INANIMATE - A "TINY" STORY GARDEN

In the Castle / On writing

2011-02-11T10:33:00.000-08:00

Photo Provided by Amie Shafer on Septermber 9th, 2010

There is a rattling in my brain where the monsters run on wheels.

Vicious eyes claw through mine to see out.

A warring frenzy looks to prove virtue beneath blood stained mattresses.

Reversing morals.

Applauding strife.

Laughter echoes about the cavernous hollow of childhood.

And when the pipe cracks they slither out all at once.

For the love of Brevity

2011-01-18T07:20:00.000-08:00

Photo Provided by Beth Wexler on December 10th, 2010

I stand at the cusp of decision and hush. Honesty lives in those moments, legitimacy of thought. All else is boiling water screaming through a whistle, a rapidly approaching train, the wail of time lapsed decay.

First of 2011. This is all the Photo asked of me.

2011-01-16T10:57:00.000-08:00


John Welsh Photography - Submitted November 22, 2010

We are brought into this world with eyes blind by the immediacy of our environment and left to wander through the deep woods of humanity armed with only a single match.

It is the test of one’s imagination to find it, the will of character to keep the flame alive and the jury of one’s frivolity what lies burned along the path.

BLACK BIRDS FALL...

2011-01-05T12:48:00.000-08:00

2011.... a sweeping sickle so far.

A Character's Thoughts or What I Do When I Eat Alone (also not a tiny story)

2010-11-03T10:13:00.000-07:00

Because we all have our own answers, albeit hard to find. Here is an exercise to find them

My books are filled with surprises, ticket stubs, love letters, forgotten photos, postcards, stories scribbled hastily on napkins and airplane bags conveniently placed for the nauseous traveller or the paperless story teller. I have two stacks of books set to be abandoned to the lonesome street corner, for whoever may so desire their company. They currently sit in my bedroom, each stacked 1/4 of the way to the ceiling. I have suffered through them looking to salvage the morsels of detail about my life; but I am sure I have missed something. Absolutely certain that the orphaned History of Economic Thought, Totch's Everglade Tales or the Pictoral Anthology of Serial Killer Art will house an overlooked photo of a forlorn puppy, a penned drawing of the man who haunts me or a ticket stub to a low rent wrestling match on Lombard St. I will surely have forgotten the love letter I wrote in anger and hid away, the poem about how I hate poetry or the fledgling idea for a theatrical adventure into the soulful lives of star polo players.

But not today, today I did not lose one of the most significant scribblings I have produced in my life. In a discarded magazine covering the triumph of "the most" intelligent smart car (which obviously has yet to manifest anywhere in the Americas) I found a page of black inked illegibility. It was a simple exercise I performed while eating alone, a venture I like to refer to as "getting smart". I have always felt that those who dine alone in public must be brilliant, most of them are buried in books, others watch, quietly absorbing every detail around them, undistracted, free of polite chatter from bothersome friends or acquaintances... they are the thinkers of our times, the silent philosophers... watch them, do not disturb them, but watch.

Aside from lovely digression, I was taking a writing class at the time, torn between two stories, one I loved and one who would not go away. In my incessant complaining, as us Jews are wont to do, my lovely and long gone boyfriend advised that I have a character "describe me". describe me? The writer... the uninvolved keystone?

So what the hell....

What resulted caused my hair follicles to stand on end, a chill to lick the length of my spine and a cavern to be blown in the mountain of my unattained thoughts......

This is the simple address of a character to her writer,

"Do you know what you are? Do you?
Stop avoiding me. Stop treating us as if we don't exist NOW!
You can't put us on a shelf. We won't wait.They didn't. Ok, so they aren't dead but they aren't jumping through hoops for your affection.
You are so afraid.
We represent everything your afraid of; everything that can be put of until tomorrow.
You think you love someone? You think you love this?
You're frightened. That's why I'm here. You're going to torture me. I'm going to be sent away when Vanity gets sick. I'm going to rape and be raped. I'm going to kill myself over and over again and I'm going to survive. I am going to be great, I'm going to be you. So you can't just set me aside.
They aren't interested in you. Not right now. Right now it's me.
You need me.
And more than anything..... I need you."

It is as base and simple as can be, but absolutely transforming and it was paramount in allowing the story who would not be ignored win out. And in the end I wrote the best story I have ever written in my life.

Try it... What do you think it would take to destroy the facade of your presumptions?

Gingham, Princes and Sweet Shop Amputees (not a tiny story)

2010-10-20T11:25:00.000-07:00

Today is the first day of this day. It's like any other, somewhere a baby is born, some with hair on it's back, some with multiple genitally, some with ogling parents overwhelmed with love and joy and some to panic stricken, post traumatic, neurotics who want nothing to do with the drooling crying mound of flesh they had toiled with for 9 months or so... and a ship sinks and a person drops a pork taco and a man in Iran has his hand cut off for stealing a gummy worm (or variation of a gummy worm in an Iranian sweet shop) and I sit in a cubicle.

Today is the first day of this thought and then this thought. And today is the first day with this skin, it's new wrinkles, glow, cuts, bruises, bumps, hairs... and this moment is the first moment. So at any point we get to stand up and walk out, brand new... because right now is the first time with these thoughts and these memories.. because they morph, change, grow and recede with every passing click of the little hand.

And I loved the story of the Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat when I was a child. Come to think of it, all of the stories that I recall with incredible adoration are stories of grand and violent trysts. The Calico Cat and the Gingham Dog is called "The Duel" by Eugene Field if you would like to read it to your children late at night. The Gingham Dog destroys the Calico Cat, but the Calico Cat also destroys the Gingham Dog until there is nothing left but scraps of Gingham and Calico, it's quite fair you see. Others not so much, The Jabberwocky being such (Lewis Caroll), and Little Belinda and the Pirate (Ogden Nash), both lone children up against a violent and dangerous enemy whom they manage to slash and destroy.

This set the tone for who I am. It's an interesting experiment to go into your childhood and find your loves. They may have wormed their way into you, found a nook in your brain, taken up residency and formed your "personality". The Koran and The Bible can be plagues of this theory in places where there are no other stories of gyring and gimbling in wabes or cowardly dragons named Custard.

I seem as though I make no connections with my thoughts. And in an unrelated lesson, if you want to kill your manservant/lover, do it at home, where you ARE the law, not in another country that does not take kindly to your man slaughtering antics... how dumb do you need to be to be a prince?

The Weather’s Nice

2010-10-18T09:16:00.000-07:00

Photo Provided by BREA BEE on October 1, 2010

Betty wasn’t the only one who stood quietly and uncomfortably at the back of the elevator. She had company. There was Harold, with his sweaty forehead and his sticky shirt. She watched motionless as he pulled the moist cotton away from his body every 4 seconds, just for the material to cling again. She would count with her breath, 1 exhale, 2 exhale, 3 exhale, 4 pudgy soft fingers, pinch, pull, release, stick. Poor Harold she would think, poor Harold.

Betty knew the names of the others who rode the elevator with her. They would talk amongst themselves when the numbers were in their favor . Hi Greg, Hi Lisa, How’s it going? Oh it’s going well, you? And then she would move, just a ¼ inch twist of her hip, the sound of rubber only a whisper of caught air. But it was enough to make them cramp up, stop talking, fidget uncontrollably. These were the moments ripe for taking inventory.

Lisa was a wide-ankled lustful woman. One could tell by the way she held her thighs, swishing them against one another. Lisa’s swish, swish, Harold’s pinch, pull, Greg’s phlegm blocked breath, cough, swallow, swish, swish, pinch, pull, cough. Betty could not control herself; the pinky of her right hand stiffened and popped erect above its cup in the frenzy of rhythmic sounds. This caused Greg to drop his briefcase and nearly throw up as he scrambled out of the elevator on the 37th floor, bye Greg, see you at 5:07.

When the owner of 20 Forthright Blvd, Boldegard Vinquist, had died; Betty is who he left in charge.

There would now be a psychiatrist on the 12th floor; open for walk-ins, to maintain the psychological well being of the tenants. Betty knew all of this of course; as it was part of her plan. The Psychiatrist was a Doctor Ginny Taylor of Millweed, IL and she was the daughter of Parsons Taylor, a tight rope walker who died traversing the Sunshine Skyway Twin Bridges due to a freak lightening storm which struck a freighter killing the Captain of the fated vessel.

The doomed Captain was quite a heavy man and when his dead body slumped forward it pushed the massive ship to full speed. Now plunging through the water, the skyscraper of the sea, set out on an unavoidable, intimate course to collide with the concrete structure holding Parsons. When contact was realized in a sonic boom of terror, time stopped. With toes curled and his breath quick but even, Parsons Taylor waited while the moaning of the ship thundered through his head. A month seemed to pass in those 7 seconds before the concrete slumped and fell in silent pirouettes to the churning water below. With the stealth of a frightened whip snake, Parson’s feet slithered along the rope to safety. If all factors remained equal he could get across the bridge before the crumbling reached a place to affect him.

