Of all the abandoned, obsolete technologies we've discarded over the years, the one most deserving of a second chance is the noble telegraph. Think about it -- when we're at our computers everyday, visiting our favorite wicker porn sites, what are we already doing? That's right: clicking. Clicking away on our mice, slowly tapping out messages to the Ether. I guarantee you, somewhere out there is a vast, diffuse machine intelligence that's listening in, slowly deciphering our subconscious dots-and-dashes message, transmitted quite without our knowledge through our everyday Internet usage. And at some point, it will have collected enough clicks to make sense of that message, and respond with a disgusted 'That's nasty', and shut itself down forever.
Do you see how powerful the telegraph is? If it can cause a barely-cognizant hardware-constrained cloud of virtual neurons to kill itself in horrified, existential anomie, surely it can revitalize our modern way of life! How, you say? I'm glad you asked, you mouth-breathing mendicant!
Imagine the following scenario: it's late. You're lonely. You have no lover that doesn't run on batteries, and those Flipper reruns don't come on until 3 AM. You crave a direct connection with another human being, someone with whom you can share your innermost goulash recipes. Someone with whom you can be truly intimate. Looking around your cell, your fevered gaze alights upon your telegraph device, coiled and smug within its mahogany-and-cheese berth.
Trembling, your hand reaches toward it, fingers already pre-tapping, anxiously awaiting that tactile, subdermal feedback. You don your headphones, heartrate jumping at the mere hiss of the static issuing forth. You begin to code your message: dot-dash... dot-dot-dot... dot-dash-dot-dot... dot-dot-dash-dash-dot-dot.
Suddenly, you're in the thick of it! Messages crowd in, staccato sweet nothings filling your headspace like the drilling of overly-amorous woodpeckers! Drum roll missives of lust peppering your eardrums with the emotional force of a thousand tiny jackhammers of love! Engorged with excitement... EWW... you hurriedly attach and activate the Press-Your-Sensitive™ Teledildonics NubbinNotch ("Now with telegraph support!") and continue your perversely promiscuous pressings.
With each dot and dash of your partner's message delivered as a jolt of current to your sex toy, and calibrated to be sensitive enough to register pressure, the harder you tap, the stronger the impulses. As you race closer to the eventual conclusion, your frenzied pounding begins to set up a powerful feedback loop, like shouting into a series of megaphones, both of you crying out for release, hands feverishly slamming into the receiver until finally the final spasm hits, both hands clenched tightly around the telegraph machine, blissed and mindless...
...until you electrocute yourself on an exposed wire. But UNTIL then! Transformative! Revolutionary! Apocalyptic! Superfluous! Yes, gentle sentients, the telegraph must return! If not for yourselves, then think of the children! Do you really want them to grow up in a society where debased adult sexmongers aren't regularly destroyed by their own fiendish devices? Look deep into your hearts; you already know the answer: dash-dot... dash-dash-dash.
I wanna be free... just me... oh baby...
EWW
-- "Easy", Faith No More
Here's where we separate the strong-stomached from the squeamish. I give you: Bohemian Rhapsody, a capella. One of the lyrics is wrong, but damned if I was going to re-record that.
History will judge me.
It’s been a long December, and there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last. But how much better? What has kept it from being better before this? Have you been unable to do everything you wanted to, due to scheduling restraints, personality conflicts, or plain old fear? I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, but I can tell you that a lot of people fail to accomplish their goals because they’re afraid. Not just of failure, but also of success.
Neil Gaiman once published a Sandman short story called ‘Fear of Falling’ for a collection of DC Vertigo preview comics. The story concerned itself with one man’s recurring nightmares, linked to his pulling out of a stage play he had written and was producing. He had become cripplingly afraid of being unable to perform to the expectations of the audience, even though the show had yet to begin. He likened it to nightmares in which he would climb to a great height, fall, and try to wake up before he hit the ground, which he was certain would kill him. This fear is common. Stage fright, just like Writer’s block, can take many forms. It’s natural and normal to worry over reactions to anything you create, but the most important thing to remember is just to get your creation out there in the world, without regard to how it may be received.
How often has worry over not having something worthwhile to say kept you from writing? How many times have you shrunk from trying something new because you were frightened of looking foolish? How much time do you spend regretting that which you’ve not done? And here I’m not just talking about creation – I’m talking about taking that trip you’ve been meaning to take, asking for that raise, or telling someone how you really feel. At the end of your life, will you be able to total up your successes and your failures and find that you’ve got more to regret than to be proud of?
