidents of injury and death among researchers who put themselves at high risk to study the sexual activities of this unusually destructive female. Fortunately recent experimental developments have paved the way for researchers to safely observe for the first time the actual behavior of the species from initial excitement phase to the inevitable conclusion of its unique sexual response cycle.

Again paralleling positive assortative mating, the female is apparently attracted to males exhibiting dominant behavior such as ritualistic combat, excessive fat storage, and territorial aggression. However, the female is again exceptional in that she normally prefers sexual partners who only manifest dominant behavior traits. In a well-documented experiment conducted in 2002, when faced with a choice between an extremely healthy male specimen of a similar species with only a miniscule colorization differentiation versus a male with obvious physiological deficits who was only apparently suitable for reproduction, the female consistently preferred to attempt to mate with the similarly colored male. It is interesting to note, however, that this behavior is only common if the female is out in the open. When isolated, the female will reverse this behavior and become extremely sexually aggressive toward the colored male.

Once the female has become attracted to a potential mate, it begins the courtship by displaying a series of provocative displays apparently evolved to stun the male to the point where sexual activity is optimal – for the female, because, as noted, the mating activity of the female in no way could be considered beneficial to the male. One of the early displays involves the unfolding of the lower limbs, extending them from the female’s protective sheath of fibers. These fibers, it should be noted, have been acquired from the desiccated remains of other, previous, matings. Extended outward, the limbs thus act mysteriously. Although they clearly lack any form of healthy musculature or show any signs that the female could act in any way as a successful brood mother, most males are lured at least as long as necessary for the female to continue to the next phase of her sexual courtship. Various research suggests that there are other, as yet unknown, factors at work at this stage in the female’s mating behavior. Semiochemicals have been discussed, as has the concept that the female’s coloring and behavior somehow mirrors the male’s, even though the actions of this false female in no way reflect true actions of a sexually mature female of any species, let alone the male’s genotype. One radical theory, as yet untested, even hypothesizes that the female relies on a form of "bribe," consisting of preferred nutrients or items that might make its lair more comfortable.

Now close enough to a potential suitor, the female extends a set of hooked upper limbs evolved to lock around the mate’s thorax, effectively trapping it. Although this maneuver is largely successful in trapping the male, it should be noted that some males have been sighted who, at the onset of this initially aggressive female mating behavior, have resorted to severing their own limbs to escape. These limbless males can often be seen at the periphery of the female’s territory, too entranced by the female’s chemical lure to escape but having become too cautious to proceed closer and risk her predation.

For those unfortunate enough not to escape, the female begins the next stage of her pseudo-mating behavior: the opening of the anterior mandibles, whereby a piercing stylet extends down and outward well below even the laryngeal prominence. Evolved with barbs to resist removal, the stylet is capable of easily puncturing the epicuticle and even cracking through the most hardened of procuticle. Depending on the chosen mate, the stylet will enter the head near or even directly through the vulnerable ocelli or directly into the core of the thorax.

Once this penetration has been achieved, the female injects neurotoxins that act as a sexual catalyst for her aggressive mating behavior by markedly increasing the males susceptibility to pain. Similar in toxicity to scorpion venom, the wild thrashing of the impaled male further stimulates the female causing a dramatic increase in the thrusting of the style. So violent is this activity that occasionally the barb has been observed penetrating completely through a potential mate’s head, though this in no way decreases the female’s aggression.

The next phase of this pseudo-sexual mating begins with the flooding of the male’s head or thorax with a mixture of enzymes that immediately begin to break down all present macromolecules. Normally preceding digestion, this activity does not continue with the removal of the broken-down tissues. Instead the region liquefied acts as a nutritious "nest" for the next stage.

In an action so far too fast to be completely viewed or documented, the stylet is removed and the hole previously punched through the body of the male is roughly widened by the introduction of an ovipositor. Reaching precisely to the previously mentioned digested region, the female then proceeds to go through a gesture of egg-laying, including the positing of a large sterile egg into the body cavity of the still-thrashing male.

This activity is important to note as it adds a new complexity to this puzzling behavior. For not only is the female attracted to, and very often attempts to mate with, members of other species, resulting in the death of the chosen mate, but the attempt is fruitless as the female has yet to be observed procreating in any way. Being a clearly unsuccessful evolutionary development, having no observable biological function aside from preying on males of other species, how the female still manages to carry on its genes is a matter of much curiosity.

