In Every Home, A Hammock
Correspondent:: HellPope Huey
Date: Sat, 18 Dec 2004 18:14:37 GMT
--------
I live in a triple-decker apartment with all of its attendant comforts
& oddities. Its a nice enough place, with relatively quiet neighbors and
as far as I can tell or SMELL, no amphetamine kitchens.
Good start there!
However, anywhere there are humans, there are quirks. One woman has a
dog so stupid, it appears to have been folded in on itself for 7
generations and is so inbred, you could use it as a footstool. This poor
little wanker seems to have lost the part of his brain that thinks in
terms of marking territory, because I've seen him lift his leg in the
middle of nowhere. If you stand there long enough, he will pee on YOU,
as he seems unaware of the difference between a tree, a human leg and a
car. There isn't enough Cute in the world to make this critter
acceptable, but he's Mommy's Little Lickety Pookie all the same. Oh
well. I once saw in Los Angeles a seemingly rather forceful woman
leading a man around who was clad in only leather shorts and a collar to
which his chain was attached, so one never knows. At least the man
didn't pee on anything while I was LOOKING.
One of the older ladies offered me a bag of boxes of Jell-O in various
flavors, which was a thoughtful, if freaky, gesture. I think part of why
they are nice to me is that despite looking like a white version of
"Refrigerator" Perry, I've been ascertained not to be an ogre, as far as
they can TELL, anyway.
So. I tried out this "Wild Berry" Jell-O one night and I guess maybe it
had passed its prime, because it didn't work out too well. I was already
dubious because it was a unique shade of torquoise, but okay, I'm an
American and innured to weird food coloring. I gave it the benefit of
the doubt initially, although it smelled a bit odd while being mixed.
When it had set, I took a mouthful of it and immediately thought "Mmmm,
Urinal Cake Jubilee." The last time I encountered a sensory overload
like that, it came from an industrial cleaner I used to mop out a garage.
I sure wished I had a neighbor of sufficient evil that I could have
crept over at 2 a.m. and plopped it onto their Welcome mat; it seemed
like a terrible waste to just put it in the garbage. If I had a stout
enough catapault, I would buy MORE of it. It would be incredibly
disturbing to have this goo land on you or anything near you. "Well sir,
we thought it had dropped from a passing jet's lavatory, but the
analysis says its Jell-O." Boy, somebody in the Kraft kitchen must have
been really mad at the boss the day they concocted that one.
The woman below me went through a round of playing this ONE religious
TV program at a high volume between 7 and 8 am every day. I not only
consider organized religion to often be akin to mental eczema, but
simply revile the experience of having my floor vibrate, especially on
Saturday mornings 2 hours before my alarm goes off so I can roll over,
thrash around grappling for the remote and catch those all-important,
25-year-old Spider-Man cartoons. She mysteriously stopped doing this
just in time to keep me from finally going downstairs and politely
intoning "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, PLAYING THAT CRAP SO LOUD AT
7 A.M.??" Maybe her Spider-Sense kicked in. That or the show was
replaced with something less enrapturing. She also did the same with
some grinding mariachi music show, one time only. If THAT happened every
morning at 7, she would have been dead by 7:15. I can stand a little
Jesus, but when folk music of most any kind begins to intrude, I can
FEEL little volcanic growths start tuning up in my stomach. Mt. Saint
Huey can be a rough customer, so let's not jiggle the faults just to see
if we can make a little magma come out.
There is another apartment building behind mine wherein resides a nice
black family whose free-range children come out to play on occasion.
Hearing most any child try to sing is often a study in discordant
yowling; however, this one cute little girl whom I call Binaca
apparently thinks she is going to be some sort of rap star, because she
emits this demonic sound resembling a person with Tourette's Syndrome
performing a cross between a Cab Calloway song and "What'd I Say?" I
wish I had a shotgun microphone, because I'd love to have a recording of
it. In an earlier era, someone would have called for a priest. Just as
deep-woods Cajuns speak a French-based dialect unknown anywhere else in
the world, so too does this kid enter another dimension of her own
creation. I've seen many strange things (hell, I AM a strange thing),
but I must admit that I have to stop and just stare at her antics once
in a while. Its as if someone sneezed really hard at a crucial point in
administering some experimental gene therapy and instead of repairing a
problem, created a secondary condition expressed as a noise-emission
disorder. Mahalia Jackson this kid AIN'T.