At the end of ‘Fear of Falling’, our protagonist, having returned to helm the show, tells a friend what he’s come to realize: “Sometimes you fall. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.” This is my New Year’s reminder to you. Take everything you’re afraid will happen, and throw it all away. Don’t even give it a second thought. Put into the world what you want to experience. If you don’t, it will never happen. If you don’t release what’s inside you, what’s inside you will kill you. If you release what’s inside you, what’s inside you will save you. Sometimes, when you fall, you fly.
Come on and we'll sing, like we were free
Push the pedal down watch the world around fly by us
Come on and we'll try, one last time
I'm off the floor one more time to find you
And here we go there's nothing left to choose
And here we go there's nothing left to lose
-- "Nothing Left to Lose", Mat Kearney
Oh waffles, you quadrangles of gridded delight, is there nothing you can’t do? No ill you cannot overcome? No foe you will not vanquish? These epicurean wonders are the epitome of civilized breakfast fare, the last bastions of all that is Good and Yummy in our world against the onrushing Hordes of Banality.
Consider the pleasing solidity of the waffle: four sides, four corners – promising strength and support and shelter, bulwarks against the common irregularity of the fruits and eggs with which the waffle shares the mealtime plate. Marvel at the seamless synthesis of elements both rigid and soft – the firm lattice structure contains the spongier matter, providing a deliciously textured experience to even the most jaded palate. The tiny squares, repositories for the life-affirming syrup, mirror the shape of the whole, recapitulating the geometrical motif, granting a casual look into the shape of the underlying construction of the Laws of the Universe.
Yes, my friends, waffles are these things and so much more. No matter how many times you might order them, you will always recall the previous order, regardless of the interstitial duration of time. Carl Jung spoke of the racial memory, and waffles tap into this, confirming the archetypal nature of the Square as a fundamental unit of our collective unconsciousness.
Do you dare to deny the power of the waffle? Consider how effortlessly these marvels of mandibular might adapt themselves to whatever your taste might be: today, you will have them with butter and powdered sugar, a mellow start to a busy morning; tomorrow, perhaps strawberries will adorn your plate, ushering into being an afternoon of challenge and triumph; the next day, you might prefer embedded blueberries, each bite a whimsical guessing game, with a depthcharge-like explosion of sudden extra flavor awaiting the anticipatory bite, preparing itself for that night’s journeys into nocturnal adventure.
For the waffle is not bound by the mean strictures of temporal exactitude – they may be enjoyed at any time, day or night, pre-activity or post-, as an enticement or a reward. Their inherent composition taking on as many forms as your daily breads, topped with ever more exotic combinations of syrupy, sugary flavors to dazzle your tastebuds and engendering only the most pleasant of synaesthetic buzzings in your body.
I hereby offer to you, O Learned and Wise listeners, nothing less than the Consummate Food of Our Time. Laud it! Embrace it! Shout approbations to the heavens, that all may know the sublimity and satisfaction to be gained by the merest approach of a plate heaped dizzyingly high with waffles, the epitome of mankind’s gastronomic achievements!
(Paid for by the Consortium of Pancake Haters of Belgium)
All my life I’ve been waiting for this
The stars align and the planet’s promise
And all Creation united strong in a
Perfect Love, baby, Perfect Love
Perfect Love
-- “Perfect Love”, Jane Child
Watch her.
She's everything you can't have, and you know it. As she moves, your gaze never strays, never leaves the sight of her perfect walk. The word sinuous was created just for her, you know? Sinuous. Say it to yourself, go on. The S; it's your indrawn breath, watching her. Ssssss... Taste that? It's her scent, riding the airwaves, and it's on your tongue. Bless those waves. They make it possible for her to dance, to slide, to sway with her music. To sway you with her music. Ssssss...
Where were we? Sin. That's what she is, and you know it. Sin and sweat. Sweat and sex. Sex and... something else. What is it? You know? That special something that slithers and shakes, that rides your spine and spins your soul. It's everything you can't have, because she has it already, and she knows how to use it. Watch her. Her body is the S that you breathe and she rides the airwaves with it. She swims the music and is as sleek and beautiful as a dolphin. Her flesh is that smooth. Her scent is that sharp, like the salt bite of the ocean that produces longing. Her eyes? Fathomless.
Sinuous. Keep saying it. Sin, U... what are you? You're a toy, and you know it. She plays with you. She plays for you. She plays on you. She's a virtuoso; you're a badly tuned guitar. She barres you, she frets you. No matter how many of your strings she snaps, you still want her hands upon your neck. Strings? You're her puppet. Her dance makes you dance. You jerk in twitchy lock-step toward her and give her the control. She loves to play with her toy. You're her clown; you make her laugh. You're her ball; she throws you away and you bounce right back. You're her idiot flesh yo-yo; those strings again. She tilts her G-string, she snaps your G-string and you rocket right back to her waiting hand.
