Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Unsquare Dance
Unsquare Dance implodes into a black hole of total squareness.
As far as I can tell, this is from an Australian variety program called the Digby Wolfe Show; probably filmed in 1961.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Joyeux Noel!
It's that Christmassy time of year, and there's no better season for hallucinatory biblical ecstasies.
I think back to that night. It must have been twelve years ago today that I saw the thing.
I looked from my window to see the falling snow and I saw two dogs there, standing on two legs (I thought) - - ashpit black, with their purple tongues sagging lazily out of their mouths - - emitting what, regrettably, can only be described as a 'doggish-hum' - - growling bass on the bottom and whimpering tenor on top, united by a monkish timbre and focus. And the more I listened, the more the hum began to resemble words taking on form and falling out through the whirlwind of sound.
It's a little cheesey, but I can't help but reproduce them here:
"Oh! Jerusalem! Oh, Nebuchadnezzar's wisdom
Failed him utterly. He broke the bone inside his head
And bled for days, and his face turned black and purple.
Oh, we saw him then. We saw, on Christmas Day,
He died by sharp, sharp teeth. Oh, what red meat God makes us."
I think back to that night. It must have been twelve years ago today that I saw the thing.
I looked from my window to see the falling snow and I saw two dogs there, standing on two legs (I thought) - - ashpit black, with their purple tongues sagging lazily out of their mouths - - emitting what, regrettably, can only be described as a 'doggish-hum' - - growling bass on the bottom and whimpering tenor on top, united by a monkish timbre and focus. And the more I listened, the more the hum began to resemble words taking on form and falling out through the whirlwind of sound.
It's a little cheesey, but I can't help but reproduce them here:
"Oh! Jerusalem! Oh, Nebuchadnezzar's wisdom
Failed him utterly. He broke the bone inside his head
And bled for days, and his face turned black and purple.
Oh, we saw him then. We saw, on Christmas Day,
He died by sharp, sharp teeth. Oh, what red meat God makes us."
To be continued...
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin on the Figpecker
It grows at least as fat as the redbreast or the ortolan, and nature has moreover given it a slight bitterness and a unique flavor so exquisite that they seize upon, flood, and beautify every possible avenue of taste. If a figpecker could grow as big as a pheasant, it would be worth the price of an acre of land.
It is a great pity that this remarkable bird is found so seldom in Paris; true, a few arrive now and then, but they are completely lacking in the fat which constitutes their especial merit, and it can truthfully be said that they resemble but faintly those which are found in the east or southern parts of France.
Few people know how to eat small feathered game; here is the best way, as it was told me confidentially by Canon Charcot, a born gourmand, and a true gastronomer thirty years before the word was known:
Take by the beak a fine fat little bird, salt him lightly, pull out his gizzard, stuff him deftly into your mouth, bite him off sharply close to your fingertips, and chew with vigor: there will flow from him enough juice to fill your whole mouth, and you will enjoy a taste experience unknown to the common herd."
Metempsychosis Or, A Neanderthal Suicide
This is a bit of tricky subject, so let's not broach it hastily.
So, at some point or another, I left the aviary. I had made up my mind to return to the library and get to the bottom of the matter. If it all turned out to be a joke, then fine. At least I would know for sure.
Now, we'll have to go a little further back - - Charlie Parker's grandfather's father's master's grandson - - purveying the beaches of Provence circa 1900 - - admiring the women with their bare arms and legs - - laying on their bellies by the shore like so many recently mutated polyps, wriggling their way onto land.
"Je suis encore tres enuie," they coo, and sigh in unison, turning their heads to the side, stretching out their fine white necks and adjusting their extremely fashionable hats.
Allan smirks with gentlemanly moderation, and coughs into his handkerchief in the same manner. He makes a remark on the climate to his associate, Mr. Oswald, who gives a subtle nod of agreement.
"Very excellent, indeed. An entirely different air altogether from Alabama."
Well, straight to the cafe - - The Pestiferous Fog - - and Allan sits staring out the window at a tree full of sparrows, or nuthatches, or starlings, while Mr. Oswald bares down with all possible delicacy on a platter of two dozen oysters, tilting his head back and encouraging them down his throat.
"Hmpf," Mr. Oswald clears his pipes, wipes his mouth with the napkin tucked into his collar, "Well then. How do you feel? Better I hope."