The mystery of the female’s behavior concludes with the last act of its unusual pseudo-sexual mating ritual. While the order mantodea has long been accused of the same behavior, recent studies have indicated that it is not natural in the wild. In the case of this singular specimen, however, the action has been observed – where it is safe to do so – and thoroughly documented far too often. Whether it is a way of further stimulating its own sexual responses or just as a way of procuring additional nutrients, the eating of the male’s head after sex continues to perplex researchers and remains a fertile area for further study.

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Pteromyini-John Fowora

Thursday, April 3rd, 2008

Pteromyini

By John Fowora

Whoosh.

Mildred told me about a dream she had one night where she had that crazy surgery where you staple your stomach and all the fat drains from your bowel movements. Or maybe you sweat it out so when it dries, all your visible skin looks like dried Crisco.

When you lose around 400 pounds in a matter of a few years, you have these cloth-like flaps of skin, skin parachutes, even.

Fatachutes.

Flapachutes.

Flapaparafatachutes

And so on.

So you could imagine having a dream where you’re on the roof of that building in Kuala Lumpur and there are armed guards with the requisite sci-fi movie rice-burner bike helmets dressed in all black and toting automatic weapons forged by John Woo, chasing you to the very edge. And you have the choice of plummeting a century to your death, or full clips emptied and reloaded into your previously corpulent body. In this dream, you decide to jump, but instead of you-chunks all over rich Asian businessmen, you open your flaps.

Whoosh.

That’s the sound that you make as your body glides from one building to another, from skyscrapers to mountain tops, and then from tree to tree. They couldn’t catch you, those sci-fi guys. They wanted you to eat fast food and not exercise, but you were vigilant and wouldn’t succumb to their non-stop advertising and marketing campaigns that reaffirmed the fact that you once loved it.

No, you’d dare to be free.

And when she woke up from this dream, all disoriented and sweaty and still 400 hundred pounds overweight, she decided right then and there to leave me. That morning, Mildred packed her bags and walked out of the door -with the help of some vegetable oil pre-slathered on her hips- without even so much as a goodbye or a cupcake. I watched cable and ate frozen pizza for a straight week, no phone calls answered, no channel changing.

Let’s Go Surfing

When I first ordered basic cable a few years back , I didn’t expect as many home shopping channels as I got. I think there were ten or so, and they were seemingly inescapable except when turning the television off. All consumption all the time.

0800-0900pm Mookie Gomez developed this revolutionary new system video that can stop women from ever farting again. That’s right, no more embarrassing flatulence when you least expect it. It’s a DVD of mookie telling you to stop eating. No food, no gas.

I ordered two of these dvd’s, but not because I needed two/to.

The impulse to shop was almost as powerful as my compulsion to eat.

My mom loved Mildred; they used to cook together during the holidays, and my mother was never one to share her kitchen with another female. Meals as far as the eyes could see. My mom, Milly, and Me, we would sit there eating for days at a time. We would eat until we fell asleep, at the table, and wake up startled, irritable until that first bite. Not much was said, but we always felt an abundance of love. It’s what the holidays are for.

After thinking about Mildred for too long, I waddled over to the phone and dialed my mom’s number.

“Hello? Hello? Heellooooo?”

She hung up and I dialed back.

“Hello-“

“Mom, it’s me, Greg.”

“Oh, hi Greg. Someone just called and hung up on me.”

“It was me, mom.”

“Why would you hang up-“

“I didn’t.”

She has this problem with listening. She didn’t listen to my Dad before he died of complications from diabetes, either.

“You haven’t called in weeks.”

“It’s been a week, Ma.”

I put the phone to my chest to catch my breath. She was still talking on the other end and I was clutching the phone to my chest, hearing her voice through the vibration.

“Has it been-“

“Milly left me, Ma. She did. I don’t know. She’s gone.”

“Where?”

That wasn’t the response that I expected.

“I’m not sure.”

We finished what passed for a conversation and I sat back down on the sofa. My side of the sofa had an imprint in the cushion that resembled an overzealous Rorschach inkblot.

Milly-Ham

I would sometimes see Mildred’s face when I opened my refrigerator. Where the honey ham should have been, the pineapple slice a hair clip of the edible variety. I would take the Milly-ham over to watch home shopping with me. Just like before.

