Archive for April, 2010

I am the Yellow Jacket Queen. As the most important entity in this sector, I must be protected from the erratic and violent confrontations initiated by the big, soft creatures who live in the good-smelling box, with the long-haired rat who makes painful loud noises.
This year because of more water our numbers will be great. Great enough to threaten the soft things, make them fear our stings and abandon their aromatic meat to our hungry hoard. ZZZZTTTT-ZZZTTT! We will be strong enough to discourage the galling attacks of the big gray soft one and his water weapon. He will be the one to flee or suffer the pain of a million venom-tipped needles.

I see the fat lazy thing, sitting on his fleshy buttocks, scratching with a black stick on a flat white-surfaced object he holds on his bent appendages. He is not making a web but something is coming out of the stick and staying on the flat white surface. This behavior does not appear threatening but with the soft ones one can never be certain.

In the middle of the last Cold Time the soft ones suddenly failed to consistently replenish the Feeder of All with the nectar we need to truly thrive, then stopped altogether. It was bad enough that we had to battle the feathered buzz-beasts for control of the Feeder, but for the source to be cut off in this cold fashion. It will incur hive hatred for millenia.

It would be like mixing a potent nutritional supplement which fulfilled needs for hive/thrive and personal pleasure simultaneously to sting the old gray one on the tip of that reddened protuberance above his whiskered feeding orifice. ZZZZTTTT-ZZZZTTTT! But I must quietly observe from our breeding site under the metal roof of the box the soft ones call Zhedd.

Now that the water from the sky falls less frequently and we are warmed by the sun, the soft ones have become more annoying with their increasing noisy interventions. Perhaps we should start the process of limiting their access to the metal roof box with a display of force. If they fail to resume nectar tributes we would next try to kill or disable the soft ones and gain access to the rich treasures which ripen inside their box. I know that this defies the hive-mind as an irrational, individual expression, but dammit, I just love Spring, and it’s great to be Queen!


Most Interesting Grandpa listens while Grandchild whispers.

His birth was predicted by Nostradamus, to the minute. His charisma can actually be seen in polaroid photographs. There is an aphrodisiac named for him by the women of a Polynesian Island culture. He can break bricks and boards with the force of his personality alone, but choses not to do so. Equally at home doing the Tango in Madrid or the funky chicken in Charleston, SC, he is the most interesting man in the world.

The All-New "W/C" and his Mojo=Matic Sidekick

At first he was barely aware of the fact that his random swirls, swoops and jagged scrawls were very gradually evolving into squiggles, organized roughly into lines and broken into clumps which would soon become words. What occupied most of his conscious thought was the power of the process that had been initiated by the contact of pen point and paper. He began to visualize his arm as the tone arm of a huge turntable, his pen was the stylus needle, and he was playing the music of the universe. It sounded a lot like Dr. John’s “Right Place, Wrong Time”. No surprise there.

When he could wrench his mind away from the consideration of cosmic implications he watched what was transcribing on the paper below. His detached-feeling hand was moving with the mechanical precision of a seismograph, but the spiked jags were morphing into morphemes, random at first, then recognizable words cohering into complete thoughts…and we have lift-off.

The transition was just that fast. One moment he was watching a random display of words flowing from that ever-bobbing needle, the next he was in the midst of reading, just as you are now, dear reader, the succession of more or less coherent sentences, paragraphs and pages that continued to move mysteriously, magnetically drawn from the brain of the “W/C” to the point of the U-No Ball and out onto the paper. The lag time between conception of idea to transcription on paper seemed infinitesimally small. He smiled and that too became a thought , then words on paper. Again the lag time, a few seconds at most.

He was ready to make some serious mischief but not exactly sure of how to go about it. Oh well. Back to the drawing board.

What Mentor #2 Said

Posted: April 21, 2010 in Uncategorized

There’s been a change in plans. It seems the Illuminati are downsizing. They’ve decided to combine your position with that of “The Cartoonist”. From now on you are the Writer/Cartoonist, or “W/C” if you prefer.

The former “The Cartoonist” will spend more time with his family and hopefully enjoy his generous severance package.

Your slavish , no-talent imitations of me evidently still pack enough of a wallop to warp reality (as if we know it) to some small degree. When amplified by your use of this Nifty U-No Ball Pen, Robert Crumb’s Special Mojo-Matic Edition, your powers may serve the Illuminati well if applied with precision. You will be notified when your talents will be needed.

