Chaos Trips & Joker
Kicks - hit to death in the future head
by M.R. Bradie
A little more than a
year ago, in Portland, Oregon, a friend, a girlfriend and
myself were walking out of a local arthouse theater where
we'd just seen a fabulous 3D porno from the nineteen-seventies
featuring the late great lesbian loving thesbian ... Mr.
John Holmes. My friend looked at me and said
something that I've managed to remember; he said, " M.R., I've
noticed lately that a lot of people, myself included, are living
as if they were a traveling fine art exhibit. They
take the show on the road ... but as soon as one of the
paintings in the exhibit gets the slightest bit damaged,
they freak and pack up the show ... they get scared that one of
the paintings will be lost or have it's original intended
meaning altered, and they put the art in crates and lock
it up ever after ... they hide their beauty from the rest
of the world. I don't want to live that way
anymore.". Although I'm not absolutely certain of what he
meant by that, I took it to heart.
On the other
hand, I almost killed a friend with an act of spontaneous
'beauty' the other night. It was me and Katie, roving the
streets of Mang-Mi-Dong. She dragged me into one of
those video picture booths with the vinyl curtain around
it. I hate taking pictures, but we were drunk, and I
followed reluctantly. Once we were in the booth, while she was
stooping over to feed a couple thousand won to the
machine, I decided that it would be funny to get naked and
hang from the top frame of the picture booth, so that the
camera would get a close up shot of my big brown anal eye as
my legs flailed to either side. So I shed my clothes
and grabbed hold of the overhead metal bars which held the
vinyl curtain in place, lifting my legs and hiney up and
towards the camera. But Katie didn't even get a chance
to stuff those bills into the machine, cause the entire
photo booth came down on us. It was so stupid.
As the massive metal beast collapsed towards us, I was
tossed out of the way, my naked ass skidding on the asphalt
street. But when I wobbled to my feet, I was
horrified to see that Katie was crouched in a fetal ball
under the toppled booth. I immediately started
saying "Katie, Katie!" while I frantically pulled my jeans on
without undoing my belt or the button. She didn't
answer at first, and I feared the worst as I began trying
to lift the metal beast that was still blaring it's
chincey techno tracks. In my drunken stupor, I feared that
I'd wounded or killed her ... I couldn't tell, had her
head gone through the glass monitor ... had her back been
broken under the weight of the machine?
No, she was
alright. Seconds later, she rolled out from under the
picture booth, laughing and staggering to her feet. Barely
able to form words from between her giggles, she managed
to say, " I'm outta here!", and she took off into the
night. I stayed behind, trying to pull one of my
imitation Nike's from beneath the corner of the heavy metal
motherfucker; but it was jammed, and I was fearing the
Pusan P.D. drunktank, so I grabbed my t-shirt up off the
ground and followed after her in my jeans and one shoe ...
laughing a wheezy smoker's laugh all the way home. I snuck back to
the downed picture booth later that night and managed to
free my shoe.
Chaos trips ... they're all fun'n'games
... until someone gets their skull crushed.
A general
oversimplification about the human race, coming from the
mouth of a mega-celebrity, tends to sound like prophesy or
gospel ... as was the case a few months ago when one of by
buddies who works for the Gannett media juggernaut did an
interview with Life In Hell/Simpsons/Futurama creator Matt
Groening.
Groening made a statement to the effect
that the human race was composed of two types of people;
the Daffy Ducks and the Elmer Fudds. Anyone who's ever
seen a Daffy and Elmer Looney Toon will surely remember that
Daffy is the silly duck who always say's 'Thufferin'
Thuckotash!' while he runs around making a mockery of all
things serious ... while Elmer Fudd is the self conscious
shot gun wielding humanoid who is constantly trying to
blow mortal holes in Daffy ... when he isn't stalking Bugs Bunny
or Porky Pig.
He said that the
Daffy Ducks were just goofballs, always out for joker
kicks; while the Elmer Fudds were always hunting the Daffy Ducks
... trying to put an end to their lighthearted ways.
Unfortunately, it doesn't seem so
simply black and white to me ... I've seen Daffy's who're
out for money or illicit drugs and Elmers to actually want
to help some sort of victimized individual who falls into neither
the Daffy nor the Elmer role. But then again, it's
such an easy way to sort people out ...
All those Jews
and Muslims who're constantly fighting in the middle east
are surely a bunch of Elmers after one another.
And all American politicians ...
Elmers. Kids who shoot rack up high
school body counts ... Elmers. Any man
who has sex with a woman against her will ... Elmer.
Jerry Lewis was a Daffy; the old lady
who pops her dentures with her tongue to freak a small
child out is a Daffy. Peter Sellers was a king
Daffy. I'm a Daffy ... I hope ... little sips from my
momentary mind ... ... here's to chaos
trips and joker kicks ... any old meaningless, purposeless
act in the name of shits and giggles so to speak ...
Hardy Gilbert and the
Colonel Tim Hockett, cruising I-65 out of Opelika, Al in a
custom van with an airbrushed swordfish mural on the side and
shag carpeting interior, tanked on GHB, starting up king
hell shouting matches with truckers on the CB radio ...
