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Messages - Eater of Clowns

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The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Halloween
« on: Today at 12:37:14 am »
We keep the lights out on Halloween, here in the tenements. The families with kids go somewhere else, their grandmother's cul de sac or over to see their cousins on the well lit side of town. It's better for them there. The streets aren't so busy and the bars aren't so close and the doorbells still work. It's much too dark here because we keep the lights out.

We buy the candy, of course. There's always one family, maybe they're new, maybe they'll just never understand like the rest of us, and their kids shouldn't suffer. If their knock reaches up through old creaking stairwells and the outed porch bulbs do not deter, we smile and we drop some candy in their bags. They look down unable to help themselves to see what they got and we glance past them down the street and sidewalks and we shoot the parents a warning and we close the door. And we work our way back in the dark, not even a lamp, not even a candle that night.

Even so the knock does come, a singular thing, a knuckle shattering skin peeling rapping in steady rhythm, patient, expectant. One, the eyes widen, two the skin prickles, three the spine shivers and silence comes upon huge. The city is quiet for once and anything, anything for a passing car, for wind rustled garbage but there is nothing. The knocks come again as before. One, the eyes wince, two the skin itches, three the spine arches and the pause is a thousand years of pounding blood filled eardrums and sensory deprivation. The knocks come again as before.

Locks come undone and doors open slowly and heavy footfalls sound through the dark of the tenement halls, for we keep the lights out. We are not so foolish to think he would be fooled but the lights are inviting and this one is unwelcome, whether he comes or not we must know ourselves that he is unwelcome.

The knocking stops on the way to the front door, the stirring inside not unseen. He waits with screen door ajar and his bag opened expectantly. Nothing is said. He has a hint of a smile on the blur of his face and he lifts the bag just slightly. We raise our hands over it and they tremble, empty but holding a burden. He nods and the smile widens to a gleam of yellow and gray and white. Our hands open, their contents spilling into the bag. A twitch of sanity tries to catch them again, in the half second before the sound hits us, a sound like a chip of bone falling among ten thousand like it, more failed hiders in the dark.

We keep the lights out on Halloween, here in the tenements, though it cannot hide us from the Marrowman. We keep them out so as not to see what is left when we come back.

Got my flu shot.
Now I have autism.

You should cut gluten from your diet. Human beings weren't meant to eat it.

Literate Chaotic / Re: Comic Reviews and discussions
« on: Yesterday at 11:56:56 am »
Yeah, that was my impression of it. Admittedly I fell for Moffat's trick of characters speaking in rapid technobabble on both Sherlock and Dr. Who for a while before I realized that no believable explanation was being conveyed and the characters were barely actually having a conversation. It's like if you took Sorkin's dialogue and removed any depth or wit from it at all.

She's too dumb to realize that other women aren't as dumb as she is.

Or she's cynically playing to the crowd.

I can't decide which is worse.


On a more pleasant note, while Oregon lacks javelina, we do have these majestic creatures:

Adorable! And toughly the size of trucks.


The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Spagbook
« on: October 28, 2014, 09:57:49 am »
Congrats P3nt!

Fiona Apple and Johnny Cash singing Bridge Over Troubled Water? Holy shit!

That's a personal favorite of mine, and the track stands out on what is already a stellar album.

I should have developed my back-up ideas further, which were:

It's Pumpkins All the Way Down


A Mandelbrot Squash

There was a pumpkin carving contest at the brewery today. My entry was titled "The Treachery of Gourds"

ceci n'est pas un potiron translates to "this is not a pumpkin"

Following Rene Magritte's famous The Treachery of Images, I thought taking it one step further by carving a pumpkin with the phrase "this is not a pumpkin" on an actual pumpkin, thereby making the statement both true and not true, was a guaranteed victory. I was mistaken for several reasons. I suck at carving pumpkins, and perhaps more shockingly, not a whole lot of folks are familiar with early 20th century Belgian surrealism.

Luckily the day was saved. My sister won the contest, because she's actually artistically talented, and the ridicule that I received for my gross error in judgment was not only hilarious, but well deserved.

Weren't me! Honest!

As pathos goes, that poem is not bad. Not "Please don't let me be misunderstood" material, but decent.

I fucking love that song. And Nina.

Same here :)

Unpopular personal preferences: I like the Santa Esmerelda cover used in Kill Bill more

Popular with me. The RZA did the music for those movies and they remain some of my favorite scores.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: How come...
« on: October 24, 2014, 07:47:22 pm »
I am SUPER GOOD at not dying.

I have not died for 28 years. Some people have not died for longer than that, but a lot of others were not able to not die for that long.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: How come...
« on: October 24, 2014, 07:46:26 pm »
I'm a survivalist, in that I can call myself one without ever having to test the idea beyond the scrutiny of Internet echo chambers.

It's hate poetry. It's beautiful. The dude's use of jargon is a clear example of One of Us. Scriptkiddies and /b/tards? Damn son, where'd you get your Internet PhD.

I haven't been diving into the gamergate thing because it's a clusterfuck, confusing legitimate gripes about the steaming horseshit that we somehow call gaming journalism with wretched misogyny.

Felicia Day is afraid of the gamergate backlash. FELICIA DAY. What kind of a bunch of pieces of shit do you have to be that you're fucking with Felicia Day?

I started making my own plates, so when my current ones are dirty I just throw them away and use new ones.

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