0400-0530am Laptop Computers for Old People

Me and the Milly-ham ate a lot. And we loved watching television.

And when it seemed like the Milly-ham was going bad, I ate her, too..Tears re-hydrated the dried up pineapple hair-clip slice. Her skin was tough and gamey, no longer the pinkish, vibrant Milly-ham that I once knew.

There would be others.

Confection Affection

My Mom loved me with an abundance of calories. She started with birthday cakes. Then every so often when I came home with a black eye from a fight or a boo-boo on my knee, she gave me a muffin.

And then fresh baked cookies.

And brownies.

And birthday cakes ( not a year passing, just because ).

Because that’s what she had to do all day ( I know this because sometimes I would ask her what she did all day and she would say, “oh, nothing.”)

Then it became more specific. Zebra Cakes. Stuff.

The time I came home with another black eye, my initial reaction to her giving me a Zebra cake was incredulity. Should I apply this to my bruised eye like I would a cold compress or a steak?

“I love you, Ma.”

“I love you too, Greg.”

I gained a nuclear-extended family.

Little Debbie was now my extra sister.

Stella Doro was mommy part deux.

I sent Grandpa Entenmann a mail-in rebate for soft bake cookies.

I guess this started in elementary school, maybe the third grade. The chubbier I got, the more friends I lost.

My ex-friends played with my boy boobs.

They made fart sounds when I sat in my chair.

When I got up from my chair.

When I spoke out loud.

When they saw me breathing for too long without interruption.

She’s Smart, Too

0400-0500am The Rapture Survival Guide - Repent

Two years after she left, Mildred calls me.

“Greg?”

“Uhhmbrrrggrrum, yeah?”

I’m eating.

“It’s Milly.”

I never spit food out, but here I am, spitting out chocolate-covered pork pieces..

“What? I’m sorry…hey.”

“Hey.”

“…I’m just surprised, you know?”

“I am too, sort of. I mean. I was watching television at the gym - you they have the stationary bikes with the tv’s on them- and I don’t know…”

“No other time?”

“…”

“Never mind. Sometimes I think about you, though…I’m stuck to the sofa.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I haven’t really moved from my side of the sofa since you left -I mean, the bathroom, sure- but no showers or-“

“Come on, you have to take care of yourself, Greg.”

“I know…”

I know.

“You know, I’ve lost over four-hundred pounds…”

“That’s…good. How did you do it?”

“Just diet and exercise…and leaving you…I’m sorry”

“Oh…No, don’t be…”

“…and I got a subscription to the Atlantic Monthly, now. We used to talk about reading more, together…I feel smarter, y’know? Maybe that’s the confidence talking.”

I love you, too.

Obesity-Induced Psychosis

Maybe Milly will come back if I get some Malaria or something like that, I could lose it quickly, like ten pounds a week is healthy or maybe fifteen because ten isn’t really enough but twenty is pushing it I think that maybe if I order a sauna for the apartment and turn it on full blast and close the windows that maybe it’ll get hot enough and I’ll lose it faster without dieting once the Malaria runs out then I’ll find something else I wonder if they sell diseases I should look on the Home Shopping Network schedule but it’s all the way on the other side of the room and they never really have any breaks in price though and I’m not sure if my mom really has the money for a sauna but then again she really loves me and she doesn’t really have to help me in this way but she’s right though, I am her son which means I’m always her son even when I can’t help myself in certain situations and I wonder if this is considered an addiction because I really don’t want to go to rehab and it just seems likes a total waste of time it’s like they want to change you and either Milly comes back to me or I’ll do something, I don’t know.

Change Gon’ Come

0700-0800am Sip, saw, cauterize, and repeat. A revolutionary new weight loss system that combines the pain of amputation with the body numbing effects of binge drinking. See results immediately.

My mom dropped the package off earlier today with some groceries. She tried to guilt trip me about only calling her when I need groceries, but she always comes over with them. I love her, but she should stop complaining so much.

You should have:

(1) 1.75 mil. Bottle of Jack Daniels brand premium whiskey.

(1) Stanley Fatmax mini-hacksaw w/fine teeth.

(1) Stanley Fatmax bow saw with wood cutting teeth.