... watching old
2000 A.D. at the overpriced posh-fucked tavern in the
basement of some hotel on Hayeundai Beach ... Murphy's ... as he
whisks a bottle of Bacardi 151 from behind the bar; we
take it to the back room and mix our own drinks on the
house ... end up with Korean and Japanese girls out on the
beach ... start swimming in the still temperate fall waters in
the straight of Korea ... a trip through the Hayeundai hooker
districts ... horrible soup at an all night joint ... with
soft black hunks of ... boiled tire rubber? ... then back
to the beach ...Kwang-ali ... we sit on a concrete slab
and watch an Adjuma aerobics class at 5:30 am ... imagine
fifty aged adjumas moving in synchronal-time to Korean techno
music by Clon with the ocean's morning calm in the
background ... gorgeous ...
I just hope that
there are others out there willing to turn off their
televisions ... to disobey the first church of christ computer
programmer ... and return their videos and revel in
their own lives and times ... I think there are many ... I hope
... because if there aren't ... well, then nothing matters
any more ... the black waters of construct reality and
mental revisionism ... synthetic reality displacement ... have
overtaken us ...
If that's the case,
then we're no more than spawned out salmon ... tired of
swimming up stream ... doomed to swim out the last moments of our
lives in a stagnant death pool of consumer products and
creative alien-isolation ...
Teach the
children? Teach them what? English ... grammar ... how
to compete on standardized tests ... never to ramble on
... ramble on ... ramble on in fragments of wordy tone
poems ... chaos trips ...
Snapshots in tight black
underwear and rubber spiderman mask ... posed
with the plastic Colonel Sander's statue
in front of a fast-food-crack-den KFC ... joker trips ... nothing
more ....
For the love of
christ, for all the doomed angels in the heavens ... fuck
those travel plans and money goals of for a few seconds and live in
the world like a decent earthling should ... so a little
birdie told me.
The priceless
laughs that arose from the depths when the Gib Duke of
those great Northern Canadian lands was describing his hockey
injuries ... telling us so earnestly, " Well, I could get
in a fight, and my nose has been broken so many times that
one punch would send it flapping across my face ... most
of my teeth are fake, and would come out with the second punch
... I'd be toothless, with a flat nose, covered in blood, but
I'd just be laughing and swinging ...
Walking out of
the surrealio-depressing hooker district in Nampodong, to
find ourselves in a bustling 6am market place where 2000 A.D.
starts buying up copious amounts of fish and vegetables
... I pop a whole green pepper in my mouth and start
crying and screaming like a baby ... all I can manage to
say between wheezes is ... I can't think ... I can't think!"
... the old Korean people are laughing their mongolian
blue-spotted asses off, offering me water ... but I can't
even take the cup from the kind old ladies's hand, I'm
moaning and whining , " I can't think ... I can't think
..." the pepper is so hot that it's dissolving the tissue inside
my mouth ... I'm going into some sort of panic-shock
hallucinations ...
Birdstuff's the
drummer for an Alabama Sci-Fi Surf-Instrumental band ...
he's compulsive about not touching small change ... if a penny or
a nickel or a dime touches his skin, he has to have a
shower and scrub himself ... he makes cash register
workers wrap his change up in dollar bills ... eventually,
driven mad with his small-change fears, he fills his bed with
pennies and tries to sleep in it ... but it doesn't work, and he
ends up scrubbing himself bloody in the shower ... battier
than ever ...
Revel in your own life and
times ... do that for yourself. Do it here on
Pusanweb ... that's what it's here for, I think. Mental
thoughtscapes ... memories solidified ... congealed with
the letters of the english language ... is there any
higher purpose for the alphabet?
Try to create new
words ... new sentence structures ... for English is a
living language after all ... isn't it?
The greatest
alchoholyptic move in a bowling alley is to get a strike in
the next lane over; trust me, my hogwan president and coworkers
really respected me afterwards ...
Is an unabashed fart
in public some sort of crime against humanity? If
so, I should be tried, convicted and executed for crimes against
my fellow man ...
The world may be
fucked, but that don't mean it can't still smile an old
toothess grin ...
If I get my
druthers, I'd bid any recent arrivals welcome to a fairly
new community ... where I'm not the first and surely not the
last ... it's a gaseous ... electrolytic community ...
composed of free formed and free floating personalities
and egos in the process of being realized ... it's a
mental party where everybody's invited and nobody get's touched
... physically that is ... it's a place where no thought
or word is tabooed or aborted ... it's one of those ideal,
theoretical realms where infinity and god as possibility
are born and killed on a daily basis ... it's a place
where as Os Mutantes told us in their sumptuous Portu-Brazilian
tongues, ' Everything is Possible' ...
... sooo, let's get
down to it ... the bones of the matter ... get to work ...
there's still so many beautiful creatures to be captured ...
get down to that keyboard when ever life lets up long
enough, and fingerfuck that little plastic monstrosity
into oblivion ... let's populate this motherfucker ...
eternity is waiting for your head, maybe ...
... several species of small furry
mammals, gathered in a cave and grooving on a pict ...
several peices of tall blurry angles gathered at a rave and
schmoozing on a brick ... does anyone have any spare crystallium
isotope series 237 ... my interstellar overdrive is
running low ... the marijuanaut is banging on the gates of
the Temple Agamemnon ... that's secret code for ego y'all
... it's in the blood now ... that deep LSDNA hangover ...
let's get to the center ... before sleep comes a callin'
...
We want to hear what you
think of our advertisers. For Information about our advertising
policies and rates or to offer feedback about one of our sponsors,
please visit our Sponsorship
Page