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Summoned -- Experimental Specter

3/31/2017

This week I took a bit of a break from writing. Instead I worked on some art projects, while figuring out what stories I need to get cracking on. In any event, each of the pieces this week grew out of one another. I began Summoned, simply drifting through a loose idea. From Summoned, I pulled out what would become Experimental Specter. Though I like both, I do enjoy the Specter on its own. It seems more haunting. Yet, the two together feels like an almost psychedelic narrative, and temps me to get back into making a comic book, if I can ever find the right artist to work with. Who knows? Maybe these will inspire what I write next.

Thanks for taking the time, and enjoy!

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Wise Fool: Steak Lady, and Strawberry Jelly

3/24/2017

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Giving advice is a tricky thing. Does one base recommendations on personal experience, or empirical research? Perhaps a careful amalgamation of the two, but even that balanced approach leaves open the worry of how to tell if advice is actually any good. Though the most important question is why am I giving advice?

Ever since high school people have come to me for advice. Why? I have no idea. The best guess I can manage is that many people vent their problems in the form of a question. They aren't actually seeking advice, just asking for it in order to indirectly bring up a particular issue. The main reason I say that is because most people don't need advice, they need someone to support the idea they already have in mind.

See, if you end up in a situation because of the choices you've made it's hard to listen to yourself since whatever dilemma you're facing feels like your fault. In a bad relationship? You got yourself in it, so can you really trust your idea how to get out of it? Of course you can, but it doesn't hurt to have a voice outside your head saying, "Do what you think is right."

And yes, there are certainly occasions where folks have personal problems which make it hard for them to trust their own inner Abby (i.e. social anxiety, depression, alcoholism, etc.); however, that's why I said "most people." Yet, even those genuinely seeking advice aren't looking for someone to tell them what to do. They're looking for options they can't see because of mental blinders.

All that said, I also know I have the reputation of being that person who will say your girlfriend is annoying, your boyfriend is cheating on you, and if your Pops beats you, well, he's gotta sleep sometime, and when he does you wail on him with a bat until he's paralyzed. Other side of that coin, I rarely take things seriously which means bringing a thin silver thread to many situations: the upside to chemotherapy is that you'll save money not having to get haircuts {rimshot}. Hey, sometimes people need a laugh more than advice.

As such, it recently came up among friends that I should try my hand at the question-and-answer column. So here we go.

#

"Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn't..."
-- Erica Jong, How to Save Your Own Life

Dear Wise Fool,

Today I was cleaning my apartment (ok really it was more like collecting dishes around the apartment and putting it in the sink to pretend I'm not actually a garbage person). As a reward for not being total garbage, I ate a big steak (yes, that's it because I can't cook much else) and I realized that I am currently a 30 year old single woman living like a 26 year post-college man. Should I be worried?

Sincerely,
Steak Lady

Dear Steak Lady,

First off, how you clean your apartment is between you and whatever tasty conception of divinity you embrace, whether it be original recipe Jesus, or kaiseki Shinto -- Shinto: the Asian faith Westerners haven't co-opted (praise Kukulkan). The point being: at least make sure there's a path. To where? Preferably one exit, but try for the bathroom, bed, and/or fridge. These can serve as game trails for hunting rats if you ever wake up in a maze of your own filth, unable to leave the apartment, feeding on whatever critters live in the clutter as well as the naive deliver personnel who foolishly wander inside.

Second, hell yeah reward steak. You should always treat yourself when you accomplish tasks, especially the ones you don't want to do. Rewards are incentives. You're more likely to do something again if your brain is under the impression there's some kind of pleasurable cause and effect. After all, no one would have sex if it felt like getting gut punched... some might, but that's another topic.

As to your main concern, the real question is are you comfortable with your situation? So many people try to contort their lives based on the misconception that by a certain point in life a person should be at point {blank}, as if life is lived according to timetables. If at 30 you're living like a post-college 26 year old man, worry should only exist if you can't pay your bills, the CDC has quarantined your apartment, or the homeless see you on the street and give you change. Life is all about finding a comfortable groove. Some folks spend their whole existence struggling to achieve that, and many often don't.

Yet, keep in mind that human existence is incredibly malleable. The fact you're expressing concerns suggests a worry perhaps there are things this lifestyle is preventing you from doing. If that's the case then make changes. I recommend eating that steak with a knife and fork to start. The barehanded, tooth and claw method of most mid-twenty males is appealing, and saves on dishwashing, but embracing some of civilization's innovations is a good way to start appreciating life from a different angle. Think of a new routine like a new outfit. Try it on, and if it doesn't feel right, you can always hang it up in the closet to show people, "See, I wore that once. Didn't like it. Who wants a handful of ice cream?"