I AM appreciative of how insane its NOT most of the time. Although I
did once see 2 cops chase a hooting guy down on foot across the way and
whack his stupid punkin a little, its generally quiet. After all, I'm a
guy who once had a family of Latin neighbors living across the way back
in Texas who would have been held as insane by any standard and who
simply put a little cultural spin on it. They were prone to holding
mysterious car-repair sessions until the wee hours and playing some of
the aforementioned mariachi yowling or the worst corporate heavy metal
music they could find to help the process along. There are times when
you really need Steven Segal to come along and just go ballistic on
certain people. Yep, being jolted awake at 2 or 3 a.m. by a round of
that is the sort of thing that makes your hands just itch for a
shoulder-mounted rocket. One really deafening sound for just a moment
versus an ongoing, ear-wax-melting level of noise in the wee hours seems
like a fair trade.
I once had a pal who got so angry with the gas company that he had the
utility cut off and built a big solar rig for heating bath water, which
yielded pleasing results. He also devised a flower-petal-shaped mirror
oven that preceded the current one that will drive a Sterling engine. He
had an east-west exposure, so it was fairly easy for him to cook, even
in the winter, by going for the bay window. He also built a soapstone
stove that made things really toasty, if you discounted freezing your
goodies off collecting wood for it. He was one angry neo-hippie for
sure. It was an odd experience, listening to music in a den heated by a
wood stove alone, but his large poster stating "F*** the Man" on the
wall behind it somehow lent it a certain charm not casually purchased at
Gouge-Mart.
He used a Rapidograph pen with a .00 nib to draw truly remarkable
vistas of outer space and organic spacecraft, beautiful mountain ranges
peppered with cottages and waterfalls and other exotica on any large or
long paper he could find. He was once elated to have acquired a large
box of discarded wallpaper whose reverse sides were ideal for the india
ink he favored. His flower-child girlfriend was inevitably baking
something good and the ambience was vastly superior to that of my high
school friend Stephen's much more expensive house, as his mother was
insane and his sisters sometimes hid in the closets when we would go to
visit him.
Home is where the heart is, although sometimes the whole damned place
can be like the attic where Paw chained Jimmy so he couldn't bite the
neighbors no more. Each has its own character, or lack of it, ranging
from sweet to mundane to horrific. Its where your stuff is, but also
where either your Main Things occur or, sadly, where not nearly enough
occurs. Its a tether in a rough sea, a noose in a rougher one and the
hammock of your heart when it works as it should.
In my girlfriend's home, there is affection, relief and understanding
of a sort not readily had where things merely platonic hold sway, a
diverging yet refreshing respect we do not easily find elsewhere, the
security of acceptance and regard, the rewards of small graces and two
Schnauzers who are the canine version of Special Olympics contestants.
In my sister's home, there is solid conviction that does not bind, good
food, bizarre, engaging conversation and a sense of real and proper
Family our elders refused to nurture, in their selfish foolishness.
There is also too much talk of "Invader Zim" cartoons, once weirdly
viewed on DVD with the Spanish language track engaged, because my niece
is pure Yeti and simply hasn't named the characteristic so far. I'll
make sure she is enlightened. We mutants, we slicer-dicers, ayuh.
In my ex-wife's home, there is the comfort of familiarity, reasons to
persevere, the lasting aspects of our original affection that have stood
the passing of time apart and the value of being both tangibly and
intangibly useful. Girls just wanna have fun, but women just want you to
listen. A bit of both exist there. She also offers well-tended,
becalming flowers and three cats, one of whom does not deserve to be
made into gloves.
In my own home, there's still a hope in Hell, occasional laughing
visitors, The Tick atop my telly, a box of old mistakes I can't fix
unless a genie visits, a universe of chances to learn from those old
stumblings and maybe yet do The Funky Phoenix, red gloves, white roses
and 16 Van Der Grafferific synchronized arpeggiators on the horizon.
Hey, shuddup, even peculiar people have dreams... as if YOU didn't
already know that, hah!