Till then, continue your growth, “W/C”, learn to use the magical instruments we’ve entrusted to you.

We are 99% sure that you are not capable of wreaking genuine havoc at this stage of your development. And besides, it’s just not in your nature. That’s one reason why you were chosen.

But do feel free to exploit the capabilities of our gifts and to learn their limitations. Erring on the side of good is always prudent policy while learning.

Use the pen, Will. It’s mightier than the sword and the pencil put together.. And look, it has a little “Mr. Natural” engraved on the clip! Now go on you simpering sycophant, ride my coattails to any kind of limited success you may have. Consider yourself Mentored! But you’ll never, ever be as good as me! Nyah-hah-hah!

But it is kind of cool that we are almost the same age, like the same kind of music, and , dare I say it, the same ………..CENSORED AT THE REQUEST OF THE W/C……….

So, what was all the to do about the “Black Pencil”, its care and feeding? The Illuminati, like God and Will T. Friedman, work in strange ways, and when magic is involved, things often get weird.

And “vice is versa” as my Esperanto-speaking, Super-Model Grandma used to say via Trans-dimensional communications from her BLTC (Buxom Lesbian Transformation Camp). Will T. Friedman, you’re already using that pen, you devil! I don’t talk this way.

O.K., I get it. If I don’t like the dialogue, butt out! And let you get on with changing your little world, one paragraph at a time. Good luck with that, Materialistic American Swine.

I’m off for France, (where I am considered even more of a genius than Jerry Lewis) to swill the best wines, listen to Le Jazz Hot, and eat real French Fries! Adieu, dude.


Mentor #2

Posted: April 20, 2010 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,

His 66th birthday had come and gone, swiftly and painlessly. The weekend had been a blur of barbecue, chocolate, family fun, ultraviolent movies, and new blue jeans, more than he could ever have dreamed . And now the new work week had begun, Lucy was back at school, Gojira was a hairy ball on the couch, and the matter of his super hero training was bubbling to the surface of his stream of consciousness once more.

Unexpected sun had followed the showers that had passed through during the night and early morning. A narrow beam of light from the square RV skylight window illuminated one corner of the folded sheet of 11”X 17” sheet of paper on top of his improvised writing table. Solar energy to help power his creative output?

He picked up the Black Pencil, remembering the simple instructions he’d read between sips of French Roast rocket fuel earlier in the morning:

“ Turn off phones, computers and other electronic devices. Sit comfortably and clear your mind of any concerns or desires. Let the pencil rest easily in your writing hand. Slowly tighten your grip and bring the point of the pencil into contact with the paper. Keeping your mind clear, begin to make slow, easy circles, repeating circles, around and around, eyes closed, round and round, no worries, no conscious thoughts at all, just relaxing as your hand and the pencil become one. So easily, so smoothly. You will begin to feel a tingling like when your hand or foot go “to sleep” starting somewhere behind your closed eyes. Feel it move down your spine to branch out to your right arm, down to your wrist and hand, your circling wrist and hand as they draw smooth round circles, over and over. “

How long this went on he could not be sure. All he knew was when he looked up at the clock it was noon and when he looked at the paper on his lap he saw a lot more than the page full of circles he’d expected. The tingling sensation was gradually leaving his hand and he could still feel the residual effects in his fingers as he removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. Staring back at him from the paper was a head and shoulders caricature of comic artist Robert Crumb, in a series of panels which filled the top sheet of paper and two sheets beneath. In each sequential panel the artist’s head and shoulders were crowded with thought balloons and hand-written text which began to take on clarity and meaning as he focused on the task of deciphering this supernatural communication.

"Won't you come home, Will Friedman, won't you come home?"