Ultimately, I say if you're comfortable then stick with how you're living until it isn't making you happy. Don't let the apartment get too junky because your surroundings can affect your mood -- cleaning up a bit can provide a sense of accomplishment on otherwise unproductive days. (I'm speaking from experience on that last bit.) The truth is life has no settings, certainly nothing permanent. This may be how you're living now, but in a few years everything might've changed without you even doing a thing. Just remember, whatever happens, to keep yourself open to possibilities and be as happy as possible... because you'll be dead one day, and your concern on that occasion won't be the dirty dishes on the shelf. Live the way that makes you happy -- no meth, I can't stress that enough -- and if you aren't happy then make changes.

Respectfully,
Wise Fool

P.S. here's a simple bachelor grade recipe to augment that steak:

Ingredients:
One can Campbell's chicken rice soup.
One jar salsa.
Minute rice.
Shredded cheese of your choice.
Tortillas.

Directions:
Pour soup into pot. Refill empty can with minute rice, pour into pot; refill empty can with water, pour into pot. Bring to boil. Cover and reduce heat to simmer. Let sit five minutes.

Cute steak into strips. Fry in pan. When nearing desired temperature (i.e. medium rare) add rice and desired amount of salsa to pan. Stir, heating until bubbling.

Serve on tortillas with desired amount of cheese sprinkled on top. Heat of meal will melt the cheese.

Serves: 1 to make-your-own-ya-want-some.

#

Dear Wise Fool,

My friend wants to know if strawberry jelly is actually a lubricant.

Sincerely,
Asking for a friend who isn't me

Dear "Friend" of a Jelly pervert,

I take all the questions I'm asked with the seriousness of a surgeon about to crack open a child's skull, and scoop out brain cancer. So when I saw this inquiry I knew better than to assume this might be a strictly sexually inclined question.

In that regard the answer is no. If your "friend" is attempting to lube anything mechanical with strawberry jelly you can safely categorize them using the taxon dim fuck wit. All their suggestions regarding anything mechanical should henceforth be taken with a pinch of salt, by which I mean blow a pinch of salt in their eye whenever they start spouting dim fuck wit nonsense.

However, sexually speaking the question becomes a shade more complicated. Strawberry jelly can be used as a playful alternative to conventional sex lubes, but if used as such should only be applied externally. Greasy up a dick about to plunge into a hole is not a good idea. Just because something can safely go in your stomach doesn't mean it can healthily enter other orifices. Swords are one example. Speaking of which, if I stabbed you, and started pouring honey in the wound (I hope) you wouldn't think, "Well, at least now I'm full of sweetness." Obviously you already were full of sweetness otherwise I wouldn't have stabbed you with a maple tap. But I digress... the point is strawberry jelly isn't meant for internal use. It contains sugar which can foster a variety of infections, and even a minimal amount of stickiness will only be counterproductive.

Your "friend" would be better off investigating the myriad varieties of strawberry flavored lubricants designed specifically for sexual purposes. Like those intended to mitigate the unpleasant flavors stemming from ass to mouth. Yet, I don't wish to discourage anyone from enjoying experimentation. For instance, if slathering your lady's vagina with strawberry jelly like a piece of dry toast is the only way you can enjoy eating it then by all means let that jelly loose.

To recap: is strawberry jelly lubricant?

Not for anything mechanical you dim fuck wit. However, it can be a playful addition to external sexy sex sexiness.

Hungry for toast,
Wise Fool

#

If you, or your friends, or "friends" have any questions they'd like answered, write to honestyisnotcontagious@hotmail.com. In the subject line please write WISE FOOL: {your alias}, so we don't filter it into trash. We want to decide if it's trash. Remember to keep things anonymous. Also be aware, any advice is just a suggestion. Ultimately, and for legal reasons, what you do is what you choose to do. Additionally, though your questions will be regarded seriously they will be answered with varying degrees of sarcasm in the interest of humor.

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St. Patrick's Day 2017

3/18/2017

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He stood on the porch in a pair of neon green booty shorts. Muffin top spilling out between the shorts, and an orange fishnet tank top, he held the end of a lime colored leash in one hand, a beer can in the other. The leash led down to a sour faced ginger cat.

Cocking an eyebrow he said, “Don’t make me sic my cat on you.”

I replied, “Sorry, didn’t even know I was here.”

“Stop peeing on my house!”

I shrugged, “Better your house than my pants.”

He huffed, “That does it. Get ‘em Jane Russell.”