I've lived in everything from a godawful cheese box of a motel room to
a $100k house that wasn't a bit shabby and ultimately, since I live in a
split-level head at all times, its always been less the digs and more a
matter of how well they accomodated my head, which was already
(allegedly) in progress. Well, that and a few nasty habits, but, well,
SAME TO YOU! Go home if the buffet offends, because as Tom says, if I
give up my devils, my angels may go too.
Home can reside in a photo album, a hard disk, a flight case cradling
precious tools, on a stool from which you create a Good Thing, in the
voice of the right person or the clear-blue-sky gift that comes at just
the right moment. Home, real Home, is that vital intangible you bring in
with you and what is missing when you leave. Yeah, I'd crap gold bars if
the Synthesizer Fairy just dropped a Roland HandSonic drum in my lap,
but like so many other things, tangible or diaphonous, it never comes to
life until you look it in the eye and lay hands to it. Then you have a
foundation, a frame and most importantly, some JUICE running through the
wires... and that, dear friends, is the source of all ambrosia.
--
HellPope Huey
I pissed right into the bottled city of Kandor
Hey, even Kryptonian flowers need nitrogen.
"Its disheartening to know that you live
in a country that's just teeming
with semi-literate, mediocre psychos."
- Henry Rollins
"Sometimes its like you're two different people."
"Well, that's three less than I used to be."
- "Stark Raving Mad"
Correspondent:: König Prüß, GfbAEV
Date: Sat, 18 Dec 2004 19:12:09 GMT
--------
HellPope Huey wrote:
> I live in a triple-decker apartment with all of its attendant comforts
> & oddities.
Wow, Huey! That was weirdly great!
Sort of like Hunter Thompson channeling Dave Barry!
More than a couple of astute observations--
What to do with the old Jell-o:
"Gummie Zombies!"
Correspondent:: asscoassc@aol.comBLOWME (AssCo Assc)
Date: 18 Dec 2004 22:28:37 GMT
--------
<< . . . the source of all ambrosia. >>
I thought you were going to say
"the true meaning of Christmas."
ooOOoo
It petrifies the tongue. . .
Shoots arrows through the lung. . .
Guttural rending pain . . .
. . . and next it Sclerotifies the brain
-- Copyright 2004 Ilya Shambat
Correspondent:: HellPope Huey
Date: Sun, 19 Dec 2004 02:57:14 GMT
--------
In article <20041218172837.21648.00002004@mb-m11.aol.com>,
asscoassc@aol.comBLOWME (AssCo Assc) wrote:
> << . . . the source of all ambrosia. >>
>
> I thought you were going to say
> "the true meaning of Christmas."
No, but it CAN be the source of 12 froply revelries and a blow job in a
pear tree, if you can balance juuuuust so......
--
HellPope Huey
I pissed right into the bottled city of Kandor
Hey, even Kryptonian flowers need nitrogen.
"Its disheartening to know that you live
in a country that's just teeming
with semi-literate, mediocre psychos."
- Henry Rollins
"Sometimes its like you're two different people."
"Well, that's three less than I used to be."
- "Stark Raving Mad"
Correspondent:: ah
Date: Sun, 19 Dec 2004 05:26:18 GMT
--------
HellPope Huey wrote:
> I live in a triple-decker apartment with all of its attendant comforts
> & oddities. Its a nice enough place, with relatively quiet neighbors and
> as far as I can tell or SMELL, no amphetamine kitchens.
> Good start there!
>
> However, anywhere there are humans, there are quirks. One woman has a
> dog so stupid, it appears to have been folded in on itself for 7
> generations and is so inbred, you could use it as a footstool. This poor
> little wanker seems to have lost the part of his brain that thinks in
> terms of marking territory, because I've seen him lift his leg in the
> middle of nowhere. If you stand there long enough, he will pee on YOU,
> as he seems unaware of the difference between a tree, a human leg and a
> car. There isn't enough Cute in the world to make this critter
> acceptable, but he's Mommy's Little Lickety Pookie all the same. Oh
> well. I once saw in Los Angeles a seemingly rather forceful woman
> leading a man around who was clad in only leather shorts and a collar to
> which his chain was attached, so one never knows. At least the man
> didn't pee on anything while I was LOOKING.