Allan gives a small nod, not averting his gaze from the window.
Mr. Oswald smiles and takes up the last oyster in the air of a joyous ritual offering, closing his eyes and falling back into his seat; blushing like a baby after feeding.
"So, you're taking the plunge? No chance of turning you around - - making this whole thing into a vacation, rather than an exile?"
Allan does not reply at first but stares at the birds as they shake themselves from the tree, rising like a cloud of aggravated dust into the greying sky, which recieves and disperses them somewhere beyond his vision.
"No, Richard, I don't think so," Allan sighs, and smiles politely, turning his face towards his companion. "It's out of my control now."
It's possible I should I have called this "A Wealthy Alabama Landowner Travels to Provence to Convert To Hasidism" or, "Two Feather'd Guests From Alabama, Two Together" - - but that might have given too much away. However, now I'm faced with the awkward situation of getting both Allan and Mr. Oswald to the mysterious blue brick house on the outskirts of the town in order to make the startling revelation ("If this is your choice Allan, so be it. I'm back to Alabama to keep your secret."), while at the same time making sure I leave enough space to get back to our neanderthal friend. So in the interest of everyone involved, I'll omit most of the story in order to get at the meat of the issue.
There, by the stump of one of the first felled trees; the boney headed neanderthal - - pacing back and forth, clumsily cradling his head, his body swinging awkwardly under its weight - - in all his hideous nudity, followed by all his noxious odours, leaving a trail of all his greasy liqueurs. He sits down on a large stone, hiding his not-yet-perfect face in his malformed arms.
What are you crying about? Come on, for Godsakes. You're a homo erectus - - be erect! Hold your head up high! It's really very early on yet. Things are bound get a little better. We're depending on you, pri-mordial man - - really and truly. Don't give it up!
Oh, you're nothing but a child.
And so he stands up (in all his hideous nudity, with all his noxious odours), and looks down at the stone on which he was sitting. He kneels down and lays his ugly hands around it, heaving it into the air above his head.
I find it difficult to describe what happens next - - it's really very hard. It's a stain on human history - - it really is.
But I'll have to press on - - you demand it of me, I know. You'll want to know, that as this pitiable creature bludgeoned himself to death with this stone - -that his poor, lamentable, child-like neanderthal soul, imperfect though it may be, ascended to the tree of souls, up to the inverted root of divinity and then back through the leaves of the divine manifestation, floating like a single sparrow (like from the Gospel) among the limbs and twigs of the sacred foilage, where it was fed by the infinite worm, plucked from the infinite bounty of the eternal soil by the boundless beak of the very first motherbird - - the celestial bride whose song is the endless repitition of the very first words (in the Hebrew, in the Aramaic, in the King James English): "In the beggining, created God - - Bereshith bara Elohim", in an endless divine melody with no resolution; with naked simplicity and yet containing boundless contrapuntal complexity - - a thousand million voiced fugue.
The primordial man has destroyed his head! And now the whole structure falls flat like an empty sack. But, flowing over our heads, he manifests himself continually - - at one point conversing with Rossini (who eventually became a stone) - - most often coming back as some doomed suicide - - but most importantly as Oppenheimer, and as Einstein simultaneously. Which brings us back to the original story.
Qual misfatto! qual eccesso!
So, at some point or another, I left the aviary. I had made up my mind to return to the library and get to the bottom of the matter. If it all turned out to be a joke, then fine. At least I would know for sure.
Now, we'll have to go a little further back - - Charlie Parker's grandfather's father's master's grandson - - purveying the beaches of Provence circa 1900 - - admiring the women with their bare arms and legs - - laying on their bellies by the shore like so many recently mutated polyps, wriggling their way onto land.
"Je suis encore tres enuie," they coo, and sigh in unison, turning their heads to the side, stretching out their fine white necks and adjusting their extremely fashionable hats.
Allan smirks with gentlemanly moderation, and coughs into his handkerchief in the same manner. He makes a remark on the climate to his associate, Mr. Oswald, who gives a subtle nod of agreement.
"Very excellent, indeed. An entirely different air altogether from Alabama."
Well, straight to the cafe - - The Pestiferous Fog - - and Allan sits staring out the window at a tree full of sparrows, or nuthatches, or starlings, while Mr. Oswald bares down with all possible delicacy on a platter of two dozen oysters, tilting his head back and encouraging them down his throat.