Sin. You. Us. Don't dare breathe it louder, it's meant to be a silent prayer. Of course it's a prayer. Don't you worship her? Watch her. She's on that stage, up above you, where your gods are meant to be. Perhaps they're watching, perhaps not. And if they hear you, perhaps it's better if they don't. For what can you offer her? Your heart? Please. She doesn't need another. Your soul? She's got that. Your mind? Ahh, perhaps...
Close your eyes. Think it. Only think it. Sin. You. Us. In the private night behind your eyelids, you dance together. The oldest dance, the oldest rhythm. Cats know it. Their flowing bonelessness. Their silent tread. Their silk and speed and weave. Cats are the dance that smoke only pretends to be. The feline grace, the lioness shuffle, the very sound of it hypnotizes. Sin. You. Us. Curving letters in sleep, the S of the cat is sexuality, is mystery, is woman. Like this woman above you, sizzling and hissing her cat-quickness for the music. Watch her, and you can almost understand the secret...
But the riddle slips away as the song ends. Suddenly, you're just another man in the crowd of men, wanting her. Sin everywhere. No you, no us. That word is walking away, going back to wherever the gods go. You wave her over with a green offering. You ask for her name and she gives you only what she is called. Don't mistake the two. True names have power, and she reminds you that you're powerless.
She takes the offering and bestows her Cheshire favor upon you, then she is gone. Like smoke and mirrors. You'll never know how she does it, but you'll never stop trying. Because you're an idiot, you'll try to catch the trick, every time. When she reappears, like a rabbit in a hat. Like a cat in a hat. Sinuous. Every time. You know it.
Watch her.
I been spellbound, falling in trance
I been spellbound, falling in trance
You gimme the shivers
-- "Somewhere Down the Crazy River", Robbie Robertson
Aki Clutterbuck reminded me of a subject that’s near and dear to the black, twisted, muck-encrusted little shriveled organ masquerading as my heart: words. I’m somewhat of a connoisseur of the bon mot, as proven by the fact that I’ve just used two French terms instead of English, simply because they were better suited for the point I was trying to make.
However, there’s a dark side to the love of words, and that’s the hatred of words. More specifically, the newer breed of media-friendly words that purport to identify and explain a trend, but do so in such an obtuse, ridiculous fashion that more emphasis is placed on the word itself than on the subject. For example: metrosexual. A portmanteau -- and by the way, what a lovely word that is, isn’t it? Portmanteau: the concatenation of two words to create a new word by combining their meanings, as in ‘smog’: smoke plus fog. The word portmanteau itself is pure honeyed delight, with its rounded ending and evocation of fine liqueur … words like these are heady pleasures whose effects linger both on the tongue and in the mind. But back to my topic – a portmanteau of ‘metropolitan’ and ‘sexuality’, the word ‘metrosexual’ was created to contain the concept of the 21st century Dandy, with his perfectly-coiffed hairstyle, reliance on up-to-date knowledge of the changing urban wardrobe, and slight leaning toward a more androgynous appearance, all in the name of Beauty.
However, it’s an ugly word. For one thing, ‘sexual’ will always connote physical urges, and a call to sensual action. There’s very little actual sex in fashion. Fashion might lead to sex, but it’s not at the heart of it, though Oscar Wilde, himself one of the greatest Dandies of all time, might disagree, and hilariously so. ‘Sexual’ also refers to predilection, as in ‘heterosexual’ or ‘homosexual’, where one declares an allegiance, or at least an affinity toward a gender. There is no such distinction in ‘metrosexuality’.
‘Metro’ also makes one think of the underground railway, with its squalor, rush of wind and unwholesome odors, cacophonous din, and sense of disconnected transience. From a purely euphonius standpoint, ‘metrosexual’ does not please. It does not carry poetry. And, perhaps most telling of all, it’s a term I’ve only ever heard used ironically, or in a sneering, mocking way. Hardly the legacy one would hope for!
All in all, ‘metrosexual’ is a horrid word, and it will receive no more mention in this audiocast. Ugh. Audiocast. Dammit, here we go again…
In her cap, she looked much older
And the bag across her shoulder
Made her look a little like a military man
-- “Lovely Rita”, the Beatles (yay)
This is what happens when wolfies try to get slinky. Thanks, Mercy. Thanks loads.
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