All factors remained equal and he reached the other bridge safely and securely. Parsons, about to thank the heavens for their kindness dropped to his knees and with arms in the air and a broad smile on his face was promptly hit by a car. The ogling gaped mouthed motorist watching the horrific scene of busses and trucks plunging to certain unfortunate deaths across the water had not even had a chance to stop, let alone see the man who had dropped out of the sky, directly in the path of his car.

This said motorist was Boldegard Vinquist. Betty had been in the back seat, as was their customary means of travel.

The fund set up for Ginny was to see her through school; it had some objectives tailored in, what she would study, where she would work, etc. Ginny did not know Betty, but Betty knew every detail about Ginny. It was a simple plan and the 12th floor become 20 Forthright's new water cooler.

After some months passed and Ginny had heard every outlandish fear from every worker in the building she felt she had to confront the woman who was the cause, standing statuesque, at the back of the elevator; tea in hand, every hour of the work day for the last 2 years. Ginny stepped into the elevator and faced Betty. She stared for some time before she spoke.

“What are you gaining from doing this?”
“Do you want help?”
“Do you need attention?”
“45 people have quit their jobs because of you, some with no further employment”.

Betty studied how her lips twitched when there was no response; her brow furrowing, making her plain simple face, ugly. In frustration at the abject silence Ginny even went so far as to pick the skin on her fingers.

‘Keep studying’ thought Betty ‘You’re doing a fine job’.

And then, suddenly, one day between the 14th and the 15th floor, Betty died. Bruce was taking a smoke break and was the first to see. He lifted her limp frail frame from the elevator away from the cup which had spilled and cracked, still rolling slightly with the momentum of its fall. He was gentle with her, shocked and shaking. His urge to remove her mask was overwhelmed and wiped out by the gush of emotion that tidally swept through his body bringing him to his knees and leaving him sobbing over her. Frances heard his wails and ran to see what had happened but was stopped in her tracks by the hot flash of panic and sorrow when she saw Betty’s limp body.

“Oh my god”! The thought, the fear, the trauma, ran like a raging flood through the office, everyone left their posts. Phones dangled, papers fluttered to the floor and soon there was a swarm of people standing around her weeping. They couldn’t help themselves; they’d lost control of their bodies as their hearts shattered at the devastating site of their fallen statue. Not one attempted to remove her mask. Not one knew why they were reacting the way they were.

Someone called psychiatrist and then someone else called the police.

4 months later, Betty’s elevator could only hold 3 people uncomfortably; such was the size of the shrine. Ginny wrote a book which won her national acclaim. The workers once bound by their discomfort found themselves risking more for life; some of them said it was for themselves, some said it was for Betty.

The penthouse at the top of 20 Forthright, where Betty had lived with Boldegard until he was 80 and she was 82, was found plastered floor to ceiling with thousands of notes laden with the tiny details of her days on the elevator.
“Daniel was very nervous today, he moved his heel in and out of his shoe 6 times in 3 floors.”
“Sarah was sad about something, maybe her cat is sick.”
“Harriet had cinnamon in her breakfast and then oranges at lunch, pleasant”
“I wonder if Frank was promoted, he seems taller”

It was these details that kept Betty alive for 2 years after she lost her beloved Boldegard. Her gift back was left in fine script at the bottom of each page. Always variations of the same thought, same emotion: “I love them”.

“I love their discomfort, their small talk, their quirks, joys and sadness. I love their unwashed smells, their cheap perfumes, their boxed lunches and their talk about the weather. I love their anger and their pain and their breathing and their drive and their vigilance. And most, above all, I love their lives, lives that are full of laughter and travel, children and trauma, lives that will explore, find love, build homes and forgive; lives that have more sunrises, sunsets and rainfall. I love their lives unconditionally, in their entirety, because they are lives that are not yet over…… lives that have tomorrows...

As mine once did.”

-Betty Vinquist

The Drawing and The Gypsy

2010-10-13T08:25:00.001-07:00

Photo from Treehugger.com provided by Julia Othmer (9/7/10)

Frank was incredibly content with being one-dimensional. In fact it was easily arguable that Frank was the happiest of everyone in the dungy basement bar hiding just below the lonely fiddle shop. The two and three dimensionals were incredibly, almost unnervingly, jealous. The napkins being both utilitarian and blank felt that gnawing burn of hatred, unique only to those who secretly wish to be most, those who they hate. Even the octogenarian photos that hung haphazardly on the tea stained walls wished they were not recreations, mere simulacra of 3 dimensionals but original drawings, like Frank; unattractive, blissful, one of a kind, Frank.

Many years ago the grumbly old bar taps and the unpolished brass plotted his demise. It began as mere jeers to his flattened perspective. They poked “Why are you so joyful? You are flat, one dimensional; a depthless being, a simpleton, a joke”.

“And ugly” piped the paper umbrellas, not yet in bloom.

“Yes ugly” cried the chorus “flat and ugly”.

Frank would look on as Frank was wont to do and respond in his methodic, depthless voice, “I am. I am all those things my friends and I am happy”.

This would send them reeling in annoyance. They would not stop. They insisted he realize his lowly position.
“But I am not low” he would respond “I sit up very high above the mirror. So high in fact that I can’t even imagine the ground”.

The floor boards took offense, the welcome mat felt impotent. For as much as they tried to make him feel bad, they would just end up feeling worse and the jealousy mounted.

Things went on like this for years, their hate, his content.

And then one windy morning a gypsy man entered the bar. He had travelled from the north to pick up a new fiddle, as his had been lost in a gamble over rummy 3 years before. The badger of a bartender brought him a slender glass of Campari, because he was not merely imbibing (which he had given up years ago) but taking his medicine, for the healing of both body and soul.

After his fourth glass he addressed the mirror. At first she didn’t know the gypsy could hear her, usually she spoke so softly even the others could not hear and besides, he was a man. No human had ever heard them, EVER. But she had been screaming at the bar stools and the countertops, the soda guns and the coasters. She was fed up with the vodka bottles and the wine glasses and the tiles beneath the moaning rubber mats because they were in the most ridiculous frenzy and had been such since the night before.

Just a mere 12 hours earlier, a young couple had sat groping and molesting one another right where the gypsy sat now, hunched over his half empty glass. The couple, in their un-intimate lust had taken notice of Frank. The female squealed at his ugly, his misshape, his lack of form, but somehow, strangely, his character, such character. They asked the bartender, what was he? As usual the answer, “that’s a drawing, nobody knows what it is, can be anything you like I suppose.” And Frank beamed with pride and the bar went crazy with agitation.

Although the mirror was buffered by decades of dust and tar it was not enough to keep all of the moaning and complaining out. When the gypsy had entered everyone took up again in a severely heightened cacophony of disgust and misery. She could no longer withstand the onslaught and bellowed out to them “SHUT UP ALREADY, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SHUT UP!”. It was this outburst that had stirred the gypsy to respond to her plea with the knowing of a blinded but wise stranger.

He said in a wheeze while looking into his glass, “Must you? My mother is dying. She lies on her death bed as you scream.”

“Me?” the mirror was quite taken aback.

“You, mirror. Must you?”

The rude and emasculated barstool responded “Well buddy, your mother isn’t here, is she now?”

“No” the gypsy said “but she is here” and he touched his hand lightly to his heart.

“Oh he’s sentimental”, said the straw.

“Its sweet” countered the mirror. “And I apologize, but I did not think you would hear me, no human ever hears us. “

“I hear the voices of everything. I often do not eavesdrop though. You were hard to ignore.”
And the mirror blushed and said “I am sorry for your mother, and for you sir. If I’ve shown disrespect I apologize. We have known loss, all of us”

The gypsy looked up at her for the first time with his scarlet nose and bloodshot eyes, he smiled a crooked yellow and said “Thank you for your kindness, it is rare and appreciated. What might I do for you in return?”
There was a moment of silence and then in unison, everything in the bar responded for the mirror, who remained silent, “Kill Frank. Burn him, shred him; destroy him.”

“Who is Frank?” asked the Gypsy.

“It is me” said Frank.

The gypsy looked up at the small drawing that had been scribbled in haste years before by a passing customer. The bartender at the time, amused by his ugly, tacked Frank up above the mirror not realizing what he was doing to the depressed solidarity of the bar.

It had been chaos ever since.

“Why do they want you destroyed?” The gypsy asked, quite intrigued.

“I am happy” said Frank “I like what I am.”

“And this is a problem?” the gypsy asked the mirror.

“It is” she said without explanation, reflecting his inquiry back to him with the silence of that which is, yet cannot be justified.

And the gypsy looked at Frank for quite some time. Frank understood if the ragged man had to kill him, he would go to his end willingly with the resigned understanding that his life would one day end as suddenly as it began. But that would not be the case.

The gypsy leaned back and pulled his fiddle up to his chin, ran the bow across the strings letting out a mystifying whine and smiled “I can give you life”

The room grumbled confusion with undertones of jealousy. But not Frank, Frank answered with calm knowing, “I have life.”

“But I can pull you from the page, make you flesh.”