>
> One of the older ladies offered me a bag of boxes of Jell-O in various
> flavors, which was a thoughtful, if freaky, gesture. I think part of why
> they are nice to me is that despite looking like a white version of
> "Refrigerator" Perry, I've been ascertained not to be an ogre, as far as
> they can TELL, anyway.
>
> So. I tried out this "Wild Berry" Jell-O one night and I guess maybe it
> had passed its prime, because it didn't work out too well. I was already
> dubious because it was a unique shade of torquoise, but okay, I'm an
> American and innured to weird food coloring. I gave it the benefit of
> the doubt initially, although it smelled a bit odd while being mixed.
> When it had set, I took a mouthful of it and immediately thought "Mmmm,
> Urinal Cake Jubilee." The last time I encountered a sensory overload
> like that, it came from an industrial cleaner I used to mop out a garage.
>
> I sure wished I had a neighbor of sufficient evil that I could have
> crept over at 2 a.m. and plopped it onto their Welcome mat; it seemed
> like a terrible waste to just put it in the garbage. If I had a stout
> enough catapault, I would buy MORE of it. It would be incredibly
> disturbing to have this goo land on you or anything near you. "Well sir,
> we thought it had dropped from a passing jet's lavatory, but the
> analysis says its Jell-O." Boy, somebody in the Kraft kitchen must have
> been really mad at the boss the day they concocted that one.
>
> The woman below me went through a round of playing this ONE religious
> TV program at a high volume between 7 and 8 am every day. I not only
> consider organized religion to often be akin to mental eczema, but
> simply revile the experience of having my floor vibrate, especially on
> Saturday mornings 2 hours before my alarm goes off so I can roll over,
> thrash around grappling for the remote and catch those all-important,
> 25-year-old Spider-Man cartoons. She mysteriously stopped doing this
> just in time to keep me from finally going downstairs and politely
> intoning "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, PLAYING THAT CRAP SO LOUD AT
> 7 A.M.??" Maybe her Spider-Sense kicked in. That or the show was
> replaced with something less enrapturing. She also did the same with
> some grinding mariachi music show, one time only. If THAT happened every
> morning at 7, she would have been dead by 7:15. I can stand a little
> Jesus, but when folk music of most any kind begins to intrude, I can
> FEEL little volcanic growths start tuning up in my stomach. Mt. Saint
> Huey can be a rough customer, so let's not jiggle the faults just to see
> if we can make a little magma come out.
>
> There is another apartment building behind mine wherein resides a nice
> black family whose free-range children come out to play on occasion.
> Hearing most any child try to sing is often a study in discordant
> yowling; however, this one cute little girl whom I call Binaca
> apparently thinks she is going to be some sort of rap star, because she
> emits this demonic sound resembling a person with Tourette's Syndrome
> performing a cross between a Cab Calloway song and "What'd I Say?" I
> wish I had a shotgun microphone, because I'd love to have a recording of
> it. In an earlier era, someone would have called for a priest. Just as
> deep-woods Cajuns speak a French-based dialect unknown anywhere else in
> the world, so too does this kid enter another dimension of her own
> creation. I've seen many strange things (hell, I AM a strange thing),
> but I must admit that I have to stop and just stare at her antics once
> in a while. Its as if someone sneezed really hard at a crucial point in
> administering some experimental gene therapy and instead of repairing a
> problem, created a secondary condition expressed as a noise-emission
> disorder. Mahalia Jackson this kid AIN'T.
>
> I AM appreciative of how insane its NOT most of the time. Although I
> did once see 2 cops chase a hooting guy down on foot across the way and
> whack his stupid punkin a little, its generally quiet. After all, I'm a
> guy who once had a family of Latin neighbors living across the way back
> in Texas who would have been held as insane by any standard and who
> simply put a little cultural spin on it. They were prone to holding
> mysterious car-repair sessions until the wee hours and playing some of
> the aforementioned mariachi yowling or the worst corporate heavy metal
> music they could find to help the process along. There are times when
> you really need Steven Segal to come along and just go ballistic on
> certain people. Yep, being jolted awake at 2 or 3 a.m. by a round of
> that is the sort of thing that makes your hands just itch for a
> shoulder-mounted rocket. One really deafening sound for just a moment
> versus an ongoing, ear-wax-melting level of noise in the wee hours seems
> like a fair trade.