"Hmpf," Mr. Oswald clears his pipes, wipes his mouth with the napkin tucked into his collar, "Well then. How do you feel? Better I hope."
Allan gives a small nod, not averting his gaze from the window.
Mr. Oswald smiles and takes up the last oyster in the air of a joyous ritual offering, closing his eyes and falling back into his seat; blushing like a baby after feeding.
"So, you're taking the plunge? No chance of turning you around - - making this whole thing into a vacation, rather than an exile?"
Allan does not reply at first but stares at the birds as they shake themselves from the tree, rising like a cloud of aggravated dust into the greying sky, which recieves and disperses them somewhere beyond his vision.
"No, Richard, I don't think so," Allan sighs, and smiles politely, turning his face towards his companion. "It's out of my control now."
It's possible I should I have called this "A Wealthy Alabama Landowner Travels to Provence to Convert To Hasidism" or, "Two Feather'd Guests From Alabama, Two Together" - - but that might have given too much away. However, now I'm faced with the awkward situation of getting both Allan and Mr. Oswald to the mysterious blue brick house on the outskirts of the town in order to make the startling revelation ("If this is your choice Allan, so be it. I'm back to Alabama to keep your secret."), while at the same time making sure I leave enough space to get back to our neanderthal friend. So in the interest of everyone involved, I'll omit most of the story in order to get at the meat of the issue.
There, by the stump of one of the first felled trees; the boney headed neanderthal - - pacing back and forth, clumsily cradling his head, his body swinging awkwardly under its weight - - in all his hideous nudity, followed by all his noxious odours, leaving a trail of all his greasy liqueurs. He sits down on a large stone, hiding his not-yet-perfect face in his malformed arms.
What are you crying about? Come on, for Godsakes. You're a homo erectus - - be erect! Hold your head up high! It's really very early on yet. Things are bound get a little better. We're depending on you, pri-mordial man - - really and truly. Don't give it up!
Oh, you're nothing but a child.
And so he stands up (in all his hideous nudity, with all his noxious odours), and looks down at the stone on which he was sitting. He kneels down and lays his ugly hands around it, heaving it into the air above his head.
I find it difficult to describe what happens next - - it's really very hard. It's a stain on human history - - it really is.
But I'll have to press on - - you demand it of me, I know. You'll want to know, that as this pitiable creature bludgeoned himself to death with this stone - -that his poor, lamentable, child-like neanderthal soul, imperfect though it may be, ascended to the tree of souls, up to the inverted root of divinity and then back through the leaves of the divine manifestation, floating like a single sparrow (like from the Gospel) among the limbs and twigs of the sacred foilage, where it was fed by the infinite worm, plucked from the infinite bounty of the eternal soil by the boundless beak of the very first motherbird - - the celestial bride whose song is the endless repitition of the very first words (in the Hebrew, in the Aramaic, in the King James English): "In the beggining, created God - - Bereshith bara Elohim", in an endless divine melody with no resolution; with naked simplicity and yet containing boundless contrapuntal complexity - - a thousand million voiced fugue.
The primordial man has destroyed his head! And now the whole structure falls flat like an empty sack. But, flowing over our heads, he manifests himself continually - - at one point conversing with Rossini (who eventually became a stone) - - most often coming back as some doomed suicide - - but most importantly as Oppenheimer, and as Einstein simultaneously. Which brings us back to the original story.
Qual misfatto! qual eccesso!
To Be Continued...
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
I Die, Alas, In My Suffering
Catalogue of Some Notable Lake Superior Shipwrecks
1680 - French Jesuit Renee de le Carre and a crew of fifty or so men, embark on an ill fated journey across Superior. Le Carre loses his mind after seeing a crew member accidently step on a hairless mouse. He sets fire to the ship and most of the crew perishes in the freezing waters.
1750 - A crew of seventy-five men -- along with another Jesuit, Guy Montaigne -- dissapear while crossing Superior. The wreck is discovered in 1968 by an amateur diver. Among the belongings of Montaigne is a shrunken head, thought to have originated in New Caledonia.
1810 - Independently wealthy, Franco-English painter Emile Rose sets up camp along Lake Superior, near what is now Terrace Bay, in order to paint landscapes. Somehow, a quasi-religious order springs up around Rose, attracting an estimated one hundred followers from neighbouring communities in a little over a year. By 1815, this number has nearly doubled and the order have started work on a large ship, which they intend to sail out to an unknown island to start an independent colony. They set out some time in May of 1818 and capsized within the same day. Miraculously, it appears that Rose was the sole survivor.