#

Remy leaned in. I leaned away. He let a low whistle of amazement.

“Damn, yo face a mess.”

“Cat,” I informed.

Nodding, “She a feisty one.”

“No, not her. Like a kitty cat.” I waved to Salmon, signaling for another whiskey. He detached from his conversation, prognosticating the baseball season, to refresh my drink. Meanwhile, Remy pulled out a deck of cards, and started dealing solitaire.

He said, “Shoulda pro-tected yo face.”

“My hands were occupied shielding my dick. It was out at the time.”

Salmon’s face screwed up in confusion, “Why was – actually, forget it. I don’t want to know.”

“Me neither.” Remy moved the ace of spades to the two of hearts then the lot over to the three of clubs. He liked collecting long rows before whittling them down. Some folks claimed he saw certain futures in the cards. I didn’t have reason to doubt such speculations, though I didn’t usually care.

However, on this occasion, I felt the need to ask, “What’s the night looking like?”

His cracked, leathery hands gently moved the Queen of Diamonds, “Same as last year. Sometimes don’t need no cards to know the future. It’s just the past.”

The prospect didn’t sound good to me. The idea of being in a room full of screaming holiday drunks, foaming at the mouth as they drooled green beer; jukebox volume maxed to drown out slurred singing, blasting loud enough to make the windows vibrate; green attire staining the scene in splashes of emerald; someone cackling as their friend fails to say “Irish wristwatch” quickly as if it’s fucking necessary to say… me bursting out of the bathroom screaming, running while wildly swinging a six inch blade, slashing a trail to the exit.

I didn’t really feel like enjoying that repeat. So I finished my drink, paid the bill, and walked home. Along the way I stopped at the local grocery. A giant cartoon Leprechaun stood near the entrance.

The voice bubble read, “This way for all your St. Patrick’s goodies!”

His chubby cardboard digit pointed towards the liquor aisle. Offering fried chicken discounts in February almost got this place closed, but no one gives a pot of piss about casual allusions to Irish alcoholism. So I switched the price sticker from a bottle of cheap garbage juice, and slapped it on a jug of Airgeadlámh – “good enough for the Tuatha dé Danann” – then headed for checkout.

The checkout clerk looked like the poster boy for defeat. He sighed every time he finished scanning products as if a great inescapable shame had been added to his existence.

Heavy sigh, “That’ll be 42.50.”

A giggling baby stopped laughing at the sight of him. He swiped a bouquet flowers. His presence caused them to wilt a bit. By the time I reached him I could feel a pull not unlike a magnet tempting iron filings, the black hole of his melancholy forcing me to slightly dig in my heels, and push away from him.

Sighing, he murmured, “19.16.”

Handing him cash I said, “You know, technically, no one can stop you from killing yourself.”

He shrugged, “I’d rather be murdered. Then people couldn’t get mad at me for dying.”

“Okay. When do you get off work? I’ll gut you in the parking lot.”

His eyes sparkled at the possibility.

The P.A. squawked, “Attention everybody, Mike Gleason just shit his pants. Mike Gleason just shit his pants.”

The sound of a brief struggle then the P.A. went silent. Everyone in the store started laughing, even the melancholy clerk.

Smiling, he looked at me, “So like midnight?”

Dismissive wave, “You’re laughing. There’s still hope for you.”

In the parking lot I opened the Airgeadlámh. Taking a slug from the bottle elicited a disgusted tsk from a passing soccer mom.

I shouted at her, “Mom! It’s me. I’m your son from the future. See what you’ve made me mommy. See what you’ve made!”

She ran inside, and I got the feeling I should hurry home.

#

A few hours later, around sixty-thirty, I glanced at the half empty Airgeadlámh.

It said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking we should order pizza.”

“I meant the other thing.”

“Not interested. I mean, catching squirrels just to dye them green – it’s a waste of time. Not to mention the death threats I’ll get from vegans.”

The bottle sighed, “‘And he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon.’”

I frowned. I considered smashing the bottle against the wall for flinging Joyce at me, but I first needed to drain its delicious contents; and that meant, since one does not chug ambrosia, finding another container – the whole murder costing more effort than the value of any joy I expected from it. So we sat in silence glaring at one another until I decided I couldn’t be in its judgmental company anymore.

Storming out the front door I marched the blocks to Mr. G’s. The Kelly green clad nightmare population of holiday drunks hollered a cacophony I heard from across the street, their drunken cries echoing off into the night; and I found myself thinking bad company is better than no company at all… until I burst out of the bathroom, a broken bottle in each hand, stabbing my way to the exit.

When I got home I plopped on the couch.