(1) Dreyfus electric steam iron

(1) Homedics digital bathroom scale

(1) Smelling salts (not necessary if using kit alone)

Directions

1. Take a big gulp of Jack Daniels while pretending that it is a milkshake

2. Take another big gulp Jack Daniels while still pretending that it is a milkshake. If this is difficult, pretend that it is a different flavor than the last gulp.

3. Turn on the electric steam iron, but do not put water into it. The iron must remain dry. Sip the Jack Daniels while the iron heats up.

4. Use the Fatmax bow saw on your right leg while still sipping the Jack Daniels. Make sure that you don’t spend too much time on your right leg as you have to move quickly to your left for safety reasons. If for some reason you are stuck on your right leg, take another sip of Jack Daniels.

5. When your right leg is removed, place the now hot iron where the wound is. You should still be sipping the Jack Daniels.

6. Repeat this procedure with your left leg, if you have a helper nearby have him or her cauterize your legs for you as this will save you valuable time and blood.

7. Use the Fatmax handsaw on your arm of choice, as a rule of thumb you should remove the arm that you use the least. Sip the jack Daniels.

8. Cauterize your arm and roll your body onto the scale we have included in your kit.

I pass out.

“Greg, this is Milly. If you’re there, answer your phone. Ummm, I wanted to talk to you for a minute, so…I’m in out of town right now, but I’ll be back soon. I guess I just wanted to stop by. It was weird, talking to you the other day. But it was a good weird, I think. I’ll call you soon.”

I look over at the telephone and then at the television and back at the telephone and right now I want crawl over to the answering machine and replay the message over and over and over again.

* * *

“You look…good,” Mildred says as she sits next to the new me on the sofa. I had the old one thrown away and my mom bought me a new one. My mom says I’m getting too skinny. She says that I need to eat a little more. She bathes me sometimes, too.

1700-1900pm Cigarettes for people who thought that they’d never try them

“That seems interesting, huh?”

“Yes, it does. Maybe you should order it,” Mildred says..

She looks at me and smiles. Her stare is focused. She doesn’t blink.

I hold her hand tightly with my one arm and I swear I’ll never let go.

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When Mothers Talk-David George

Thursday, April 3rd, 2008

When Mothers Talk

By David George

A welcomed morning is when my mother is not screaming at me to get up. Never mind that she usually rushes into my room without the warning of a knock and twists the door handle as if she was breaking a chicken’s neck. But when it’s five thirty in the a.m. and she has yet to assault my room like an all-pro middle linebacker, I’m a happy person – at least for that moment.

After all the ruckus my mother creates on a typical morning, the usual question she poses to me as I lay with my mouth and nose pressed against the pillow is, “Are you up?” If I had any worthy gumption, I would fish out of my small pool of sarcasm and perhaps give her a cheeky answer. But I don’t and a froggy mumble is my general response.

The solitary steps I take along the path to school are measurements of moments in time. Each step is a thought about the day before, the rude wake up call, the day ahead, the song that swam in my head when I was in the shower, the anticipation of watching my favorite sitcom, the girl (or girls) that seem to arouse a tremendous erection when I see their nipples seemingly bust out of their cardigans. These steps are my gateway to memories past and signify the dullness of the future as all my thoughts, every morning as I trudge slowly down Hillcrest Street to the freeway overpass, seem so eerily the same.

My older brother had died of alcohol poisoning two years ago when he was only seventeen. He was the apple of my father’s eye but was also stricken with the same lust for liquor and nihilism as my father. Believing that life was nothing but a sequence of time signifying doom, a shop class accident that led to a severed left pinky convinced him that he wasn’t willing to find the fortitude to endure the remaining trials and tests of life. And so in a locked motel room, he consumed three bottles of grocery branded scotch and passed away in a pond of his vomit. In a note he left me in my box of baseball cards, he simply wrote that he was too scared of the future to give a damn about taking another breath. He didn’t write, “I love you” or “Tell mom I’m sorry”. Instead, his last written words were, “Just find a way to survive.” And I think of him now, as I do every morning when I pass by his ex-girlfriend’s house.

In this, my sophomore year, I elected to take an extracurricular activity in photography. Since it is not a part of the curriculum, the pony tail sporting, ex hippie teacher designed a morning activity where we would meet outside of his art class and roam around the schoolyards to snap pictures of insects, dog crap, shoe laces or whatever else that we thought was worthy of committing to film. He gave us no tips nor educated us on photography as an art: no mention of composition, lighting, aperture, etc. Instead, he merely said that through the camera’s eye, we can somehow find a piece of our design. I was pretty pissed when he told us this. Not only did I not know what the hell he meant but we were all given one disposable camera and due to cost, we were allowed only one snap per day.

