Immense Scrutiny: Oh, Okay

What the hell do we even write about anymore?

Why does every single new idea
have this immense scrutiny attached to it–
this, the next in my sequence of work
after this whole COVID- dilemma kicked off.

How would one go about this treacherous task
that I would argue nobody wants to undertake?

Well, the first impression of the situation
would be that you should just get started.

But there are so many previously-made characters
just waiting for me to observe their every move
on the silver screen!!

Nobody calls it the silver screen anymore, hon.

Aw, shut up. You never let me wax aquarium.
I mean antiquarian. Same thing.

It’s obviously a completely different thing.
One involves some weird combination of wax and water,
the other is old timey shit.

Well, I meant the old shit, duh.
Anyway, I can’t wait to just dig into
another drama or comedy
or whatever shit they’re shoveling these days
over at the old network of flix.
And now that I’m standing here
thinking about it,
I can’t stand just being here
without reasonable computer access.

What do you mean,
we’re literally on a computer screen.
We could just walk two inches to the right
and bump into a browser window with let’s see…
oh, not the porn one.
But it looks like that Stephen Hawking movie
was the last thing of repute in his history.

Oh, how was that?

Yeah, not bad. Pretty damn stylized,
but what do you expect from a movie
that’s supposed to undertake the monumental task
of depicting the 20th Century’s most prominent
cosmological luminary
while addressing his ALS?

They covered his whole life?

Nah, just a scrapbook of mostly decent memories
up until the point where his older kids are teenagers
and running around in some Buckingham Palace bullshit.

Oh, okay.

Four to Thirteen

Picking up where we left off
shouldn’t be too much of a hindrance
to us this evening. Sometimes
an elegant tail-end reception fiasco
is just what you need
to guarantee
that end-of-days proceedings
are kicked off in style.

Do we have a believable universe here? Do we have a character with whom we would like to share our collective journeys? If we have no character identification, then why is this even being proposed at all?

Are we so obsessed with plot that we fail to build our world model around anything else? I would say no, but I’ve been programmed to provide that answer. For you see, I come from simple means. My mother was a mushroom forager and my father took his canoe from out of the barn one day and paddled out of our lives forever. I had a herniated vertebra in my back from the ages of four to thirteen, after which time a medical miracle cure fixed it permanently. Now I only have to deal with the crippling daily hallucinations involving my needless slaughter at the hands of a cult of murderous clowns.

But enough about me, I’m sure you all have dealt with various traumas in your lives and you’d rather not hear the boring details of mine. You see, I’m generally a very simple person with very few wants or needs at the end of the day. I put on my pants one leg at a time, just like everyone else. Well, aside from the fact that I need to have my pants made custom to accommodate the extra leg I sprouted a little while back (maybe a complication from that miracle back cure, who knows?). Well, calling it a full-blown leg is a bit generous, but you get the gist.

Lil Yeller Fellers

I had quite the feisty colony of bees stored up,
only to leave them back in Georgia–
in the hands of my dingus brother, no less.
God, what kind of mess did I make of this?

I miss them lil yeller fellers, but
becoming a full-time yankee tartographer
means you need to make supreme sacrifices
for the good of the craft and its reception.

It’s bad enough
that folks have never heard of this field,
and even worse when they just shrug it off
like some kind of joke
without really stopping to think about it.

You know what? I don’t have the time
to convert the unbelievers anyway. Matter
of fact,
I’m gonna go get my bees back. Tartography
just ain’t what it used to be.

Trivial Matters

As midlevel leisure enthusiasts,
we have always preferred
sipping
iced tea
on only the loveliest of summer days–
is that a stale interpretation?

Because, truth be told,
we could be the bandwagon kind of folk
who only drink iced tea
on the sun porch
in otherwise scorching conditions,
our enclosed little patio-area the only respite
when a cross-breeze comes rolling through.

No, I’m talking
temperate conditions
where you could really take it or leave it
(as far as a cool beverage is concerned).
It would even be bordering on the cusp of preferring
a lukewarm or even full-on warm beverage
if we were on the more neutral end of temperature concerns.

That’s not what I’m talking about here.
It’s crucial that you understand
my delicate position on this matter.

