“U need to tap into the depth of being,” Levon was madly flailing his paws. “Dredge porous language. The spectral deity ruminates beneath dusty words. This is why all that measurement shit in Leviticus is important, man. So- and so cubits. And Genesis- in the beginning there was the word and the word was God. They still don’t write it out, u see in prayer books or whatever, G-D. And how do you get rid of a bible? U have to bury the thing. I mean, U probably roll it up and smoke it, but the dogma is u have to bury it”
But Squirrel was engrossed in a titillating match of Guitar Hero and the riffs entombed Levon’s Midrash.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
The stars were conjoined, a shifty necklace above.
Around 3, Squirrel had squandered all his money and was experiencing the totality of drunken symptoms. He stumbled down cursory alleys, pummeling a 40. Felix was disregarded.
It was on some side street that the vagrant approached. The man’s face was caked in plaintive dirt, an ecosystem of filth. Deep crevices scorched his ruinous skin.
“You and I,” the vagrant began. “You and I, we are not so different except for the trifling inhibitions that license your species.”
Squirrel’s pulse was wailing. His back was to a wall.
The vagrant continued, “Persuade me now why I shouldn’t rob you of that indifference”
Around 3, Squirrel had squandered all his money and was experiencing the totality of drunken symptoms. He stumbled down cursory alleys, pummeling a 40. Felix was disregarded.
It was on some side street that the vagrant approached. The man’s face was caked in plaintive dirt, an ecosystem of filth. Deep crevices scorched his ruinous skin.
“You and I,” the vagrant began. “You and I, we are not so different except for the trifling inhibitions that license your species.”
Squirrel’s pulse was wailing. His back was to a wall.
The vagrant continued, “Persuade me now why I shouldn’t rob you of that indifference”
Monday, September 24, 2007
Within his bristling bosom there was the force, which he tapped into thru meditation. Considering the void, Squirrel envisioned an eponymous frigid arena- Squirrel’s rink, wherein combatant hockey players battered one another into the boards. This was the soul. Squirrel also envisioned a plank of phosphorus alloy, glistening in the blank universe. This was the ego.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Fashion will not make u happy but it will make u pretty, the photographer is telling squirrel. But this is his first shoot and he is twitchy.
Squirrel is dolled up in a chemise. He wears a beaver skin hat and leather gloves on all four hooves. Fascist chic is very out for humans, but paramount in circles of rodent high society. This summer everyone wants steel- toed boots and staunch collars.
Harsh angles, seething light. The flashbulbs pop one after another in the endless procession of vanity. This is Paris after all.
Squirrel was discovered at the village baths by a couple of sex tourists who happened to be highly regarded editors. That was just a few weeks ago, and the change in his lifestyle, his daily habitations, could not have been more pronounced.
Squirrel is dolled up in a chemise. He wears a beaver skin hat and leather gloves on all four hooves. Fascist chic is very out for humans, but paramount in circles of rodent high society. This summer everyone wants steel- toed boots and staunch collars.
Harsh angles, seething light. The flashbulbs pop one after another in the endless procession of vanity. This is Paris after all.
Squirrel was discovered at the village baths by a couple of sex tourists who happened to be highly regarded editors. That was just a few weeks ago, and the change in his lifestyle, his daily habitations, could not have been more pronounced.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
BIG CRUSH- THE ABBREVIATED ORIGINS OF HERR DOKTOR
When Count X initially tapped me I was enraged. “What does this German lunatic want from me?” I screamed at my own countenance in the mirror. I had accidentally cut myself shaving, and the blood-imbued foam lent a monstrous dimension to my face, as if lascivious lava were at that very moment erupting from some hideous pimple on my chin. My hound barked loudly at the ghoul before him. I was awash with anxiety, utterly exhausted.
Of course, I wasn’t given the luxury of deliberation.
In his letter, Count X made certain thinly veiled threats to my livelihood. He had suggested, in a smug manner reflecting his noble lineage, that should I refuse this offer, there would be a hellish price to pay.
So I embarked on my trip to the Fatherland out of desperation and fear. On the runway before take off, as the pert Lufthansa flight attendants made their rounds, I contemplated all that had come to pass; the brutal geysers of fortune. “Ein Bier bitte,” I bade the prettiest of all the Luftfraus, and hastily began sketching out some notes for the Count’s approval. There could be no turning back.