That reminds me.
Last weekend I was hanging out with George under the International Bridge, which spans the St. Mary's River, which links Lake Huron to Lake Superior - - and we were throwing rocks at the water.
"Oh shit, do you see that," George asked, gesturing towards the shore.
I looked over to the water and saw that it had worked itself up into an extremely vigorous boil - - bubbling with quite a bit of violence - - working itself up into an exploding white net.
"Hm," I said, and approached the shore.
As I peered into the water, the bubbling calmed down almost entirely, and I could see my reflection on the surface. I squinted and turned my head in an attempt to see past my image and, like when you suddenly see the faces in the image of the vase, I became aware of an enormous mass of lamprey - - thousands of them - - tangled in eachother, churning the water around them - - intermittently tightening and loosening the muscles in their disgusting mouths.
"That's strange," I said.
At this, the lampreys suddenly resumed their previous vigour, splashing water into the air.
"What the fuck is it," asked George.
"Lamprey," I said, taking several steps backwards away from the shore. "A shit ton of them."
George laughed and put his hands on his head.
"What the hell is a lamprey?"
Then, like a small atomic bomb, or like a solar flare the water splashed up and a black-grey shape rocketed out of the spout and tumbled, or really rolled up the rocks and settled at our feet. George and I looked down.
"That's fucking disgusting," said George.
Now this might seem a bit farfetched. This might be pushing it - - but I will have to push it, as the principles of Truth demand that I reveal that there before us, by our feet was a lamprey - - bent backwards, latching his parasitic mouth onto his own tail.
"He's killing himself," I said, stupefied.
"No," said George, delicately lifting its stiff, looped body up with a stick. "It's dead. Way fucking dead."
He dropped it back to the ground and it wobbled around like a coin before somehow putting itself right and gaining momentum. George and I followed it with our eyes as it rolled back into the water.
"Hm," I said, suddenly feeling very weak, easing myself down to the ground. "George, I think I have just had a vision of the grotesque regions of my true self. I really fucking think I have."
"Hm?" asked George, not seeming to hear me; feeling around in his coat pockets. "Should I roll us a doob?"
1680 - French Jesuit Renee de le Carre and a crew of fifty or so men, embark on an ill fated journey across Superior. Le Carre loses his mind after seeing a crew member accidently step on a hairless mouse. He sets fire to the ship and most of the crew perishes in the freezing waters.
1750 - A crew of seventy-five men -- along with another Jesuit, Guy Montaigne -- dissapear while crossing Superior. The wreck is discovered in 1968 by an amateur diver. Among the belongings of Montaigne is a shrunken head, thought to have originated in New Caledonia.
1810 - Independently wealthy, Franco-English painter Emile Rose sets up camp along Lake Superior, near what is now Terrace Bay, in order to paint landscapes. Somehow, a quasi-religious order springs up around Rose, attracting an estimated one hundred followers from neighbouring communities in a little over a year. By 1815, this number has nearly doubled and the order have started work on a large ship, which they intend to sail out to an unknown island to start an independent colony. They set out some time in May of 1818 and capsized within the same day. Miraculously, it appears that Rose was the sole survivor.
That reminds me.
Last weekend I was hanging out with George under the International Bridge, which spans the St. Mary's River, which links Lake Huron to Lake Superior - - and we were throwing rocks at the water.
"Oh shit, do you see that," George asked, gesturing towards the shore.
I looked over to the water and saw that it had worked itself up into an extremely vigorous boil - - bubbling with quite a bit of violence - - working itself up into an exploding white net.
"Hm," I said, and approached the shore.
As I peered into the water, the bubbling calmed down almost entirely, and I could see my reflection on the surface. I squinted and turned my head in an attempt to see past my image and, like when you suddenly see the faces in the image of the vase, I became aware of an enormous mass of lamprey - - thousands of them - - tangled in eachother, churning the water around them - - intermittently tightening and loosening the muscles in their disgusting mouths.
"That's strange," I said.
At this, the lampreys suddenly resumed their previous vigour, splashing water into the air.
"What the fuck is it," asked George.
"Lamprey," I said, taking several steps backwards away from the shore. "A shit ton of them."