“Then I would not be what I am.”

“No, you would be much more. You could move about, you could dance, run. Leave.”

“No thank you.”

The gypsy was speechless. The mirror shrugged. The room waited, bristling with anticipation. The last lick of the red elixir slid down the glass into the man’s thin dried lips and as he set the empty gently on the bar he admitted “I can not destroy another’s work of art. I will not do that. You have to ask something else of me.”
And the ink pen mumbled.

“What?” everyone was curious, as ink pens rarely spoke; they were far too active and felt slightly above small talk.

“Draw something else” said the pen “If you can of course”.

“Why?” screamed the group.

“Because then he (Frank) may not be so proud, he will have competition. Knock him down a peg or two. Let him know how it feels.”

“Yes!” they cried.

And the gypsy played a bit more on his new fiddle and thought about their request. Eventually he placed his instrument down and picked up the pen, pulled forth a napkin and sketched for a while. When he was done he turned the napkin over, finished his last drink, set some money on the bar and left. The tension was painful. The sound of the fiddle playing outside vibrated through them as it trailed off into the distance.
“What is it?” they begged of the pen, the napkin. The pen was silent, the napkin wept.

The bartender cleared the glass and took the change. He wiped down the bar and was about to drop the napkin into the trash when he noticed there was something drawn on one side. He studied it for a moment and then went to a drawer, drew out a tack and stepping on a stool, reached above the mirror and placed it beside Frank.

As the hands of the bartender withdrew and revealed what the gypsy had drawn the room gasped and wailed. A shudder of horror rang through their collective mass.

“Hello Frank” was the first thing she said. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m Francis.”

That moment was the first time Frank had ever felt love.

And he felt sorry for the others, their misery now doubled, there was nothing he could do for them. No matter how he felt, how much joy, sadness, love or anger, the others would always be mad, always be jealous, so why not delight?

It was not until many years later that they learned what the gypsy had actually done. When the love faded and familiarity set in, the nagging, dissatisfaction, blame and annoyances took hold and soon Frank, like the others, was hurled into the melodrama of another, ripped from his moors of contentment. He had forgotten who he once had been, how he had once felt.

Now he knew their misery all too well, the displeasure of being encroached onto him as it had them, his smile had faded and his heart ached a hollow he could not have imagined. It was only then, that the tiny basement bar beneath the lonely fiddle shop, once again knew peace.

The Bully

2010-10-12T08:21:00.000-07:00

Photo taken and provided by Ronnie Bullets - 9/6/10

She bit at the skin under her filthy fingernails until they oozed. Her hair was a basket filled with sticks and dried leaves as the onset of winter threatened before her. The sun was still warm here, the ground cool but comfortable. Her blood tasted refreshing, even one drop at a time.

Scrape, pull, bite, pick, more flesh pushed aside. She knew it was going to make every touch she would have in the near future deliciously painful. She couldn’t stop. It was keeping her still, hiding at the base of some god, or war hero or politician from an era where they wore sandals and carried scepters and didn’t seem to know how to tailor their clothes. Her breathing shallow, bite, pull, tear. If she kept her movements just about her face, her body wouldn’t give her away. The rustle of the leaves beneath her rubber soles wouldn’t betray her as long as she focused on her fingertips.

Pain spiked through her arm and into her brain where the memories of last night hid. Already an army of street sweepers were finding a closet to ferret them away to, a super secret room to permanently lock away the screaming and the fear and the awful. Comfort settled in the knowing that in no time at all she would not remember where the tear in her shirt had come from, a twig, a rusted nail. It would soon be just another mishap she could not account for. She would soon be unable to understand why her body was covered in black paint, that it had burned as it splashed back at her.

But at this moment she knew.

She recalled every detail. Hurry, she thought, hurry, up there. If the memories didn’t disappear soon she would have to sleep outside, burying herself under leaves and dirt as she had done only a few times before when it took too long to clear her mind.

And they moved closer to her corner of the graveyard, their many footsteps and heavy breathing cut off by the occasional, “We're going to find you” and “Come out” “We won't hurt you”. Her teeth gripped enough skin for her to peel back three layers. Her delight and pain were enough to seal the door closed. The lock was firmly in place. She admired the raw flesh of her index finger. She pointed up to the tree and to the bearded fellow above her with accusation. See what you’ve done? And the face of the snotty nosed ugly Tommy Helfinger popped his head around the statue who would no longer protect her after her accusation.

Tommy’s yellow teeth jutted out of his upper lip battling over top of one another offsetting the bright speckle of his freckled face. The tops of his hands were black from something she vaguely recognized as paint and it made her giggle.

“You’re dirty Tommy Twisted Teeth” she said as she jumped up and ran away from him. The others were broken up throughout the graveyard looking for her. She dodged and darted around on her untied canvas sneakers. She should have tied them she thought as a stick grabbed hold and went along for the ride. Beth Gillberger was standing in front of her all mean and ugly, her face flattened by a frying pan when she was still in her mother’s womb. She screamed in a blood curdling act “What happened to your face??” and then laughed hysterically as she turned and ran back towards Tommy.

The kick that brought her down was from Bo, as it always was. He would grab her hair and slam her blond head into a gravestone until she stopped fighting while the others watched. Bo apologized to them as he always did, his eyes hollow and sad. There had been a time where he would say something to make them feel better, but it was futile now. He glanced at John’s broken arm as he dragged his sister home holding a clump of the beautiful mess that was her hair. Victoria still wore an eyepatch from the last attack, Gregor a scar across his cheek.

Bo hung his head in shame. He should drop her from the St Hill Bridge. She would never survive the churning water below as the rains had just filled it to overflowing. And he looked down at her face, the beautiful round face of what looked like innocence. He couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to hurt her. And so he dragged on as the children watched in silence, standing as a numbed crowd in the arched iron entrance leading away from the cemetery.

There was a calm amongst them, a quiet resolve that they had finally learned how to handle this, together, as a team. They would no longer ask for help from the adults who always, no matter how many witnesses, would inevitably blame them, saying it was somehow their fault they had broken a bone, cut their flesh and bruised their bodies. They felt their bond growing, strengthening. A strange and quiet appreciation for the little blonde haired monster came over them as they watched her tiny sneakers bump over the cracks in the sidewalk, their sidewalk.

And Bo glanced back at the children when he reached the steps of their home. Tommy waved first, then Bridgette, then Victoria and Bobby and Brian. They smiled and waved to Bo. They wanted him know it was all right, that it wasn’t his fault and that they were no longer afraid of her, because they had each other. They had each other, and they had him.

Bertrund at the End of the World

2010-10-11T06:39:00.000-07:00

Photo Provided by Julia Othmer on September 4th, 2010

Bertrund was the last. He had seen the coming of the end, the winds and the rain and the ocean wide fires that ravaged the world around him, everything, every one. He was floating at the time, humming to himself a French nursery rhyme his mother used to sing to him when he screamed colicky into the night. Ah les crococo, les crococo, les crocodiles, he imagined the crocodiles roaming the earth gulping every bit into their gaping jagged mouths. Ah les crococo, les crococo, les crocodiles…

And he slept.

And when he awoke it was all over. The ground below was scorched and barren. Where the waters had been were now cracked and empty mountains and valleys. He floated a bit north to see what had become of the house he grew up in. There was only a mark in the earth, reddened from the clay that never kept the winds out. He felt that now was a time for sorrow, but the crocodile song would not stop playing in his head and he blew himself away, in search of this insistent monster. If there was anything left living, it must be this prehistoric reptile. After all, they’d been through this before.

And on the lips of a heated wind, he blew to Africa, but the ground was a vacuum twisting only occasionally with the charred remains of a once golden desert. No dragons roamed here, no scaled and leathered beasts. Ah les crococo, les crococo, les crocodiles, so he blew to Australia.

When he arrived in Australia he heard something he had not heard before. It was a young man’s voice, a child. And he followed the strange sound twisting back and forth until he saw him. The boy was sitting in a baby pool filled with sand and money. Bertrund cleared his throat and the child looked up, his lips chapped, his cheeks the red of apple. Bright black orbs closed and opened in apparent relief. And the dialogue began but Bertrund could not understand. Being eager to communicate, he sung the only thing he could at the time.
Ah les crococo, les crococo, les crocodiles.

The child smiled and pushed with pudged hands and wrinkled knees to his feet. He opened his mouth and screamed. Not the bone-chilling scream of anger or pain, nor the wail of the lost or lonely but a new sound. A sound, which rolled like cream and caramel through the hot air turning sand into glass. As abruptly as the scream began, it ended. The boy looked up at Bertrund, smiled and pointed into the distance. Spinning on his axis Betrand nearly fell out of the sky as he gasped when he saw the giant beast walking on four legs, trailed by it’s massive swaying tail.

There it was, the crocodile.