Now 3 years later I am still holed up in the Count’s country estate. Before my window lies the beautiful Elbe River. The documents are almost complete. I have constructed Herr Doktor in accordance with the Count’s wishes. This is to be his mouthpiece, a forum for the artistic imperatives he holds in high esteem. I am merely a humble servant to this most stringent critic.
Regulations;
HE denies all false applications of pretentious Novocain. Instead, this operation is to be performed without anesthetic. HE wants you to feel the blows of consciousness, to inhale the stink of creative ferment. Absurdity is a fact of daily life. Exhibit its infinite, monstrous facets. To feed off delirium- get high in sweltering fumigated apartments. He told me that the most important factor in the success of our Zeppelin launch is whether youthful ardor will suffice as fuel, whether we can defy gravity with curious enthusiasm and grave indignation- - what u will read was created by hearty novices. Take heed, son.
In Peru, villagers have taken to their beds after a hazardous meteor crash. The investigators of the incident too have fallen ill. Undeniably, an alien bacterium thrives on this space rock. An immense government cover up is already in the works. There is a general panic among the highest ranks about the likelihood of further attacks. There is colossal concern about whether the outbreak will spread. In accordance with the Count’s dying wishes, Herr Doktor will never yield.
When Count X initially tapped me I was enraged. “What does this German lunatic want from me?” I screamed at my own countenance in the mirror. I had accidentally cut myself shaving, and the blood-imbued foam lent a monstrous dimension to my face, as if lascivious lava were at that very moment erupting from some hideous pimple on my chin. My hound barked loudly at the ghoul before him. I was awash with anxiety, utterly exhausted.
Of course, I wasn’t given the luxury of deliberation.
In his letter, Count X made certain thinly veiled threats to my livelihood. He had suggested, in a smug manner reflecting his noble lineage, that should I refuse this offer, there would be a hellish price to pay.
So I embarked on my trip to the Fatherland out of desperation and fear. On the runway before take off, as the pert Lufthansa flight attendants made their rounds, I contemplated all that had come to pass; the brutal geysers of fortune. “Ein Bier bitte,” I bade the prettiest of all the Luftfraus, and hastily began sketching out some notes for the Count’s approval. There could be no turning back.
Now 3 years later I am still holed up in the Count’s country estate. Before my window lies the beautiful Elbe River. The documents are almost complete. I have constructed Herr Doktor in accordance with the Count’s wishes. This is to be his mouthpiece, a forum for the artistic imperatives he holds in high esteem. I am merely a humble servant to this most stringent critic.
Regulations;
HE denies all false applications of pretentious Novocain. Instead, this operation is to be performed without anesthetic. HE wants you to feel the blows of consciousness, to inhale the stink of creative ferment. Absurdity is a fact of daily life. Exhibit its infinite, monstrous facets. To feed off delirium- get high in sweltering fumigated apartments. He told me that the most important factor in the success of our Zeppelin launch is whether youthful ardor will suffice as fuel, whether we can defy gravity with curious enthusiasm and grave indignation- - what u will read was created by hearty novices. Take heed, son.
In Peru, villagers have taken to their beds after a hazardous meteor crash. The investigators of the incident too have fallen ill. Undeniably, an alien bacterium thrives on this space rock. An immense government cover up is already in the works. There is a general panic among the highest ranks about the likelihood of further attacks. There is colossal concern about whether the outbreak will spread. In accordance with the Count’s dying wishes, Herr Doktor will never yield.