Still on the coffee table, the Airgeadlámh said, “Well, at least now you’ve a better story than staring at the walls drunk.”

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Spelunking thru a dead Titan

3/11/2017

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"Spelunking thru a dead Titan"

...spelunking thru a dead Titan
the reality of this cavernous corpse
barely guessed at
wriggling through the narrows
of broken bones
drained of marrow
by, bits of iridescent wings
suggest insects,
but they seem simply
like tunnels
full of fragile crystal.
The remains go on for miles,
and mapping the anatomy
offers no sense of direction,
glancing out wounds and rot
for signs of the exterior
to guess if I'm in the same state
I started.

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Truth Fact -- The Fool's Ordeal -- "Hold your hand out naughty boy..."

3/4/2017

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This is based on a true story, in so far as anything can be called true considering that every story is a recollection warped, even ever so slightly, by perspective; and facts are not as objective as one may like to think since things like mood can't be measured by scientific instruments -- a set of calipers to calculate the dimensions of one's personal universe; suffice it to say this is an approximation of real events given the availability of particular details which may, or may not offer the fullest panorama possible, however, they do afford an opportunity for a slice of life, though perhaps roman à clef is more accurate given that some bits of fiction may have been overlain given the secondhand nature of certain anecdotes vital to the illumination of back story fleshing out some of the narrative's players, those being the parties involved with events described hereafter in media res.

"I took that jolly cunt by the ear, and slapped him so hard I hurt my own hand. Pass the greasepaint would you kindly... thank you darling," applying clown makeup he went on, "But fuck-all if I can remember why I did it. There's only bits of the blackout I recollect with certainty. Like you fucking that donkey April Mars."

"I did not."

"You did too, Jimmy, you did too."

"Nope, nope. She sucked my cock a piece, but no stuffing I swear."

Shrugging, Mark used a brush to draw a black diamond on one cheek, "I've no reason to doubt, so I won't, but you know the saying 'in for a penny' and such?"

Jimmy adjusted his oversized bowtie, "Yeah?"

"Course you do, it was rhetorical ya pigfucker. The point being any bit of a sexual doings with a cow is the same. Fuck an ugly duckling in the mouth, why not get some puss as well, eh?"

Jimmy nodded, "I see your point, though at the risk of ridicule, I have to say, she's not ugly."

"She's no cover model."

"Neither is Daphne Greene, and you went for her more than once."

Slamming down his lipstick, Mark turned to face him, half an exaggerated smile in place, "Are you comparing that dugong April Mars to the fine swan that is Daphne Marilyn Greene?"

Jimmy stiffened, "I am."

Shaking his head, and returning to finish the grin, "Well, I can't argue with an irrational man, but if you find the donkey desirable have at it mate."

A soft knock at the door. Mark slipped a bottle of whiskey out of sight in the bathtub. Jimmy opened the door. Mrs. Pembrook poked her head inside.

All warm smiles she asked, "Are you gentlemen almost ready? Folks are getting anxious."

Mark gestured at his face, "As you can see, it'll be another minute, but no more than two."

Mrs. Pembrook nodded, "Excellent. You look wonderful James."

"Thank you Mrs."

The door closed. Jimmy aimed a middle finger at it, the gesture hyperbolized by the enormous puffy gloves he wore. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Even while he frowned the painted grin wouldn't stop beaming.

He sighed, "This better be worth it."

Mark slapped him, friendly backhand across the shoulder, "Course it will. I've been on both sides of the line here. You put on the clown gear, go out, and give the people a show. It's simple. Better than prison, lemme tell ya."

"I don't want to get hurt too bad."

Never seeing a need for sugar coating, "A few cuts maybe, some bruises that'll last a week, but no one's ever broken a bone."

Jimmy grabbed the whiskey. He took a long pull from the bottle. Chugging at least two shots he shivered.

A thin glaze spread across his eyes, "Law of the land, I suppose."

"No supposing, Jimmy. And we must respect the law, to a certain extent, otherwise we're nothing but animals."

This may not be the most opportune moment to intrude on the narrative, however, returning to the matter of truth, mainly as it applies to point of view, I used to know a man who operated under the absolute certainty that he occasionally excreted diminutive, Lilliputian sized people from his rectum, or to put it simpler, he thought he shit out people; but insisted to such an impassioned extent that these events were not delusions, hallucinations, or any of the myriad explanations offered by mental health professionals as well as the average person -- whatever average means psychologically speaking -- that at the very least one is forced to accept that for this man a reality existed wherein he defecated fecal homunculi. We now return to the story, again, in media res.