Bertrund blinked in disbelief. How had this child survived with a crocodile so nearby? The boy spoke once again; a sound Bertrund still could not decipher. In confusion, he chose to respond with another nursery rhyme. Bah Bah Black sheep. And the child let out a giggle, screamed and jumped up and down pointing with both fingers in the direction of a sudden baaahhhing. There on the ridge at some distance was a black sheep; this of course was noticed by the crocodile as well, who changed his trajectory towards the baying animal.
The child looked back at Bertrund who shook his head in disbelief and quite without thinking blurted out, fee fie foe fum… and the little person clapped his hands and howled in joy as a beanstalk blasted out of the arid earth and blew past Bertrand knocking him clear across the sky, which was lucky for him because the Giant who fell would have smashed him into tiny bits.

This is how Bertrand and the strange little boy came to repopulate the world.

And that children, is why we have old women living in shoes and castles teaming with sleeping servants, angry fairies, trolls beneath every bridge and cowardly dragons. The unicorn you are so accustomed to seeing everywhere was only a figment of an artists’ imagination in a bygone world. And I, Bertrund, now lie wilted and old, a forgotten witness to a land where gingerbread men were eaten and pancakes were stacked, only rolling and laughing in the minds of babies as their mothers read to them. But it was I who brought this world to life and I leave you now, with the undying hope that there will be another dreamer amongst you. A dreamer you will need, when the time comes for the world to crumble again, which it surely will, as all things do.

Walking

2010-09-27T09:49:00.000-07:00

Photo Provided by Brea Bee on September 3rd, 2010

Diana was feeling nervous. The air was crisp and cold and the floor felt brittle at the end of her wooden legs. The people had been gone for months. The floor littered with spools of thread who had fallen from clumsily packed bags in their mad rush to leave. They had gathered as much as they could carry, the female one, silently crying. It was evident from the separation in the coarse white powder on her nose that she had been like this for some time. They had locked the door behind them, the bell long removed so as not to beg attention. That was the last time Diana would see them. It was also the last time she had been warm.
A shudder ran through her spine as she threw the first peg forward. It was always apparent to her that she could move, but had never tried, had never needed to. And it came slowly at first, one after the other, her breath visible as she struggled to make her way to the front. To the window. It would take the night at this pace, one step, heave, next step, heave. It was late last night that she made the decision, after 14 years. Fourteen years behind the whirring iron of the weaving machines, through the secretive conceal of the maroon curtain, hidden away from the public eye. Diana had always been proud. Angry that her beauty was hidden, the delicate loveliness in her intricate details. It was pure foolishness to keep covering her up. After all, wasn’t the point of her to entice? To beckon? To reveal?
She was moving quite fast in her new found comfort and stoic determination when she slipped on a caste off swath of silk. Frighteningly she tap danced backwards watching the window fall farther away, her dream flashing into oblivion. Her scream woke the dead, until she was caught, just below her buttocks, by a giggling old desk, more than happy to have caught her there. She’d been set back 5 paces. But it was better than falling, getting up would be nearly impossible as she had no arms and her legs had no bend. She pushed off the now excitedly wheezing mahogany. He was shaking such that pens fell to the ground, papers fluttered and the ink gushed and spilled from it’s well. She ignored him. It was the window she wanted. The embrace of the window, where the rays of sun could finally reach her, warm her frigid body in front of the world, in front of men.
She was panting now and sweating a bit under her exertion. Her panties clung tighter than ever before as she continued on, meandering around the fallen furniture, the discarded dresses, torn, raped. The empty casings of cushions with their guts strewn about, had long since lost hope. But not her, her window was within reach and he called out to her, encouraging, her excitement mounted. The Dawn of morning rippled in and held out it’s golden gloved hand to help her up to where she belonged, in the light, on display.
Diana burst inside as she fell into the embrace and reveal of his glistening virtuous panes. If there was music, it played for her now, violins, violas, cellos. Their bows running along the hairlike fingers of their strings drawing the light and the attention, sweet, sweet attention to her beauty. And she closed her eyes and listened and felt the sun crawl through her body, warming places she had never known could be warmed. She was finally where she belonged, twirling in blissful satisfaction, her tassels tickling the glass, beating rhythmically along his frame.
But it was not to last long.
A small boy was running past and glanced at her, immediately stopping in his tracks. He was stunned, in awe at her lack of modesty. A piercing shot rang out sending him fleeing away down an alley. An alley she now noticed was littered with debris and rubble. Diana took notice for the first time at what lie outside the window. She could see the walls now; the painted signs of hate and disgrace. The buildings quivered in fear; a fear she had been safe from in the hollow of the back corners of the shop. Her heart sank and fell as the window panes began to weep in the shadow of the arriving clouds. Clouds who barreled over one another to gawk at her. In their haste and excitement they blocked out the warmth of the sun and the cold resumed as an accompaniment to the rhythm of the approaching soldiers. Several tiers of uniformed wind up toys seemed to can-can past in unison intent on their mission, focused only on their purpose, this stomping. She held her breath in hope but they took no notice, the window doing his best to hide her behind his veil of sadness.
As with all novelties, eventually the clouds lost interest and dispersed, grumbling a bit but satisfied. Diana adjusted herself in anticipation of the new admirers who were to come. The sun reappeared as a flicker, much lower now, tingling about bouncing off this and penetrating that. And as the light dipped away into the clattering of gunfire it said goodbye, as if it knew what was to come. The now visible flash of heated bullets cracked at the brittle bricks who had given in to their destiny long ago, even before the people had fled. The last ping rang out an echo of victory and the marching resumed. It was just practice now anyway, most everyone had already fled, leaving only rats and cockroaches as targets.
And then the soldiers
stopped
to admire.
It was a look she had always been able to feel, even through vicious scowls. They imagined her silken tassels dancing about, inviting them in, on the rosy hips of their dream girl. The braided cloth they would run their coarse and stained fingers along. She delighted in their gaze only to be caught completely off guard when one of them rage-fully grabbed his gun and destroyed her beloved. His shattered glass showering her in a last attempt to protect. It was with haste and anger that the soldier ripped the heavy cloth that lie around her and gathered it in his arms. It was then that she saw the change in his look. The anger and hatred he felt for himself for admiring, for indulging in her. It would take him years to cleanse himself of his thoughts, to think, him entertaining these thoughts at the provocation of a, and he spits as the thought flitters across his mind, a jew. It was enough to sicken him and as the cloth covered her head, she heard glass shatter behind her.
It took several minutes for her to feel it. The warmth from the fire now engulfing the discarded remnants of a life. And her smile grew as the flames licked at the air around her, the warmth enveloping her perfect body. The panes screamed for help that was certain not to come. She had no need for help; not any longer. She had been to the sun, had been adored, displayed. There was nothing more she needed, she had already won. Her beauty would burn in the minds of those who most hated her, those who had cast her into a permanent cold, alone, to die. Now she would live in the warm desire of their nightmares, twirling provocatively…. eternally.

The Unopened Letter or The Art of Blame

2010-09-24T08:01:00.000-07:00

Image photographed and provided by Beth Wexler on Aug. 27th, 2010

There was an unopened letter, blackened around it’s edges, half soaked in the filth of the trickle of water that passed her on it’s way to the drain. The drain she dangled above. Every car that sped past caused her to flutter ever closer to the abyss leading out to the river, away from the city where she would be lost forever. And as she listened to the depths of the sewer woo her down, she thought with uninterrupted sadness, that she was already lost, failed, an unopened letter lying in the gutter.
She was just inches away from the hand that had lied twitching and dying before her. His hand, so strong, so beautiful; the hand that would never hold her, never open her. And she wept as she thought of him. She felt the drop in her stomach as she had fluttered to the ground, caught by a draft who carried her to where she is now, just out of sight. But she knew that there was no longer a need for her to be found. Her purpose was over. She might as well just take the invitation, drop into the dark water below and float away allowing herself to be broken apart. The words, love and sorry, and I forgive, tearing away as her body weakens in the undeniable strength of the river.
And as this thought made it’s away into her resolve a man approached the corner above her. He stopped and knelt to the place where the chalk had all but been washed away. He touched a bit of the cement where the blood had flowed in scarlet streams from his head, now cleared, now cleaned. The stranger began to weep, his body shaking, his head bowed low, his tears fell and ran their course towards her. He was the brother, his hand the same texture, the same strength and smell. She wanted him suddenly, terribly. She begged the wind and the air and the universe to help her. Help her, just now get to him. And as he wept she pleaded, until the man stood. His body slumped with the weight of loss. His jacket pulled tight around him, in a mournful hug and he turned to leave. Near tears she begged for something, anything to hear her cries. Just this once.
And the bus that roared by answered.
Caught in a hot gust of dirt and glass she flipped up into the air, blew above the lip of the drain and landed, her wet side down, to the toe of his well polished black leather boot. She held her breath as he lifted his foot to continue across the road and noticed her, an unopened letter. He leaned over with sad curiosity, wiped her filth on his outer coat and slid his coarse finger between her folds, drawing apart her delicate creases.
She wept as he read her.
The apology, the string of sorrys fluttered off of her as his eyes tripped across the words. He was not expecting what he read. She was speaking to the messenger, telling of a husband lost in an unnamed place in a horrible war. Her body, an apology, a means to reach forgiveness now lost forever.
His fingers grazed over the curl of her letters of the l in love and f trailing at the end of grief. The b scratched deep into her surface on each repeat of the word blame…. and wrong. Wrong rang out like thunder from a cracking bell tower through the blood filling his head.
And as he read, as he absorbed, she felt relief and pride, a strange satisfaction. Her life was not in vain, had not been for naught, ripped out to sea where her words would be lost forever. And the man wept uncontrollably. Just days before, on the ground where he stood, his baby brother had taken his own life. Burdened and saddened with a war he did not start but he had taken great responsibility for; perhaps the greatest.
As the man walked home, his heart tore deeper than he had ever thought possible. His head swam in the words intended for no-one, a dead man. Weeping alone in his apartment he watched as the letters attached themselves, in that beautiful script, to every cabinet, table and floor; until he was looking around him as if they had risen from the page and burned onto his eyes, a permanent screen over everything he saw and thought… “I am sorry. So sorry to have blamed you. I could not bear to hear of his death. Please forgive me, you were NOT to blame. You were not to blame”