Singularly funded by an elusive Deutsch ex-pat who prefers to be left anonymous to the annals of history (Count X let us call him), Herr Doktor’s stated intention is revive the artistic phoenix embedded deep within the ambling consciousness of modern man! A team of highly trained experts in the dark psychedelic arts is at this very moment conducting experiments aimed at imminently christening our newly hatched Zeppelin. If you should like to get involved in this ground breaking venture, please do not hesitate to contact our public relations director for more info.
it seems an untimely accusation of licentious libel has forced a temporary closure of Squirrel's nest. here's the scoop- a certain CELEB (i'm talking about you my scurrilous pinhead from SQUID AND THE WHALE ) has undertaken a court case to censure my little gossip blog here. apparently, comments regarding sex crimes which i swear by Zeus i overhead during the course of a yoga session are too dangerous to print. in other words, THEY DONT WANT U TO KNOW. the first amendment has never been in such danger of utter ravaging by dim-witted court appointees. please donate to my legal defense fund here
http://www.saveoursquirrels.org.uk/
http://www.saveoursquirrels.org.uk/
Sunday, September 2, 2007
loose change
Squirrel said, “I really meant to take it seriously, I really meant to.”
God said, “It doesn’t matter, what’s done is done.”
Squirrel was stranded at the Pearly Gates, denied access, yet curiously permitted to wander the outlying premises- to walk upon the gilded boardwalk, to glimpse the anointed, smirking self- righteously, extremely pleased with themselves, playing touch football beyond the shrubs. There was Ezekial, Squirrel’s old pal who got run over by a school bus, going out to receive Ghandi’s pass. Oh poor Ezekial, preemptively tackled by Herman Hesse. There was Margot, the founder of Quizno’s, shucking boiled hotdogs to haloed attendees. Squirrel wished he could join the melee so fervently, he willed it so harshly, but his prayers were disregarded. His salutations were delegated to the junk mail folder. “God has forsaken me for these losers” Squirrel thought, scurrying away from the pristine hedges, frothing a little at the mouth.
Then Squirrel bumped into Hernandez.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” Squirrel mumbled to the giant.
Hernandez was a badger, a creature subjected to the same eternal restrictions as Squirrel. Hernandez had been wandering the sandblasted dunes of Limbo for a couple thousand years. He had accidentally devoured his brother in law, Romulus, in 24 BC. Hernandez himself had died in a mining accident shortly thereafter, never forgiven by friends and family, never scoring karmic reconciliation.
The Badger had seen some shit occur between God and Angels. He was frequently lonely, occasionally irritable, and always indifferent to the catechisms of new age philosophy. He decided then and there to adopt Squirrel as his protégé, to school him in the myriad facets of divine abandonment; omnipity is a crock of shit, for example, God prefers simple, down home recipes, like low fat hot dogs and Pringles, God watches the L word, etc. Finally Hernandez had someone to talk to.
Squirrel, feeling utterly dejected, listened absent-mindedly. Maybe he wasn’t ready for the truth. Or maybe he was thrown off by the conspicuous absence of the Badger’s left eye, an injury resulting from a battle against rebel Jewish insurgents *Hernandez had proudly served in the roman legion as a conscript spear thrower* Whatever the reason, when Hernandez popped the all-important question to Squirrel- dude, will you join me? Embrace me? Look to me as father? – Squirrel had already left the scene. In fact, he had bolted midway through Hernandez’s speech about the Devil’s obsession with Lord of the Rings.
Squirrel wandered the barren landscape alone; occasionally parting the greenery with his paws to view the eternal salvation that might have been his, the cool blue grottoes where he might have frolicked, the trees laden with shelled goodies which he might have cracked against a rock. After several hours, Squirrel was already exhausted, totally famished, and soaked with angelic spittle raining down from the overlords.
God said, “It doesn’t matter, what’s done is done.”
Squirrel was stranded at the Pearly Gates, denied access, yet curiously permitted to wander the outlying premises- to walk upon the gilded boardwalk, to glimpse the anointed, smirking self- righteously, extremely pleased with themselves, playing touch football beyond the shrubs. There was Ezekial, Squirrel’s old pal who got run over by a school bus, going out to receive Ghandi’s pass. Oh poor Ezekial, preemptively tackled by Herman Hesse. There was Margot, the founder of Quizno’s, shucking boiled hotdogs to haloed attendees. Squirrel wished he could join the melee so fervently, he willed it so harshly, but his prayers were disregarded. His salutations were delegated to the junk mail folder. “God has forsaken me for these losers” Squirrel thought, scurrying away from the pristine hedges, frothing a little at the mouth.
Then Squirrel bumped into Hernandez.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” Squirrel mumbled to the giant.