The Judge slammed the gavel down. Silence descended on the orchard. Mark brushed a bit of ash off his shoulder, grey snow from the surrounding bonfires. Jimmy tried not to the fidget, but the stern expression on the Judge's mask, the glowering made him nervous. He wondered if he knew the person behind the porcelain.

The black robe and white full-bottom wig turned the current Judge -- elected in secret by the town mothers -- into a somber specter. As a child Jimmy used to have nightmares about Judges coming to get him, beating him in his bed with their gavels. He never thought he'd stand before one in real life. He wondered if the dreams would return.

The Judge spoke, voice distorted through a mechanism in the mask, "You have been found guilty, and for your crimes, you have been sentenced to the Fool's Ordeal."

Mark glanced at the clock tower, visible even this far from town. If things picked up a tick he might just make last bells at the pub.

"Do you have anything to say?"

Jimmy looked down at his feet. Shuffling his floppy shoes, he shook his head. Mark considered saying nothing, but then:

"I don't think we did anything wrong, but we got caught, and law is the law. So let's have at it."

"Very well," gavel raised, "Let the sentencing be carried out."

Bang! went the gavel.

The Queen kissed the King, the porcelain lips of their respective masks clinking. They stood, and gestured at the vacant throne of roses.

Mark sighed, "Let's get it done."

"After you," Jimmy said.

The two clowns sat on the wide throne. Mark leaned on an armrest. Thorns speared him, but he ignored them. Now was not the time to look like he could feel pain. The whiskey helped in that charade. He glanced at Jimmy. Poor sod sweating profusely to the point his makeup already ran, white droplets staining the red bowtie.

Figuring the ritual would distract the kid, Mark said, "Show time! I went to a brothel the other day. They had a sign up, 'Beat it. We're closed.'"

The Queen pantomimed laughing. The King shook his head in disgust.

Mark went on, "Feeling a pint might ease my sorrows, I go to the pub. A barmaid, seeing I'm glum, says, 'I got something ought to distract ya. You know a bit of archeology, right?' I sez, 'Yeah.' She reaches up her skirt, pulls out a used tampon, and splats it on my table, 'Tell me what period that's from.'"

Jimmy started to get the feeling Mark enjoyed this. Maybe it was just bravado. He couldn't be sure, but he knew what worried him: this didn't matter to Mark.

Mark carried on for a few more minutes until the King and Queen shook their heads in unified disgust. Crossing their arms they stepped away from the throne. The Queen made a slit-throat gesture. The King nodded in agreement.

The Wolves emerged from the darkness. Dressed in everyday clothes, but wearing wolf masks, townsfolk marched towards the throne of roses. Some rubbed their hands in anticipation.

Mark got up. Jimmy hesitated.

Knowing better, "Get up Jimmy. They'll just come get you."

Jimmy shook his head, "I don't care. Why make it easier?"

"Show you're taking responsibility." Mark walked into the throng. The Wolves punched and kicked as he passed. Some gave him more than one blow. He walked until the beatings caused him to fall.

Reluctantly, Jimmy got to his feet. He entered the Ordeal.

I have one more point to make about truth, mainly the beauteous possibilities inherent in its malleability, perspective acting like a prism separating a single truth into a rainbow of truths, but I can tell by the look on your face, dear Reader, that perhaps it's best to get back to the action in media res.

He heard the ocean, a gentle shooshing of waves rolling lazily onto shore. Then the darkness abruptly filled with a barrage of colors and shapes. They seemed familiar, but his brain wouldn't comprehend any of it -- Jimmy winced -- yet something about the view seemed off. It took a moment to realize one eye remained shut, swollen closed. Though it hurt to move he sat up.

An explosive cheer resounded throughout the room.

Mark shouted, "He's awake!"

Quinton started to sing, and the pub crowd soon joined in:

"And when he landed back, his wife said, 'Tell me Jack,
While you've been in Paree have you always thought of me?'
'Always darling,' murmured he,
'For your love I've been pining night and day.'
And then the gramophone began to play.

"Hold your hand out naughty boy.
Hold your hand out naughty boy."

A few patrons playfully slapping the backs of theirs hands, while they sang:

"Last night in the pale moonlight
I saw you, I saw you
With a nice girl in the Park..."

Mark thrust a pint into Jimmy's hand, "See now, that wasn't so bad?"

"I'll let you know once I've seen my face."

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Summoned -- Experimental Specter

Wise Fool: Steak Lady, and Strawberry Jelly

St. Patrick's Day 2017

Spelunking thru a dead Titan

Truth Fact -- The Fool's Ordeal -- "Hold your hand out naughty boy..."

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