There are three metal poles that stand in front of the entrance to the walkway of the overpass. I have no mind to think about why they are there, but over time, I developed a habit of touching the cold, rough tops of these poles from left to right. Sure they were covered by moist bird shit, gum, phlegm and the usual sort of bacteria and germs but none of that quelled me from my ritual. I thought to myself that it is part of what makes me unique.

The left curve of the overpass that leads to the incline is a sonic rush. All of the sudden, the screaming whooshes of the morning traffic hit me like wind through a tunnel and for the first time in the morning, I feel awake. A curved, overhead chained fence separates me from the throes of the commuters who drive in a straight shot to get to work, perhaps with the illusion that if they get there faster, they can speed up time and get home quicker. The speed of the cars amaze me as it’s hard for me to understand why there’s such a need (or is it a want?) to get to somewhere that seems as meaningless as where you’re coming from. As the cars keep racing by in either direction, I dread the day when some kid sees the blur of my car as I rush off listening to traffic alerts and fumbling over my coffee tumbler so that I can put in my eight hours of widget work per day.

I must admit that there is one reason why I chose to take this informal class in photography: I relish having the streets mostly to myself in the morning. The steps, as I said, are my measurements of time and thought. I enjoy thinking about nothing and everything without the hassle of my mom’s bum rush or my teachers invading my dreamy thoughts with a surprise question about the Taft-Hartley Act. Hillcrest Street is my domain with the exception of an occasional car, streaming exhaust as it makes its way to a freeway entrance. I extend my domain to the overpass for in the three months I have taken this class, I have yet to see a single soul walking the same path to school at the same time. This solitary exercise makes me feel clean.

Then, this morning, as I slightly hunch over to lengthen my strides while walking the incline, I see a solitary figure standing at the midpoint of the overpass and staring out into the stream of commuting cars.

My mother is like a combat weapon: short, blunt, has extraordinary implosive energy and at times, emotions can be kicked away to the curb to be picked up by garbage men. Her favored method of verbal communication is sharply lucid closed ended questions and she leaves no room for counter arguments. Perhaps this is why my brother chose to communicate to her with nods or faint smiles rather than words. Yet, my brother never complained, bitched or moaned about my mother’s motherless style. “She’s our mother and that’s that,” he’d say to me anytime I would complain, bitch or moan about her.

As I left for school this morning, her last words to me were, “Did you purposely not put on a jacket so that you can show to your teachers what a thoughtless mother I am when it’s near freezing outside?” Having learned from my brother, I put on a parka in front of her and managed a squinty smile. She looked at me with a stern disdain and started preparing breakfast for my father. And as I am now walking up the incline, just that mild form of cardio exercise is making my arms sweat and I begin to feel a tingling of perspiration on my sternum as I walk closer to this slender figure.

With his back towards me at an angle, I see the figure of a smallish man with his head slumped, staring at the freeway lanes. It takes me a minute to realize that what I perceived as my domain was nothing more than public space that I happened to use every morning before anyone else. That feeling of being violated in my space starts to slowly seep out of my thoughts and I know that by this time tomorrow, I’d have the walkway and the vista all to myself again.

Standing directly above the freeway median, the young man pivots his thin, bony face but at a downward angle as if to check to see if I was wearing shoes. Then as he lifts his face to look upon my body, I am now close enough to make out his features and describe it to the authorities if I needed to. With his stringy light brown hair and paper thin lips, he steps back with his left leg and turns his front side towards me. His zipper is undone and out of his pants, a pale, engorged penis points straight up to the sky as he rubs his head with his left thumb. I realize that I am now staring at his penis and after awkwardly correcting my path of vision, I proceed to walk a straight line as if I had seen nothing more interesting than a wild rabbit prancing in tall, dry grass.

“Hey,” he says.

I don’t stop walking.

“Hey. I knew your brother.”

I stop five paces away from him and without turning around, I reply, “My brother is dead.”

“I know, man. I know he’s dead. Me and Case and your brother used to hang out sometimes. I wanted to go to his funeral, but you guys had him cremated, right?”

I begin to walk.