 He hated the secret aspects of this whole enterprise. It had been hard enough finding just the right time when the creative juices were flowing and there were no chores or family drama to deal with, a quiet time to write. And now, this whole training program, today’s first structured exercise with the Black Pencil, all to be done, unobserved, uninterrupted, in total secrecy. Not likely, but worth a try for a million dollars, wasn’t it?Sun streamed in the windows of the mobile mansion , dangling crystals sparkled the interior with magic while the pause music from the Zombie game provided a soundtrack for the propitious moment. He turned, withdrew the Black Pencil from the mug, sat in his easy chair and reached in his nearby tool basket to get the life-sized plastic nose which served as his pencil sharpener and the graphically plain little instruction booklet. Spreading the booklet open on the oversized book he used for a writing desk, he read the general opening comments and while sharpening the pencil ever so carefully, whispered the words softly to himself.
It was 10:30 AM . He’d gotten up early to get caffeinated and ready for the imminent rendevous with destiny and quickly been diverted by the news, an hour or so of “Plants VS. Zombies”, his latest PC game addiction, a rash of telephone calls for his son and the powerful needs of Gojira D. Dogg. Now he only had a couple of hours before Lucy came home for lunch.. Even a hardened procrastinator like Will T. Friedman knew that you’ve got to make that first freaking step before any real tripping can get done.

The "Writer" is no stranger to the senior moment phenomena, having actually performed in a musical combo of that name during the early years of the current decade.

“By this time you should have devoted at least a week to the Writer/ Black Pencil bonding process. Whether you could feel it or not things were being shared at a sub-atomic level by you, the chosen “Writer” of the Illuminati, and the very special writing implement you are now holding. Although you may have perceived a mild tingling sensation and an increased sense of awareness of small details in your surroundings, you will not feel the full interactive force of your latent talent and this powerful “Word Wand” till the demands of a structured exercise systematically elicit a more intensified bonding. This is truly where the fun begins!”

He had picked up the pencil and begun twirling it between thumb and forefinger as he read. An erotic sub-cutaneous buzz was almost imperceptibly building just below his…. A frantic paroxysm of barking snapped him out of his seductive reverie. Gojira was astride the bed, front paws on the window sill, his head shaking as he ratcheted out a violent staccato of yaps at an as yet unseen intruder.

He wondered if all apprentice super heroes had this kind of tribulation. Marvel Comics and Stan Lee had pioneered teen angst. His “Writer” might put senior moments on the media GPS. He’d forgotten that today was the day the E-Z Flush hombre was coming to pump out the merde from the mobile mansion’s holding tank. Aieee! Gojira’s barks were now forming a syncopated rhythm along with the intermittent beeps of the E-Z Flush truck as it backed into the driveway. It was noon and by the time he’d done his part with the sani-truck routine it would be time for Lucy’s return. “Oh well”, he thought, “there’s always manyanah.” With a mixture of acute disappointment and a sense of relief he found difficult to acknowledge, he left the mobile mansion and the hysterically barking pet behind. With a slam of the metal door and a whispered oath, he went to meet the friendly shit-sucking specialist outside in the sunlight of a bright Spring morning..

“Learning to establish a bond with your pencil is essential. For one week prior to using the pencil in a structured exercise, the writer should take the pencil everywhere with as much direct tactile experience as possible. Avoid disrespectful thoughtless acts of oral gratification, i.e. sucking, chewing, licking; this applies to inappropriate uses as rhythm stick, backscratcher, nose or ear router, weapon, prod or eating implement…”

It had been over a week since he’d received the envelope bearing the booklet of operating instructions and structured training exercises. Unfortunately it had coincided with the week of Spring Break. Lucy had been on break from her school job and they had been together constantly. No opportunities for uninterrupted communion with a freaking pencil. It had continued its inconspicuous rest in the old fraternity beer mug, the envelope and instruction manual nested along with the unpaid bills in a basket alongside his easy chair. At least till this morning, Lucy’s first day back to work after break.

It was as if a cloud had rolled back and the sun had illuminated a bright panoramic vista ahead. After a short tease of Spring-like weather they had spent virtually the entire week of break shut into the mobile mansion with Lucy disabled by cold symptoms and the elements raging on outside. But now the sky was clear, the sun was shining and he was feeling that familiar surge of energy that came for him every Spring as his birthday approached.

This coming Sunday he would be 66 years old. Too old to take on the mantle of “Writer”? If it had not been for the inspiration of a “true-life” character he might have answered yes. His eyes rose as they did every day to regard the handiwork of the aged gentleman who might yet provide the inspirational motivation needed to complete this story.

(Here the story is interrupted by the inclusion of relevant pages from the “Writer’s” pre-supernaturally influenced journal)