>
> I once had a pal who got so angry with the gas company that he had the
> utility cut off and built a big solar rig for heating bath water, which
> yielded pleasing results. He also devised a flower-petal-shaped mirror
> oven that preceded the current one that will drive a Sterling engine. He
> had an east-west exposure, so it was fairly easy for him to cook, even
> in the winter, by going for the bay window. He also built a soapstone
> stove that made things really toasty, if you discounted freezing your
> goodies off collecting wood for it. He was one angry neo-hippie for
> sure. It was an odd experience, listening to music in a den heated by a
> wood stove alone, but his large poster stating "F*** the Man" on the
> wall behind it somehow lent it a certain charm not casually purchased at
> Gouge-Mart.
>
> He used a Rapidograph pen with a .00 nib to draw truly remarkable
> vistas of outer space and organic spacecraft, beautiful mountain ranges
> peppered with cottages and waterfalls and other exotica on any large or
> long paper he could find. He was once elated to have acquired a large
> box of discarded wallpaper whose reverse sides were ideal for the india
> ink he favored. His flower-child girlfriend was inevitably baking
> something good and the ambience was vastly superior to that of my high
> school friend Stephen's much more expensive house, as his mother was
> insane and his sisters sometimes hid in the closets when we would go to
> visit him.
>
> Home is where the heart is, although sometimes the whole damned place
> can be like the attic where Paw chained Jimmy so he couldn't bite the
> neighbors no more. Each has its own character, or lack of it, ranging
> from sweet to mundane to horrific. Its where your stuff is, but also
> where either your Main Things occur or, sadly, where not nearly enough
> occurs. Its a tether in a rough sea, a noose in a rougher one and the
> hammock of your heart when it works as it should.
>
> In my girlfriend's home, there is affection, relief and understanding
> of a sort not readily had where things merely platonic hold sway, a
> diverging yet refreshing respect we do not easily find elsewhere, the
> security of acceptance and regard, the rewards of small graces and two
> Schnauzers who are the canine version of Special Olympics contestants.
>
>
> In my sister's home, there is solid conviction that does not bind, good
> food, bizarre, engaging conversation and a sense of real and proper
> Family our elders refused to nurture, in their selfish foolishness.
> There is also too much talk of "Invader Zim" cartoons, once weirdly
> viewed on DVD with the Spanish language track engaged, because my niece
> is pure Yeti and simply hasn't named the characteristic so far. I'll
> make sure she is enlightened. We mutants, we slicer-dicers, ayuh.
>
> In my ex-wife's home, there is the comfort of familiarity, reasons to
> persevere, the lasting aspects of our original affection that have stood
> the passing of time apart and the value of being both tangibly and
> intangibly useful. Girls just wanna have fun, but women just want you to
> listen. A bit of both exist there. She also offers well-tended,
> becalming flowers and three cats, one of whom does not deserve to be
> made into gloves.
>
> In my own home, there's still a hope in Hell, occasional laughing
> visitors, The Tick atop my telly, a box of old mistakes I can't fix
> unless a genie visits, a universe of chances to learn from those old
> stumblings and maybe yet do The Funky Phoenix, red gloves, white roses
> and 16 Van Der Grafferific synchronized arpeggiators on the horizon.
> Hey, shuddup, even peculiar people have dreams... as if YOU didn't
> already know that, hah!
>
> I've lived in everything from a godawful cheese box of a motel room to
> a $100k house that wasn't a bit shabby and ultimately, since I live in a
> split-level head at all times, its always been less the digs and more a
> matter of how well they accomodated my head, which was already
> (allegedly) in progress. Well, that and a few nasty habits, but, well,
> SAME TO YOU! Go home if the buffet offends, because as Tom says, if I
> give up my devils, my angels may go too.