RAMBLING – Just to Write, to practice, so that I can get back to readable

2010-09-23T07:53:00.000-07:00

Ok, so my writing is a bit tawdry…I’m going to improve, bear with me. My face has been leaking for an entire summer and the culprit for all of these tears, the same culprit who always brings tears, change, evolution or de-evolution, propulsion, adjustment. And as painful as some changes may be they do feed my general disposition – I hate to be still. I once had a boyfriend who would grab me by the shoulders and hold me in place, but all that did was internalize the frenzy. It is not the frenzy of thoughts, the way meditation seeks a quiet channel, it is the frenzy of restless. The kinetic eternal wind tunnel of moving atoms, both crashing about just under my skin, deep into my tissue and orbiting my body inches away.

If I were to stand still for too long, I would probably spark. And it could be a problem, randomly catching a curtain aflame, this is why traffic jams are so dangerous. Although television seems to solve the dilemma, zombifying me into a pleasant drool. Perhaps the restless is what makes me appreciate life the way I do. Appreciate that there are depths I will never know but continue to swim towards. It is this energy that keeps me from the bends, from turning around to swim back up, to sedentary, to listless. I know these words are negative, I could have used calm or serene, but that is not what I feel in those places.

And I have been dreaming. My dreams grow out of the ground like magic vines, their skin breaking apart and dropping apartment buildings and skyscrapers, mountains and abandoned houses like tiny seeds that stick into the crumbled earth below and begin to generate offspring themselves. Above this lies a grid where a game will sit, there is always a game in the dreams, as in life. And it is not the type of game you play as if at a console in an arcade in a dated place in a summer lake town, with quarters.. quarters. The past sometimes has more life than the present. In the past colors seem brighter, smells are more potent.

The dreams have games that take tidbits of my day / week / life and place them together, creating more nonsense than already exists, socks, swimming, shotguns and mescalin, murderous hooved men and hippies, frightening little girls who offer you poisoned sweets and severed fingers. I wake up in the morning, look around and dive back inside. I close my eyes and break apart, sometimes a participant, others a moviegoer. I was asked yesterday, what I wanted. My answer… adventure. She asked if I had that in Philadelphia, I said, yes, I’m there. It wasn’t snotty, it was simple, It’s the way I dream. Some people play video games, some people do drugs, drive fast, walk through gettos late at night, skydive. It seems all I have to do is go back to sleep, think about dreaming and fall. Life is very much like that. You just have to show up, think about it and fall. I mean, we’re all destined to hit the ground hard and permanently at some point anyway. So why not throw yourself off the cliff and out of the window… practice.

And as for this writing thing, sorry if you showed up here for wisdom or entertainment, but I’m unable to provide either at the moment. I’ll keep diving down though… eventually I’ll catch something with jagged teeth that glows bright enough.

INANIMATE – The Point of this Fiasco

2010-09-22T09:47:00.001-07:00

SO, I wanted to start this blog because the only consistent vein running through my sordid and figuratively nomadic life is my desire to write (and of course the never ending need for attention and subsequent irritation with the attention I had irrationally longed for, maybe that too).

I want to tell stories, big stories with complex twists and dichotomous characters whose tumultuous gray blood drives them to both the very good and the very wicked. Perhaps it was the ditty my mother would repeat ad nauseum, with a snicker, when describing me – “when she was good, she was very very good. But when she was bad she was horrid“. On the basis of course, that every thing living circles within a positive and negative (and I tend to think everything is living, maybe not breathing, but living, decomposing / morphing.. blah blah change ). Some days we’re positive, taking time out for the telemarketer and the malevolent beggar and, frankly, some days you kick the kitten, just because.

I ALSO want to tell TINY STORIES. Stories that are finished just as they’ve begun, like some thoughts, like some relationships, like some lives. Beth Wexler, a name you will soon read about in art rags; has a book about song writing. She pointed out an interesting exercise to me when I was ranting about my thorny relationship with creativity. It was very simple:

Wake up, look around, pick an object and write a story about it.

HOLY F-N SHIT – soooooo strange what a rug, a discarded dog toy, plastic lilies and a screen printed deep sea diver will tell you. Their lives are incredible. Their stories, both traumatic and endearing, sad and enlightening. I wanted this to become habit. But habits are slimy little twats when you want them, of course when they are unwanted they behave as buggering bastards who clamp themselves to your behind like bulbous barnacles and make every squat a dance maneuver.

This is where you, the beloved, the adored, the longed for reader come in. For what other reason would we write? I mean, there is that old detail about purpose and the fact that if I don’t write I often think bridges are nice places to take afternoon swims from, but to what REAL purpose is there, if not You?

I will say this now, for the first time ever, laying it out for the universe, some melanoma patients and a garbage collector or two…. I want more than anything to be read…… and I may have the hook.

I do not know whether I will be skilled enough to keep the catch. This will come down to talent and my general ability to stand on my head and balance a Vietnamese baby on my left foot.

So here is the barbed and rusted twist of metal dangling from my line:
YOU PROVIDE THE OBJECT, I PROVIDE ITS TINY STORY

You as the beginning of the story, not the end. It will be your story of course, all written words are the readers story. Else they would be merely pixels, dull little, depthless b&w pixels, no grays, no delicious inbetweens. I cannot promise the writing brilliant, I have been out of practice. I have been working on screenplays who are of a different sort, they are owned by a different audience, where, if not made into films, die the same death as the unread word.

PRISCILLA – A SPRINKLE TALE

2010-09-22T09:30:00.000-07:00

Photo provided by Aaron Seiz on July 24th, 2010

Not all colorful jimmies have enjoyable personalities. Most are devilishly cheery with just a very few being bitter and hostile, harrumphing about their days in a grumble and a sneer. The latter mocked and toyed, but accepted by the others in sprinkle solidarity. Then there was Priscilla. And even in their amicable judiciousness, Priscilla was at her very very best, unbearable.

You see, Priscilla was afraid to die.

And as founded or unfounded the fear of death may be, it has the ability to make one a completely monstrous irritant. Priscilla was a whimperer, a tittering tottering ball of anxiety, a crumbling crying coward. And although this did not fair well for her assumed occupation, it was far worse for her jovial companions.

There was a shared belief with her jarmates that they were being tested by the Gods, that if they could remain cheery and jimmy-esque in the midst of Priscilla’s presence, they were destined for fame. This dream would be dashed when a tiny tanned woman brought them home to please her her husband with her baking talents.
But not to be daunted the jimmy’s giggled and twirled as they landed one by one onto the frosting above the moist and tolerant cupcake. And at the first possible opportunity, those who had to share their treat with Priscilla, immediately pushed her off. Cheering and laughing the happy jimmies wished her well in her misery as long as she were properly out of earshot. But she wasn’t.

She landed just beneath the lip of icing, atop the cooling chocolate. Her muffled misery almost, but not completely out of earshot. Priscilla now took to sobbing, lonely and scared that her moments were numbered, the end almost upon her. She sat helpless and mortified in the shadows, listening to the others sing in their shrilling voices, causing the panic to push her further into madness.

It was late on a Sunday. Everyone had gone to sleep and the jimmy’s were snoring now. Priscilla sat, wide eyed, breathing sporadically, her throat swollen with fear when she heard him. The man, the husband, approached like a thief, whisking off the plastic dome and in a single motion engulfed half the cupcake like a giant hippo. The jerk and thrust of the ride from the counter to the mustachioed man’s face was so unexpected and delightful to the others that their squeals of joy drowned out Priscilla’s bloody scream as she fell from the safe netting of the paper wrapping to the canyon below; landing on the glistening linoleum, between the pomp of his loafers and the dark underbelly of the refrigerator, alive. And just as she went to breath a sigh of relief the lofty loafer, turned and butted her clean beneath the heaving mammoth of the clunking cluttering refrigerator.

Where she sat.

For 50 years.