“Wait, man, just wait a second. I wanna show you something.”

I turn around.

“I miss your bro so much, man. I mean, I know it’s been a long time already, but every second that goes by, it’s like this hole in my gut is getting bigger, you know? I mean, just the fact that there’s no fucking possible way for me to even see him again hits me like a ton of bricks.”

“Do you have something you want to show me other than your dick? Because I’ve seen enough of it already and I have to go and take some pictures.”

“Did he ever talk about me? I mean, about me and him?

I stand in silence and tell myself to not make even the slightest movement.

“I’m going now.”

“Hold on, just hold on. I’ve got something I want to show you.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and takes out a switchblade.

I turn the other way and wonder for a flashing second if I should bolt or stay.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you. I promise. Please…I promise.”

He begins to speak with a sickening urgency without raising his voice. And I can’t figure out if his tone is of heartbreak or insanity.

“I miss him every fucking second, man and just knowing that I can’t ever get him any closer to me is driving me nuts. I need him back. I want him back. But I can’t, you know? And why? Why can’t I have him back? Just tell me if he ever talked about us. That’s all I want to know”

I turn to face him again.

“I have to get going, Hardy.”

Hardy flinches his shoulders and twists his lips to the left. He then flips open his blade and looks at me for the briefest moment. Now crying with drool dripping out of the corners of his mouth, he then makes a quick, downward motion with the blade towards the base of his penis. He grits his teeth, screams out an unholy sound, falls to his knees, crashing onto his right side and begins to make a confounding noise that mixes a scream, a cry, a laugh and a whimper.

The knife falls out of his hands and he kicks so that it is near the edge of the walkway as if it was threatening to teeter off. I walk over silently to pick up the blade and then see Hardy on the ground, his hands clutching his thigh and knee, twitching like a seizure victim while thrusting syncopated guttural grunts. His penis is cut at the base and a steady stream of blood paints the concrete walkway. As I pick up the knife and march towards him, blood eases its way out of his body like rendered fat pouring out of a punctured plastic baggie. It is surprisingly thick and viscous and his cut flesh bares itself like ground beef behind a butcher’s display.

I force Hardy’s right hand open and place his blade in his palm and close it. His eyes are closed and he couldn’t stop twitching, thrashing and crying.

“Hardy,” I say, “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Class,” the ex hippie with an accidental teaching credential says, “I have some disappointing news. It appears that the school or should I say, the principal of your esteemed learning facility, has decided that having this particular activity does not provide a productive or creative outlet according to the guidelines set forth by the powers that be. So, unfortunately, we will no longer be conducting our adventurous get togethers. I am so sorry about this, kids. But if any of you want to meet up on weekends to explore the beauty of capturing life with a shutter, let’s talk and see if we can turn this negative into a positive. Pun intended. Get it? Negative?”

None of us laugh or manage a polite chuckle.

“I know…bad timing. It’s not the right moment for a joke. Believe me, I’m heartbroken about it, too. But there’s this old, funny saying: when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

I walk over to him and hand him the yellow, disposable camera.

“I took a picture already this morning on my way to school. Take a look at it and see how it fits into my design.”

The teacher looks at me with a positive grin. “That’s the spirit. Will do.”

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Silence and Whistling: An Interview With D. Trevlon

Thursday, April 3rd, 2008

Silence & Whistling: An Interview With D. Trevlon

By Melissa Smith

Melissa: First let’s get the most obvious question out of the way: What does the D in D Trevlon stand for?

D: Well the D stands for definitely been asked that 1,000 times. Do you really wanna know?

Yes.

(silence)

OK. First point in the awkward silence Olympics goes to you! Let’s talk about your EP. A Dance under the Stars is your first release since 2005’s full length To the Dusty Moon and You. Is there a reason you chose to record an EP this time out?

There wasn’t really any reason why I chose to make the album an EP. It just happened that I had written those songs in that same week and figured I would record them. A bad long album bores the shit out of people.

You originally released To the Dusty Moon and You in 2005 and it was re-released by LA based indie label Desert Highway in 2006. In your opinion what are the advantages and disadvantages of self producing vs. working with an indie?

I decided to record it myself because even after making many mistakes in life I still trust myself and know what I’m looking for in my music. Keep it simple, is what I say. Perhaps down the road I’ll grow fond of a studio but for now I like to work on my own. If I’m going to leave these songs behind, I want it to be 100% original art.

