Pulp Drivel

Daquota Fanning and the Cheese Vestibule should surprise no one with its erudition and knack for a snappy one-liner at the timeliest of junctures. One might even call it the ultimate film accompaniment to your typical rainy day, a veritable Triumph of the Hollywood Will.

With this in mind, you should never watch this picture or even refer to it in your circle of friends. It’s about time we stand up to this (seemingly) impenetrable foe of critical thought: the Movie-Industrial Complex.

The only way we may strip this regime of its power is to boycott its very essence, quash any suppositions about pulp drivel deserving anything more than a swift kick to the heinie. Let’s move on, people.

By Golly

Not a single malicious [delicious] punch thrown
at this,
the most cylindrical of all
furniture sales expos in recent memory!
That is one variable we [at the bureau]
may be sure of at this time.

Meanwhile, for the gangly ones wishing
to catch up with contemporary carpentry,
one might say–in a pinch–
that the craft has taken quite a turn
in the public eye, and no measure of friezes
or Constantinoplization
may alter the involuntary sway, by golly.

And now you know.

However, once the mariner’s bowline
slips off that buoy,
I am in no way accountable
for your alleged pesto allergies.

In Retrospect

Fetushead was a teacher of mine
who usually kept his temper in check,
but one day he lashed out at our class
when we weren’t paying attention to him
(we couldn’t answer the questions he asked).

There was something going on in his personal life
that caused him substantial stress,
but we students had no clue, being dumb kids at the time.

In retrospect,
perhaps
the fetus for a head

would have contributed to his overall grouchy demeanor
in that situation (and every other he would come to navigate).

That he kept his cool
for so much of the time
was taken for granted by
we,
the snot-nosed punks of
Lower Utilitaria,
the hallowed gated community founded by
J. Rick Rubins,
the only exalted LEADER that our planet can trust
to usher us into the 22nd Century we deserve.

Won’t Be Around

It’s not immediately clear as to why we should express gratitude for these minuscule things we take for granted every day,

but certain wise people–time and again–have said that inner peace is really just gratitude wrapped up in some nondenominational bunting and tossed over the side of a pontoon while you’re fishing in the middle of Lake Superior in the middle of the longest day of Summer,

where somehow you find one lonesome chunk of ice inexplicably adrift as though it could have been placed there for the purpose of setting up a convenient visual aid for a climate change documentary.

Little Bergamot–that’s what we’re calling our frozen hero du jour–simply minds their own business out there, doing their best not to knock into anybody, when out of the blue someone inconsiderate–such as yourself, perhaps–putzes their way over and just so happens to chuck that bunting, smacking ol’ Bergie right in their weak little slush-filled belly,

sending our hapless pilgrim to re-integrate with its watery cousins
much quicker than otherwise established through melting rates
extolled by scientists the world around as
“the purest definition of why humans shouldn’t underestimate
the contributions made to global ecology
through strict, unbiased observation of this universe around us.”

Or some version of that sanctimonious diatribal crap; Bergie won’t be around to hear it anyway.

Crossroads

John Park-Carr and Parlor Trick Johnson met at the R&D Deli one fine Swedish afternoon for a round of aquavit and a fat-chewing session.

JPC: “What’s new with you, brother?”

PTJ: “Not much, the Magic Johnson impersonation business is still dragging, thought it would’ve picked up by now. Youth sports leagues have gotten savvier at this point–they’d rather get an actual basketball player, even if they’re not a household name, or even in the NBA at all. Turns out people aren’t in the business of taking tips from color commentators at local high school games.”

JPC: “That’s too bad, man. I hope business picks up for you soon.”

PTJ: “Yeah, I don’t think it’s going to happen. I feel fortunate that I have a little nest egg saved up for a crossroads just like this. I’m going to take some time off and figure out what I really want to do with the rest of my prime money-earning years.”

JPC: “You’ve always been a visionary, man. I look forward to hearing about what you’re cooking up. Myself, I’m just gonna keep valeting around town. The money’s decent enough, not like I have a wife and kids to feed or anything. Easy peasy. You know, I did think for a minute about starting my own valet company, being as my name is Park-Carr, for cryin’ out loud. I’m pretty sure that about half of my new client acquisition would just be answering the ol’ ‘Is John Park-Carr really your name? Seems a tad on the nose for a valet guy, no?’ I’m still on the fence about it, as you may rightly understand.”

Again

A younger tree stands pert and upright
against the setting sun
on an April afternoon of little consequence–

to anyone other than perhaps
the octahedral chainsmokers out there, but that’s
a conversation for another time and place, m’friend.

The bud-tipped nerve endings are raw,
eager for a consistent warmth to figure itself out.

The trees all know
what they’ve gotten themselves into these days,
after noticing all the human affectations
popping up around them

again.

The existential rigamarole isn’t lost on them,
believe me. They know
that we only keep them around
for their oxygen supply, isn’t that obvious?

If we could find a cheaper or more efficient way
to convert a global supply of carbon dioxide
into breathable oxygen,
we would drop everything
and jettison all those woody worriers
into space, where they could become
petrified ornaments, immaculate baubles
showcased in an ever-expanding curio cabinet.

The details on such a plan
have never been made clear, since
it’s likely never to happen.
Lucky bastard trees.
You too, shrubs. I’m watching you.

Absurdity Is Rampant

Absurdity is rampant, all you jelly bean mongers out there (and aspiring monger-types who just haven’t caught your big break yet (it’s coming, trust me))!

The point here is the absurdity of even doing anything at all, let alone to the point where we can press our most sacred thoughts into lasting pellets of intuition and wildly disseminate them–in perpetuity–across the universe.

Effort would be considered the lion’s share of the process; it’s not the transcendence of this field of shapes and arbitrary sets of value, no, how could it be? For we are but simple field mice, content to labor our way through all hours of the day, afraid to look up or take pause.

Fear of the finite, the decay, the ruination of our children within, we clutch to anything resembling the womb.

But to state these maladies is only to bring attention back to that stale old paradigm, failing to uplift, only presenting symptoms of the perpetual problems while offering no solutions. What are we to do? Dive into some kind of fantastic phantasmagorical wonderscape?

Gretchen Ann simply needed to demonstrate the breadth of her innate yodeling abilities. Never once a formal student of the craft, her superb tonality and unapologetic virtuosity always brought her audience–usually herself–to the verge of emotional breakdown.