Hernandez was a badger, a creature subjected to the same eternal restrictions as Squirrel. Hernandez had been wandering the sandblasted dunes of Limbo for a couple thousand years. He had accidentally devoured his brother in law, Romulus, in 24 BC. Hernandez himself had died in a mining accident shortly thereafter, never forgiven by friends and family, never scoring karmic reconciliation.
The Badger had seen some shit occur between God and Angels. He was frequently lonely, occasionally irritable, and always indifferent to the catechisms of new age philosophy. He decided then and there to adopt Squirrel as his protégé, to school him in the myriad facets of divine abandonment; omnipity is a crock of shit, for example, God prefers simple, down home recipes, like low fat hot dogs and Pringles, God watches the L word, etc. Finally Hernandez had someone to talk to.
Squirrel, feeling utterly dejected, listened absent-mindedly. Maybe he wasn’t ready for the truth. Or maybe he was thrown off by the conspicuous absence of the Badger’s left eye, an injury resulting from a battle against rebel Jewish insurgents *Hernandez had proudly served in the roman legion as a conscript spear thrower* Whatever the reason, when Hernandez popped the all-important question to Squirrel- dude, will you join me? Embrace me? Look to me as father? – Squirrel had already left the scene. In fact, he had bolted midway through Hernandez’s speech about the Devil’s obsession with Lord of the Rings.
Squirrel wandered the barren landscape alone; occasionally parting the greenery with his paws to view the eternal salvation that might have been his, the cool blue grottoes where he might have frolicked, the trees laden with shelled goodies which he might have cracked against a rock. After several hours, Squirrel was already exhausted, totally famished, and soaked with angelic spittle raining down from the overlords.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
the squirrel and the whale
After capsizing from his vessel, (squirrel was never an adequate sailor and the pursuit of the Guinness Cup around Cape Horn was a real lapse in judgment, but he had just been divorced and the adventurous pursuit had exhibited a certain luster in those harrowing days after the final separation), Squirrel got swallowed up by a titanic whale, like that forbearing pariah Jonah. Except where Jonah was created on the sixth day, Squirrel’s likeness was formulated on a prior date. Squirrel got sucked through the thick baleen squelching tusks and found himself in a hotbed of nappy fluids, a stank boiling chamber that resembled nothing in his experience so much as a Bikram Studio in Midtown commandeered by the master Takahashi, and perhaps buried deep within Squirrel's residual unconscious, the whale’s belly resembled the honest indifference of his mother’s fetal womb. What would you do when faced with such a sequence of events? Squirrel felt the pressure increase as the whale bailed deeper and deeper into the unexplored recesses of the ocean. His furry ears popped, his molars tingled. The stomach chamber was so large that there was an adequate supply of oxygen, don't even worry about that, there WAS enough time for GOD to inflict some PAINFUL JUDGEMENT. But no one will ever know how Squirrel didn’t totally freak the fuck out in the midst of all that swirling juicy chaos in the whirling innards of the beast. How did our illicit dude pass the time? According to legend after a fortnight the LEVIATHAN washed up on a bedazzled bright beach in Long Island, near the expressway. Upon encountering the deceased beast, locals swore that they spotted a starved rodent clamber with much difficulty out of its blow hole. Another, unconfirmed account suggests that upon examining the teeth of the LEVIATHAN, researched were stunned to find dozens of minute scrimshaw engravings depicting the trials and tribulations of the squirrel race in its darkest hour.
arousal
When Squirrel was bent over in half pigeon, his tail extended full throttle, suspended midway between his paws and his jaw, his lower right paw pointing towards the solstice point- Mecca, his mind was a blank slate. This was the last refuge of his weary soul, some stank yoga studio in Midtown, the furnace blaring. Squirrel had been practicing yoga for years, but it was only recently that he had stumbled upon Bikram. Here in the now, Squirrel was a nothingness, a floating furry orb amidst the constellations. All he required was a meager sustenance in the form of a few acorns a day. Squirrel pledged in this moment that he would remain in yogic position as long as demanded in order to defeat the previous world record. Squirrel would remain in upward spiral for 1 year- meditating, grooving, inhabiting this lackluster material world.
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