Speaking of art, both the cover for To the Dusty Moon and You and A Dance under the Stars are thematically similar, in a style that I would describe as David Lynch meets Salvador Dali on a lonesome prairie. Why this particular design concept and is there a reason for the stylistic carry over in the cover art? How do you think the images match your country/folk sound?

I guess I carried over the style because I liked the look, but I have no idea if the cover art fits the music. I’ve really always enjoyed the moon and the look of a couple dancing. People believe that you should have a good cover but for me it’s about the music, not the cover. Although I am a big fan of Lynch.

You will be playing in Austin twice for SXSW. That must be very exciting for you to perform in a city with such a vibrant musical scene. Any plans while you’re there?

Austin is the first large festival I’ll be playing. I’ll most likely keep to myself. I’m not one for crowded streets. I’m looking forward to the adventure but I’m sure it will be a week of rubbing backs and scratching sacs and I’m not into either.

So, what are your thoughts on the music scene in Vancouver?

I don’t know what a music scene is. Are there many great players here in Vancouver? Fuck yeah, lots. It’s the same everywhere. You get what you put into it and if for some reason this so called scene doesn’t allow you to be apart of it, don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’re only missing hangovers and drama.

Your singing voice is quite distinctive but another characteristic of your sound is the whistling. Why did you decide to feature whistling in your music?

My grandfather would whistle for hours, sometimes drive me up the wall. He is good, way better than me. He’s a songbird trapped in a grandfather’s body I’d say. I started in 2005, on the song Here I Am, There You Are. I tried it live and it seemed to work. Some people, but not all, enjoyed it and that was good enough for me. Perhaps I do it to carry on my grandfather Cec’s character. I think most of all; it reminds me of my youth. I’m really not a great whistler but I do what works for me.

I would have to disagree with you on that one. I think your whistling skills are very well developed. So besides your grandfather, what else inspires you to make music?

For the most part, it’s the ladies that inspire me most. Let’s see, what else? Life, love and imagination. Reality bores me most days so why not live in a world you can enjoy, even if it’s only in your mind.

How do you imagine your career developing? Do you have a plan in mind or is the process more organic for you?

I make no plans, nor will I. Go with the flow I will. Good or bad, I’ll take it. The music business is a game, full of lies and lust. But there is some good; you just have to find it. I’ll keep writing til the day I die. Perhaps not play as much, we shall see. I know myself well. The road and I, well we tend to find trouble together.

If I was a good fairy and despite your propensity for finding trouble, decided to grant you two wishes, one professional and one personal (sorry but I am a greedy fairy and saved one wish for myself!), what would those wishes be?

I’m no pro so I’ll wish for The Modelos to be playing and touring around the world. I love them.

That’s very kind that you would transfer your one and only professional wish! What about your personal wish?

No wish please, they say be careful what you wish for… Oh, in that case, I’ll be greedy and take an island far, far away that has fresh fruit, a soft breeze, lots of rum, and a fair lady. I don’t dare say her name.

As you gave your first professional wish away and I am a particularly kind fairy, I will grant you another. Living or dead, who would be present at your dream jam and what songs would they play?

If I have a good feeling with someone I’ll jam, but I’m not a huge fan of it really and it’s not always easy to find someone to mesh with. I do jam with Po Kadot of Square Root of Margaret; we have a duo called the Ghost Town Minstrels if you wanna check us out on MySpace.

So rather than someone you already jam with, isn’t there anyone else? Are you saying that you wouldn’t take this wish either?

Definitely Lee Hazlewood and Humperdink. We would play any of their own songs, or Square Root of Margaret tunes. Or Love This Time by The Buttless Chaps.

I thought their song Master and Commander would be more to your tastes. That’s a musical change in direction; you’re certainly full of surprises today.

Still to this day I have no clue as to what direction life will take me. Nor do I want to know. I can honestly say I enjoy the twists and turns it offers. Not all, but most. The only true thing I know is music. The world is growing up too fast and I’ve never really understood it. But I do understand my purpose and that is to write music. I’ve lost and made friends along the way, I’ve lost touch with reality. It’s the best risk I’ve ever taken.

Is there anything you would like to add?

Just enjoy yourself. Find the good in things and people. It’s time for a more positive world, I’d say.

Thanks for your time.

See ya round, I’m sure.

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