Her muttering grew quiet as time passed, her mouth hardened and permanently closed as her body atrophied. Approximately 20 years in to her shadowy, quiet existence, beneath the flatulent dribbling beast, Priscilla began to wish for death.

She dreamt of an end, visualizing the last of a bit of string, puffs of smoke that flutter and fade, the close of a book, the roll of the credits. She filled her days and nights with images of closure. The small sound of a tiny voice repeated the sweet word “goodbye” in her head.

And in her little existence, the sprinkle who was so very afraid of death that she alienated herself from all other sprinkles, spent every second of every day pleading with the universe to die.

Until the house was destroyed.

Crossed off the map; refrigerator, counter top and all. But Priscilla didn’t die. She moved with the rubble from place to place, stuck fast between horse hairs and porcelain until they found a permanent location for her; somewhere in a state where backs are turned and land is cheap. She became just another speck in a landscaped inorganic mound of garbage and decay. Somehow she rested at the top, above the belly of the beastly land fill, her color now faded to a withered pink. She felt free, tired and free. She was certain the universe had heard her, certain this was a curtain call.

And then she sat for another 5 years.

Until a bird flew down and ate her.

And one would have expected Priscilla at the end of her rope, bird juice, broken down into so many little tiny crystals that the Priscilla the world knew would be obliterated forever.

But that was not the case.

The time she’d spent beneath the refrigerator, in the rubble and then in the landfill had hardened such that the bird could not digest her.

And on a sunny day in June a small child was shat on as he walked, hand in hand, with his grandfather who so many years ago, had slovenly eaten a cupcake and unknowingly answered the wish of a very young and terribly naive sprinkle named Priscilla.

DSB 8-15-08

2008-09-27T19:26:00.000-07:00

DSB 8-15-08

2008-09-27T14:26:00.000-07:00

FINALLY what's happenin Drunk Spelling / Photo Exhibits / DVD

2008-09-12T23:00:00.000-07:00

AB-BA-ZA-BA

2008-05-09T10:09:00.001-07:00

We are in the midst of a million little particles moving violently at one another.... feels real nice!

Anyway while we are upgrading our websites please go to our May 2008 newsletter for the latest.

UPDATES on the NEWSLETTER: We are canceling the Philly Boot camp at the end of May

BE SURE TO VISIT THE DRUNKEN SPELLING BEE

sweetbreadstudios and UNCUT newsletter 3.24.08

2008-03-24T14:02:00.000-07:00

GO HERE FOR COMPLETE NEWSLETTER

With a Wiffle Ball Bat

2008-03-04T14:51:00.000-08:00

So the hot blond won last night, (she kind of looks like a little Catharine O'Hara with that lost look Anna Nicole Smith had when she was all pilled out talking about her pink comforter). Her name had to be "Candy" or "Buffy" or no.... no... I'm hung over and Dawn (the angry elf/leprechaun) just told me one better, the winner's name was JOSSY - oh yeah.... jossy..
I kind of stole her glory a little at the end b/c NICOLE SANTIAGO decided the next Bee she's judging and TONY SPECTACULAR is going back on the stage... it's gonna be brutal Tony, she's comin after ya - better darken that ink.

Buzzy Rogerio in light of the summer like weather held a street game of wiffle ball, I think some chicks hit a bus and broke the bat, which was gaffed back together for continued (in-between spelling bee rounds and cars) mostly tragic batting (although Santiago can fuckin pitch - don't blame her your drunk ass can't hit a plastic ball filled with air).

No-one got hit by a car, but I believe there was police intervention - feel free to correct me at any point.
..
CHICKIE and BUZZY were fucking brilliant, per usual…. Some goddam paper is going to recognize us at some point… for christ sakes at least list our fucking event – dicks (I'm salty).

So the brothers were back together - after Buzzy's long sojourn around the southern pacific. The sexy JORDAN STALSWORTH (Scotty apologizes for getting beer in your eye) and TONY SPECTACULAR were dedicated judges along with AMY SHAFER (bitch needs to move back to Philly and help lead The Tina Yother's Army with us).

I have a correction from last night, the pollock's name is Kendig, not Kenrick and if I give him access to the drunk spelling myspace he's gonna put 102 picture of himself up there, but maybe someone will pay attention to it on a regular basis. And Pubes' real name is Collin and he brought out his balls last night, which was unnecessary.

Mike Mesa was a hero handling the door (gotta remember to get beers to him). Lucky stirred the pot, I think Brown played one new song and Butchie made a late night guest appearance. Paul, Wex, Scotty and Ron had dueling cameras which made the night feel like a coked up paparazzi sports event and Dawn of course made sure it all happened – AND remembers what happened.

Nicole S and the judges had a late night rendition of 'I wanna be a toys r'us kid' b/c apparently buzzy was feeling nostalgic and Nicole does look a lot like the kid in the 80's commercials.

Drunkspelling.com and sweetbreadstudios.com and uncutproductions.org are all merging into one bad ass little entity and have brought in some new blood, last night, PAUL from PHILTHY.US joined (we're all shocked and really fucking thrilled to have him as one of The Tina Yother's Army), JORDAN and COSMO also jumped on ship (expect to see a DSB webisode late in 2008). Now we just have to get Shafer to move back to Philly.

Mike Z said he would be in our Fringe show (Disaster the Musical) as a dancer and that he'd do it w/o clothes…. He's insane for telling us that by the way.

Wexler and I are afraid we won't have a choreographer for the Fringe show, so we've been practicing our dance moves so that she can manage that aspect. Jordan taught us the eatin chicken wings shimmy and I think it took us 20 minutes to get down one block on our way home b/c we had to keep stopping to dance… I also believe I tackled her at one point between 16^th and 17^th (I blame it on the warm weather).

I head butted a few people and Kendig didn't get in a fight with the adorable graffiti kid (who's name I should know but don't).

HINT: next month is April, the month of the holy event the Jews call passover (actually the Jews probably call it something else with a sach (like"Pesach" or some shit) AND and it's the DSB anniversary!!!!!!! Passover and drunk spelling, it's like they were meant for each other.

DON'T FORGET DSB NEXT WEEK: Barbary TUES 11^th

And

Bringin the Bee to the Bee's at SILK CITY on TUES 25^th

Ok- I just hit a serious wave of nausea, so I'm done

go to drunkspelling.com and philthy.us for media from all the events

Drunken Spelling Oct. 1st

2007-10-05T12:50:00.000-07:00

Tony Spectacular won again and will move onto become a judge in November. The Rogerio Brothers, I only have one word for.... PRICELESS. Scotty was focused, so if you were there, I'm sure we have great footage of you. I pissed off "the bad-ass white guy" from Turbostation, but found a great deal of love for the rest of them (the muslim, the jew and I think the other guy was a Puerto Rican?) anyway, Desiree helped with the judging table, Wexler manned the camera, Brown held the house and Dawn displayed one of the best applause signs outside of the Price is Right.
For some reason the PW and CP won't list us in the free listings, why I don't fucking know, what the hell else is going on on Monday besides mr Amorosi?? Huh?
I was unruly with my water, and if you were soaked I apologize, I was really drunk (and missed my flight the next morning).
There you have it... I will try and actually pay more attention next time.
If anyone gets a hold of the Temple news article on the bee, let us know.
Keep Drinking - Cheers.

LABOR DAY DRUNKEN SPELLING

2007-09-05T12:53:00.000-07:00

Amy Madgar and Angry Mike.... perfect combination for the Rogerio Brothers to bounce off of... It was a mellow crowd and Tony Spectacular took it home... we can no longer give away beer, so the new prize is 50 bucks. Next month... I have a feeling is the event to be at... just a feeling.And on the 17th get yer asses over to the Troc with A.D. and Needles for a special little drunken spelling in the balcony (2 cases of beer is still the prize at this one)... in the meantime... check out Assembly Junior High UNCUT's fringe show and start hunting for a set of wheels for the triassalon on the 22nd... anything that is not a bicycle will do... shopping cart? wheelbarros? tricycle? big wheel?Whatever... in conclusion:UNCUT walked away undamaged... all this means is something is brewing...

DRUNKEN SPELLING BEE AUG 6th, I just became really nauseous

2007-08-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

So, this is what I hear (b/c I had too many shots and don’t remember anything)

Last night’s drunken spelling bee was the best ever, Scotty fell off the table at least twice, Beast Infection judged, and if you know Beast Infection then you’ve probably seen the beer hats and the yellow plastic suits. Take those four fellas place a tub of cold PBR within reach and well, your judges are more or less incoherent before the first round is over.

Bob And Barbara’s won The Best of Philly 2007 for best competitive bar event “The Drunken Spelling Bee”. Comcast on demand has 5 minute spot so maybe the 12 people who saw the Comcast spot showed up, and I think schools getting ready to start so those eager little darlings are back. By 9:30 we had 23 people signed up. I think (fuzzy before it even began) we had about 37 total spellers.