It’s usually not long after positing such a polarizing statement that I would be rebuffed with counter arguments stating the absurdity of equating a particular kind of climate/weather condition with the kind of beverage preferred during said time, at which time I would widely rebuke the person/s responsible for the indignation. What kind of boring life must you be leading if you have nothing better to do than debate someone over the importance, nay, relevance, of climate and beverage temperature comparison?!

I tend to get heated over trivial matters.
You got a problem with that?

Kicking Around Church Basements

There just happens to be a bit of that element of unbridled circuitry stalling our forensic benefactors for at least one afternoon while Bobby frets over the overarching themes present in your typical Asimov novel, even though he doesn’t know the first thing about the author (or even his first name). Bobby picked that book (Bicentennial Man) for a class project and figured he’d wing it by reading the title and filling in the blanks from there. How hard could it be? He’d at least been able to see the film of the same name, because he enjoyed every piece of Robin Williams’ filmography, to the point where he had two copies of each DVD in his home, one of each to remain unopened and eventually (in his eyes, anyway) serve as a time capsule for future generations to marvel over. In actuality, they’ll most likely end up kicking around church basements for a couple decades or two before finding a new owner–a person collecting obsolete movie technology for the purpose of destroying it and filming the act. It’s highly-conceptual. You just wouldn’t understand.

Whackadoodles

Charlie’s stifling influence couldn’t possibly affect me today, you can bet all your marbles and even some lesser mechanical components on that. I have half a mind to bust out my old soldering iron and go to town. I’ve been shopping around for motherboards to house in my new homemade personal computational device, for crunching numbers and the like. I’ve heard that there are some more sophisticated uses for them now, like finding a life partner and pissing away all your money on fake virtual coins, but that’s not my prerogative. Now food, that’s something I’m never tired of exploring. What a brave new world of culinary concoctions we’re in these days, I can’t even keep track of all these new fusion joints being put together by trendsetting chefs in the chic corners of the world. It’s just as well, I can’t afford to be jet-setting around just to try some cannoli wonton soup or petri dish gelatin dessert that costs $75 and you can’t even use a fork when eating it. Seriously, you have to just slurp it down like a jello shot. A $75 jello shot. Kids these days, I swear. We in the previous generation appear to be on our own now; the youths don’t seem to have the same kind of rapport with the common man as we do. I mean, I get it. There are more depressed and violent whackadoodles out there than ever before, and if you’re not an expert in sociolinguistics such as myself, you sure could feel like a quivering little leaf falling from the top of one of those monster eucalyptus trees. Everyone just seems to be craving personal time now. Gone are the days where I could just sit in a café and strike up a conversation; everyone is plugged into some whozit or whatzit. I don’t know, I always thought I wouldn’t turn out to be one of those stick-in-the-mud kind of guys, but now I understand the allure of the “ain’t what it used to be” paradigm. I’m just having trouble dealing with the old grouches to happen to share my viewpoint. Miserable old pricks. Well, we all have to get started on living our best lives at some point. Jeez, have I been talking this whole time? Sorry, kid. Can I have a club soda and some of that deconstructed fondue? I mean, I thought fondue was already decon–eh, forget about it. Just go ahead and put in my order. And don’t worry, I’ll tip!

B P I Chronicles 2

B: Where’s the bartender? I need a drink. What’s that you’ve got there?

P: A caramel-infused jalapeño mojito.

B: Oh dear lord that looks awful.

P: You’d be surprised at just how awful this drink is.

B: Then stop drinking it!

P: I paid for it, genius. Plus, it’s not doing too bad a job. How are you, bud?

B: Thirsty. Bartender!

I: Hey, whadd’ya want?

B: AH! Bartender, were you crouching in front of us this whole time?

I: My name’s Frank. Yes. Now what’ll ya have? I ain’t got all day.

B: Yet you can crouch behind the bar and scare customers. I’ll have what he’s having.

I: I said I ain’t got all day. That drink takes 15 minutes to make.

P: He’s right. I was timing him. You don’t want this anyway, trust me.

B: Give me your best single malt scotch then. Leave the bottle.