George laughed and put his hands on his head.
"What the hell is a lamprey?"
Then, like a small atomic bomb, or like a solar flare the water splashed up and a black-grey shape rocketed out of the spout and tumbled, or really rolled up the rocks and settled at our feet. George and I looked down.
"That's fucking disgusting," said George.
Now this might seem a bit farfetched. This might be pushing it - - but I will have to push it, as the principles of Truth demand that I reveal that there before us, by our feet was a lamprey - - bent backwards, latching his parasitic mouth onto his own tail.
"He's killing himself," I said, stupefied.
"No," said George, delicately lifting its stiff, looped body up with a stick. "It's dead. Way fucking dead."
He dropped it back to the ground and it wobbled around like a coin before somehow putting itself right and gaining momentum. George and I followed it with our eyes as it rolled back into the water.
"Hm," I said, suddenly feeling very weak, easing myself down to the ground. "George, I think I have just had a vision of the grotesque regions of my true self. I really fucking think I have."
"Hm?" asked George, not seeming to hear me; feeling around in his coat pockets. "Should I roll us a doob?"
To Be Continued...
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Cool, Clear Water
Okay, so. It's the year 3020 CE.
Mankind has largley destroyed itself through nuclear war and etc. Gangs of roving bandits- - or roving gangs of bandits wander the deserts of North America, the last of the human colonies, robbing and murdering in a Dionysian orgy-celebration of the apocalypse. Only scattered communities resembling the former human society still exist and so on, etc. Water has become more valuable then gold etc. etc.
Earth, after millions of years, has reached it's most trying - - it's most horrifying era...
If we only had water, cries the populace -- The blind could see and the deaf could hear!
One of the largest sources of fresh water, the remains of Lake Superior, is guarded by a hideous mutant - - his name unspeakable to the many small villages who depend on his grace for their supplies: The Rat King, Scourge of the Inner Crater.
He stands at over 16 cubits tall. In the first hundred years of his life, he spent his time fabricating an enormous coat out of the abundant population of rats that started to thrive after the first bombs dropped. Out of their tails he fashioned his mighty sling, from which he hurls boulders and garbage at unwanted visitors. The communities that surround his territory are distinguished by the smell (like rotting wood) that wafts up from the his open mouth.
Bring me - - he groaned at one of his many human servants- -My Piiyanoman.
And the Piiyanoman was brought, as usual - - wheeled in on a wooden cart, his ancient fingers hovering inches over the controls, his gaunt, dried up face tilted upwards with his eyes closed tightly.
Fanfare for the Rat King!
The Rat King smiled broadly, his toothless mouth brimming with saliva.
You remember - -he wheezed, bringing his momentous, boil-laden face close to the old Piiyanoman - -You remember water, don't you?
The old man did not speak or move. The Rat King rubbed his chin.
Play for me...water.
If he had anything left in his body, he might have started to sweat. Instead, he gathered what remained up into his hands and prepared to play.
He began, as usual, to shake - - slowly at first - - really just barely trembling - - but steadily building to a full-body vibration; a shivering spasm; a spasmatic undulation - - a tremendous undulatory spasmatic boil. The Rat King brought his hands up to his cheeks and squeeled in anticipation.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
Mankind has largley destroyed itself through nuclear war and etc. Gangs of roving bandits- - or roving gangs of bandits wander the deserts of North America, the last of the human colonies, robbing and murdering in a Dionysian orgy-celebration of the apocalypse. Only scattered communities resembling the former human society still exist and so on, etc. Water has become more valuable then gold etc. etc.
Earth, after millions of years, has reached it's most trying - - it's most horrifying era...
The Roaring Twenties
If we only had water, cries the populace -- The blind could see and the deaf could hear!
One of the largest sources of fresh water, the remains of Lake Superior, is guarded by a hideous mutant - - his name unspeakable to the many small villages who depend on his grace for their supplies: The Rat King, Scourge of the Inner Crater.
He stands at over 16 cubits tall. In the first hundred years of his life, he spent his time fabricating an enormous coat out of the abundant population of rats that started to thrive after the first bombs dropped. Out of their tails he fashioned his mighty sling, from which he hurls boulders and garbage at unwanted visitors. The communities that surround his territory are distinguished by the smell (like rotting wood) that wafts up from the his open mouth.
Bring me - - he groaned at one of his many human servants- -My Piiyanoman.