We started the game off with The Rogerio Brother’s f-n dynamite commercial for the event, featuring Tony Spectacular looking a little like a small white Mr. T ready to kill someone. We showed a couple of Rogerio spots and the Eye of the Tiger trailer (I know b/c I heard it) and DJ browntown(rodeo) gave the Beast boys something to dance to. Brown, who for the first time did not judge, was able to hang out and drink . Wexler who was not forced to sit at the table and man an overload of equipment also was able to drink, observe and carry around stealth camera and catch the tiny details that I will regret.

Apparently I let the judges drink the winners 2 cases, but as luck has it, the winner is the beer reps roommate, so he’s in luck. I woke up today with an unidentifiable road rash covering my knee and a ripped pair of pants. I know I tackled someone, It’s almost noon and I still haven’t found out who it was.

Mark appeared a little late in the evening (which means he was not quite as damaged as the rest of us) and with clear eyes could see how close our equipment comes to death by beer every stinking event.

In summary….

The fucking Rogerio Brothers are amazing and genius, Beast Infection came and conquered as I knew they would. Scotty was clearly one of the main attractions and Dawn was the only sane person, per usual, making the whole show happen (and I think will be the only person who we will have to seriously consider postponing if she’s unavailable as none of us are mature enough to make it to the end alive). And apparently I kept everyone in shots.

I learned a very important lesson last night:

a. I am a little too nice when I’m drunk (but because I have the maturity level of a 7 year old, my adoration could possible come out as a tackle)

b. I should not EVER drink whiskey, I am cutting myself off for life.

There will be an article in the City Paper next Thurs in the EVENTS section

Who's an ASS! The Donkey Party

2007-06-04T15:43:00.000-07:00

Sweating. Staring blankly at partition “wall”. More Sweating. Dripping in fact.

Tiny droplets running from my pits down to the saturated point where my shirt is belted too tightly to my office approved slacks. Meditative Humm of computers and office machines crooning me to dream land. Office machines in hords give off heat waves like desert highways. A Computer at every desk. A Printer on every corner. I type with my elbows elevated to increase the air flow. Chicken typer. Bok-Bok. Balmy air bath. The conditioning unit kicked off at 5PM when the suits escape this place and run downstairs for happy hour. I however am a phantom. A creepy after-hours officer of the all too corporate non-profit arts.

I sit in my cubicle on the tenth floor, two aisles away from any sort of window with a view, along with the other rejects. Part timers. Interns. Transients. But they too leave at 5pm. All except for the guy who does group sales and pretty decent impressions of the three stooges. At least that’s what he tells me. My view consists of Metro shelving stacked with bullshit. 12 cases of unused 2006 envelopes. 16 Stacks of beautifully printed color brochures from last season. The shelves replete with overstock that will be discarded at the end of the month. End of season. End of the Fiscal year. They over ordered again. All this propaganda is from a direct mail campaign asking people for money to support the arts. The money came pouring in. Approximately 3 million dollars from people just like you and me. $100 bucks here and $50 there. 3 million dollars. 3 fucking million fucking dollars. This heat is making me nuts. Drip. Drip. Both pits at once. A droplet race. Left side arm pit wins!

The cubicle next to me is filled with family photos. A postcard from a play my office mate was in. Two posters from the Musicals she loves. Bulletins full of hysterical office humor shit like, “Thank god it’s Monday” and notices from amazing events like “Casual Friday” or “Office Cinco-De- Mayo” Last time I checked Cinco De Mayo was celebrated by getting wasted and going to a random titty bar in Tijuana. Not by wearing jeans for a day and ordering Tex-Mex. I don’t hang stuff on my “walls.” I think in order to hang something on a wall you should be able to put a nail in it, not push it over, take it apart or pop your head over it like a Meercat on the lookout for danger which is the way I utilize it. When I pop my head over, I’m on the lookout. Observing the printer (one of 5 industrial machines in my view) Waiting to see if Larry, Moe or Curly observes what I’m illegally outputting.

I guess I should explain that my passion is not utilized at my job. My Job enables me to eat. Pay rent. At least it’s supposed to be an artistic environment here. Why just the other day a girl burst out singing “Tomorrow” from Annie. It’s a relaxed atmosphere on this side of the office. But it is not what I love. Not what I want to do with my life. And soon they are making me full time. I need the benefits.

I am lucky in that I actually do get to do what I want to do when I am not in pseudo corporate America. I just need to keep this job in order to do it. It is the same way with all of us at Uncut. Jena funds most everything we do and she has the most impossible job of all of us. Uber corporate. That’s why I do the printing. I imagine they keep track of copies in her office. Strange to think we are dangling above the street only blocks from each other for a 5 minute overlap each day. 5PM – 5:05. I digress. The machines are taking their toll on my thinking process. Drip.

I’m tired. I need more rest. I just slept the entire rainy weekend away. Saturday morning I woke up: descended the stairs to my couch and slept. Then slept. Then slept. You see Friday night was our Annual Fundraiser. The Donkey Party. Ah yes back to Cinco De Mayo. But no. It was on June 1^st.

The Donkey Party was our yearly attempt at raising money for our Non-Profit organization Uncut Productions. We make independent films, original theatre productions and are in arts of all mediums. The party was a good concept and a change of programming from our first three years. A gallery style setting on First Friday in Olde City. Beer and Wine. Art for sale. Raise some funds. Have a good time. We could relax, hang out, talk to people and not run ourselves ragged like we have in the past. Right? Wrong.

What could go wrong did. More “walls” you can’t put nails in. Art installations never realized for lack of funds and time. The most horrible acoustics in the world making sure everyone in attendance could not decipher an inaudible word as we tried to showcase the movies we have made in our first four years. In the end we had amazing artists with amazing art. Amazing movies and we did have a good time. All of it to raise $1,000.00 dollars.

You should know that $1,000.00 (though not what we had hoped to raise) is a HUGE amount of money for us. Our short film Bunny and Bobo which is in the Gay and Lesbian Film Festival this coming July 2007 was made for $80.00. We at Uncut know how to stretch a dollar. We know how to beg and borrow and beg some more to create what we do. And in the end if we don’t have the money we need, Jena without hesitation kicks in her own. She is the lifeblood of our organization. But this needs to stop.

This Metro shelving unit behind me. 8 shelves of pseudo corporate trash. One shelf of hundreds just like it in my office. This one shelf holds $3,000.00 of printed materials.

$3,000.00 of money from people like you and me which will be thrown in the trash. These 8 shelves of garbage total twice our yearly operating budget. This is why ticket prices are high. This is why even though you buy a ticket to a concert, 60% is underwritten through donations even after paying $100.00 for your ticket. There are organizations like Uncut who actually put money to good use. Know the value of a dollar. Stretch a dollar for all it’s worth and make the arts accessible to people while remaining true to our visions. Raw, Edgy, Creative and Uncut.

This was supposed to be a summary of The Donkey Party which I will now write later because I think I hear Curly coming down the hall. (Meercat Checks for Danger) . It’s Him. I need to sign off.

OH LAWWWD Drunken Spelling

2007-05-15T13:47:00.000-07:00

This will be brief.... as it is the day after.
If you were there, you were probably yelled at, offended, cursed off the stage, witness to a beer can peeing and maybe some of my reliable ass crack.

Quick recap of the nights talented ensemble:
Hosting -
Buzzy Rogerio - Cozmo
Chic Rogerio - Eddie Austin
of Shabadelphia They are geniuses, we love them, we want them back all the time, except they have to play to the fucking camera once in a while.
Judges:
The ever primped and pushed up - Joi Foley who single handedly drank a case of pabst herself (as was noted by the end game swaying)
Jeff "Brown" Cuellar - sometimes DJ BROWN sometimes browntownrodeo (what the fuck does that even mean?) and sometimes the most drunk guy with a microphone - not last night, he was very good last night.
and Shab - also from Shabadelphia - this man was so serious about his job as judge he pissed in a pabst can at the table in order not to interrupt the game... actually he was trapped in the corner and couldn't get out, and yes he did piss in the pabst can, and he promised me he got rid of it.

By the end of the night I was dancing, poorly... Wexler played pinball with her body up the block to the house. There was a winner, I don't even know the gender. We are proud to say, we live mixed the event for the first time ever.... We forgot to press record on the back up camera, but we checked the main tape and luckily, Beth is not as retarded as Mark and I and we captured the whole event. Webisodes coming soon!!!

Dawn stayed sane and sober... and this time didn't let me drive.

Anyway, bizarre world ya'll, our little event made it to a London rag called the Guardian UK...
http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/sport/2007/04/11/fighting_strangulation_and_vom.html:

Please support our efforts and come out to the June1st event THE DONKEY PARTY
Because I spend a LOT of money just keeping people drunk enough to run the game.

Also submit to the FLICKER GARDEN - yada yada movies movies beer garden summer Tiberino's (with an e, not a u)

-posted by an amazingly NOT hung over Jew

UNCUT Today, tomorrow and possibly until George Bush advocates gay marriage

2007-05-02T12:25:00.000-07:00

UNCUT Productions is moving forward. Remember when a couple ragged horses used to drag a giant metal plow through a field behind a man who called his son Skipper? Yeah, neither do we, but that’s what it’s feeling like right about now. Here is our story. Some of this is for you, and some for us. To clarify what it is we’re doing. Deep breath, I smell like Argentinean wine, and here she goes.