>
> Home can reside in a photo album, a hard disk, a flight case cradling
> precious tools, on a stool from which you create a Good Thing, in the
> voice of the right person or the clear-blue-sky gift that comes at just
> the right moment. Home, real Home, is that vital intangible you bring in
> with you and what is missing when you leave. Yeah, I'd crap gold bars if
> the Synthesizer Fairy just dropped a Roland HandSonic drum in my lap,
> but like so many other things, tangible or diaphonous, it never comes to
> life until you look it in the eye and lay hands to it. Then you have a
> foundation, a frame and most importantly, some JUICE running through the
> wires... and that, dear friends, is the source of all ambrosia.
>
> --
>
> HellPope Huey
> I pissed right into the bottled city of Kandor
> Hey, even Kryptonian flowers need nitrogen.
>
> "Its disheartening to know that you live
> in a country that's just teeming
> with semi-literate, mediocre psychos."
> - Henry Rollins
>
> "Sometimes its like you're two different people."
> "Well, that's three less than I used to be."
> - "Stark Raving Mad"
IAWTP
--
ah "People will do tomorrow what they did today
because that is what they did yesterday."
~Manoj Srivastava
Correspondent:: "ynotssor"
Date: Sat, 18 Dec 2004 23:20:39 -0800
--------
"HellPope Huey" wrote in message
news:NoRestraint-6BF7AE.12140518122004@news1.west.earthlink.net
> I live in a triple-decker apartment with all of its attendant
> comforts & oddities. Its a nice enough place, with relatively quiet
> neighbors and as far as I can tell or SMELL, no amphetamine kitchens.
> Good start there!
Is this a long story?
Correspondent:: HellPope Huey
Date: Sun, 19 Dec 2004 17:24:19 GMT
--------
In article <32koekF37gssgU1@individual.net>,
"ynotssor" wrote:
> "HellPope Huey" wrote in message
> news:NoRestraint-6BF7AE.12140518122004@news1.west.earthlink.net
>
> > I live in a triple-decker apartment with all of its attendant
> > comforts & oddities. Its a nice enough place, with relatively quiet
> > neighbors and as far as I can tell or SMELL, no amphetamine kitchens.
> > Good start there!
>
> Is this a long story?
If you only have the attention span of a Jack Russell terrier who has
just been clopped in the back of the head with a steel-toed work boot
because he was caught with an illicitly-purloined, barbecued Cornish
rock hen in his mouth, then yes. Stop nipping at Nyquil all day, willya?
Its not Mountain Dew just because its GREEN, any more than you are the
Hulk because YOU are.
--
HellPope Huey
I am the Flaming Fudge Bag
on the Doorstep of Complacency.
"You've been more than a friend.
Even heroes can have heroes.
I've looked up to you for so long.
I'm sorry I didn't say so earlier.
There's so much I want to tell you...
not about...being heroes. But about being men.
About knowing that what we did
was always better than than what we are.
That was our gift. Our art."
- "Earth X"
"May I remind you,
we are not all creatures of the night?"
- "The Batman"
Correspondent:: "ynotssor"
Date: Sun, 19 Dec 2004 11:58:07 -0800
--------
"HellPope Huey" wrote in message
news:NoRestraint-AAED54.11235019122004@news1.west.earthlink.net
>>> comforts & oddities. Its a nice enough place, with relatively quiet
>>> neighbors and as far as I can tell or SMELL, no amphetamine
>>> kitchens. Good start there!
>>
>> Is this a long story?
>
> Its not Mountain Dew just because its GREEN, any more than
Looks like it's another long, rambling story devoid of interest..
Correspondent:: König Prüß, GfbAEV
Date: Sun, 19 Dec 2004 20:35:01 GMT
--------
ynotssor wrote:
> "HellPope Huey" wrote in message
> news:NoRestraint-AAED54.11235019122004@news1.west.earthlink.net
>
> >>> comforts & oddities. Its a nice enough place, with relatively quiet
> >>> neighbors and as far as I can tell or SMELL, no amphetamine
> >>> kitchens. Good start there!
> >>
> >> Is this a long story?
> >
> > Its not Mountain Dew just because its GREEN, any more than
>
> Looks like it's another long, rambling story devoid of interest..
Ha! Fuhgiddaboudit! 28% interest, PLUS the vig!