And the Piiyanoman was brought, as usual - - wheeled in on a wooden cart, his ancient fingers hovering inches over the controls, his gaunt, dried up face tilted upwards with his eyes closed tightly.
Fanfare for the Rat King!
The Rat King smiled broadly, his toothless mouth brimming with saliva.
You remember - -he wheezed, bringing his momentous, boil-laden face close to the old Piiyanoman - -You remember water, don't you?
The old man did not speak or move. The Rat King rubbed his chin.
Play for me...water.
If he had anything left in his body, he might have started to sweat. Instead, he gathered what remained up into his hands and prepared to play.
He began, as usual, to shake - - slowly at first - - really just barely trembling - - but steadily building to a full-body vibration; a shivering spasm; a spasmatic undulation - - a tremendous undulatory spasmatic boil. The Rat King brought his hands up to his cheeks and squeeled in anticipation.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
To be continued...
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Reading Charlie Parker's Liver
Ornithilogical Horuspicy
So, I'm in the library - -the medical library - -and I'm purusing a tome on obstetrics by the very late Sir Richard Manningham; enjoying it very much, learning a great deal about such and such and etc., stimulating and so on, just beggining to really start nodding in agreement when something slips out from between the pages and lands in my lap.
Hm. What's this?
A neatly folded piece of yellowed paper. Hm. That doesn't seem very professional - -this is a medical library, not a post office. Well, I thought, I'd better take a look.
In big, sterile looking letters:
Autopsy Report of Charles Parker, Jr.
Sex: M
Age: 34
Contents of Body
-One brain
-Two eyes
-One gallbladder
-One heart
-One jet black liver, abnormally, almost supernaturaly heavy. Unsuitable for prophetic uses.
-Two kidneys
-One stomach
It goes on like that for quite some time, and I'm afraid I have to cut it short in consideration of space. But, for some reason the contents of the report sparked my interest. Was this Charles Parker Jr. the Charles Parker Jr. I thought he was - - Charles 'Yardbird' Parker Jr.? And if so, what was his autopsy report doing in an old medical textbook in Toronto? Why the somewhat unusual attention to the individual properties of the liver?
Hm, I muttered to myself, my brain seething and foaming.
Could it be that the New York coroner's department was engaging in the age old practice of haruspicy - - the prophetic reading of the entrails of poultry? That seemed like a bit of a stretch. It was definately unlikely. But even so, a good scholar follows an hypothesis till its end.
But why?
Now we can start to connect the dots. Charlie Parker's liver was unreadable. Does this derive from its supersaturation (with heroin, alcohol) in conjuction with (or totally unrelated to) a sort of over determination of meaning? Is the text so densely written, sentences overlayed on eachother over and over again so that that the individual words have become obscure?
Hm, well it was very heavy, wasn't it?
Hm.
Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Yes, I definately was. I did not, and still don't believe in prophecy, and even less then that in conspiracy. The more I studied it the more certain I became that it was a fake, and a very bad one - - designed to lead some innocent medical student astray.
I closed Dr. Manningham briskly and decided I had better move on to other, less controversial areas of study. With the thought of birds still throbbing lightly in my head, I made my way to the Aviary.
I remembered something Carlin told me, about a man living in Greenwich Village in the 50's who claimed to be able to speak pigeon. There was maybe some truth in that, I thought. That I could believe a little better than that garbage about entrails. That was too violent. It seemed like if you were to sacrafice a bird to learn something about the future, you would get a similar answer every time: An answer fortelling violence. But if you just listened to them sing - - that was a little more neutral. A little more friendly.
A warm, farily overtly romantic feeling swept or washed or slipped over me, and I rested my head in my hands and leaned over the gate.
If only we could all speak bird, I thought, totally unaware of how nauseating I was being.
Well, damn, I thought. Maybe I should go find some foie gras. Get all of this out of my system.
I reached into my back pocket to check my wallet, and to my surprise I found the old yellow autopsy report, folded up just as neatly as I had found it.
Hm, I don't remember bringing this along, I thought - -unfolding the paper almost unconsciously. What's this? Somehow I've missed something.
At the bottom of the page there was a handwritten (highly accurate) transcription of the theme for Ko-Ko, and below that, in very tiny, delicate script:
Examine further: Parker and the A-Bomb.
To Be Continued...
Friday, October 8, 2010
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