Ongoing Events:

Drunken Spelling Bee a call to all Penn Students! We have committed, with full pitchers, to once a month (every 2^nd Monday of the month) entertain ourselves and the sexy bartenders of Bob and Barbara’s to host the Drunken Spelling Bee, which is exactly what it sounds like. You come. You sign up (in time, 9PM). You drink (first one’s on us if you sign up). You spell (hopefully). And if you are smarter than your average Monday night ‘special sipping’ Penn Student and Bob and Barbara’s drunkard you win a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, delivered to your house every week for the month that you are the reigning champion. Often the spelling is followed by a Drunken Dance Party with DJ Brown. We believe that UNCUT crew and cast may become more intoxicated than our participants, if this happens, trust in Jesus.

ACTIVE- Once a Month

The Flicker Garden is a meeting of artistic endeavors to promote the outdoor film night at The Ellen once a week on Wednesday nights throughout the summer. We are calling for submissions! Our goal is to connect serious film makers and artists with each other to network and help each other grow in this lovely little city. Awards will be given at closure and a best of will bid summer goodbye. As is stated on the website, the night is a compendium of works (short/long/experimental/narrative/documentary) submitted, previewed and programmed. For engaging Wednesday evenings outdoors, with wine and other libations, encased in some of the most amazing artwork this city has to offer we will watch, discuss, criticize (constructively), compliment and learn from each other. The Ellen Tiburino Memorial Museum (THE ELLEN) is located at 3819 Hamilton St. Philadelphia, Pa 19104. Details and submission application available at http://uncutproductions.org/submissions.html

Begins May 23^rdthrough the summer

One Night Events:

The Donkey Party, and who in their right mind would not want to go to a Donkey Party? One night only, JUNE 1^st, this may be the only opportunity to see footage never shown before (and may never be again) from the movies of UNCUT over the last five years, that’s right, Mother’s Day sneaks and the characters that didn’t make the time restraints in tba shorts will finally get air time. The night will be programmed and your tickets will cover all movies. So if you’re sick of seeing one, you don’t have to!!!! The other bonus to this little dandy is the alcohol. Watch movies, in a movie theater (kind of) setting, drink, step out and talk, step back in, heckle (we can take it) and have a damn good time. This event is also followed by a drunken dance party with DJ Brown.

June 1^st One Night Only

Short Run Theater

Philly Fringe 2007 – UNCUT will be reviving and reworking the new and Improved Assembly Junior High, a multimedia theatrical bizarre. You remember the braces; you bled through your gym pants and maybe sex ed was more realized in the bathroom with a foreign exchange androgenoid than with the pansy gym teacher who stood too close to your chair. We could be wrong, but that’s how we remember it. The show will be a free spirited romp through the good and bad moments of a time long gone to most of us here at UNCUT. Look for us at the end of the Fringe Festival because in the beginning we have to go off to Burning Man, sorry, but naked desert people, stilt wads and fire retards call.

4 show dates at the end of Philly Fringe 2007 (Sept.)

Editing (It takes so much longer than you think):

Eye of the tiger, the immanent and looming grandiose multi year feature film is in it’s last leg of the post production stage. In our search for a sound engineer and a musician willing to score with a great sense of humor, an animator and a motions graphic clue we are a little beaten up. Rag dolls who are distracted by string, but we know we can do it. We will finish Eye while writing Mother’s Day & The Hatter’s Wives and then the world will see Milk (or at least we will). Milk is a pretty awesome short, shot with a crew in the early years and left unedited for reasons that are not nearly good enough. But we will edit this, we will. Because Bill really believes in it and it may bring us back in touch with Jonny Angel (although it may not) and it will still be worth it regardless.

Eye of the Tiger Release: End of summer 2007, expect a party (or a trip to the emergency room)

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If I’ve forgotten to mention project fireflies (they flicker, they spark, they go out, they come back every year unless the air is too polluted and sometimes, when we’re very lucky someone catches them and keeps them fed):

Fire Retard Dance Workshop – Getting it right. Getting it sexy, and making you feel like you’ve just been smacked on the forehead in a hot Georgian Baptist church, mouthing a wilted, thank you, thank you very much.

Ritalin Theater – Don’t remember this? Neither do we.

Mother’s Day – Remember this? Still working on it, that’s why I’m writing so many blogs. Writing is not easy for people who have trouble thinking.

Scotty Movie – We are all in the dark, I even think he is sometimes.

2 Shot – Experimental, exploratory, workshop of sorts. One Actor, One Image. So far we’ve shot one person. If your interested in acting (professional or not). Give us a schedule. We’ll shoot on your time.

Aires Rising Photos!

2007-04-18T15:56:00.000-07:00

Aries Rising:

2007-04-18T15:03:00.000-07:00

Well it’s been 4 days since our Physical theatre dance piece created for The Philadelphia Experiments (PEX) Party "Aries Rising". I think I have almost recovered. At some time around 7am on Sunday morning I packed up my things and head out of the warehouse into the drizzling cold rain. Behind me about 600 people were still partying in the 10,000.00 square foot playground with 3 dj’spinning out of control. It was a party to remember. As I walked to the train a sigh of relief came over me as, for now, I could rest a few days.

The past month has been an incredible adventure with so many amazing and dedicated people who came together to create the piece. It was a new venture for us, the world of Physical dance-theater, but I believed we rocked the house and opened up ourselves to an art form to explore for years to come. I was so thankful to receive a slew of e-mails the next day praising the piece itself and so many people complimenting Uncut on the quality of people involved.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone involved for:

Dancing way too late in the night every day for rehearsal.

Giving up your nights and weekends.

Dancing in a COLD warehouse.

Pushing the physical limits of your bodies.

Dedication to the reverence of the piece.

Creating moving characters.

Performing naked covered in paint.

Performing with oh so dangerous FIRE!

This experience has opened us up to create a whole new workshop in physical theater over the next year. Cheers! To the future!

Cold and naked

2007-04-18T07:15:00.000-07:00

I was not surprised to find myself freezing and almost completely nude in the middle of a warehouse on Saturday night. In fact this is right up to par with my game in UNCUT. Its four days later by the time I get this loaded as a blog but eh, I’m still covered in white paint and kinda a slacker sometimes.
So almost a month and a half ago yours truly, and several of my beloved team members, gathered in the basement of Last Drop; to discuss what we thought, we should contribute for a large party thrown by Philadelphia Experiment. After bouncing many ideas around the room all I knew was, there would be more meetings. Only a few weeks later things were coming together.
Gina, I think, may have had the hardest job during this whole production. She started with some dance girl that dropped out, Bender an Industrial Designer, Squiddie (she hula hoops with fire), and myself; I guess I’m kinda becoming a renaissance man. The three of us that stuck it out with Gina from the beginning don’t really have “backgrounds in dance”. But we put on a dandy fine show. The best if I do say so myself.
In the end Gina pulled Jackson, Kate, and that one guy whose name escapes me, out of nowhere. Gina found rehearsal space for a million and one rehearsals. She ran us through yoga each night before we danced. She felt her share of stress and more (I no doubt helped add to said stress due to my inability to pay attention whilst learning dance steps).
Bender made stilts and Mark made costumes and helped to move things along smoothly. All in all it was a most pleasurable experience, even if I did complain the whole time. I am so glad to have worked with such a wonderful and eclectic group of artist. Hence if Uncut says, “let’s do this”. I say “I’m down.”

Vance
+)

THE 2nd PHILLY DRUNKEN SPELLING BEE April 9th & MOVIE PREMIER April 14th

2007-04-04T13:00:00.000-07:00

Check out the Philadelphia Weekly Article documenting last months contest.

EVENT: 2ND DRUNKEN SPELLING BEE Mon. April 9th, 9PM @ BOB & BARBARA'S

MOVIE PREMIER: SAT. APRIL 14th, 7 PM International House part of Soft Pretzels, Cheese-Steaks And Other Acts Of God! Shorts Program

OK. Here is where we clarify what exactly the Drunken Spelling Bee is... It's Drinking and Spelling. Sometimes it's violent and sometimes it's a Movie. That didn't help did it? This should:

At the end of October 2006 UNCUT PRODUCTIONS signed up for The National Film Challenge (we are now not a fan of this contest, but we used to be). The contest runs itself like The 48 Hr Film Challenge, although it's less organized, poorly judged, offers no live audience and very little incentive. Having said that, we LOVE to make movies and stay up long hours and abuse ourselves for the delightful outcome of having a finished product in under 2 or 3 days.
Mark Dahl, UNCUT PRODUCTIONS Artistic Director and Good Will Ambassador and Jena Serbu UNCUT PRODUCTIONS Producer/Director wanted to shoot a drunken spelling bee much earlier in the year. Everyone was too drunk to make it happen, and we forgot about it until, again, 2 hours into brain storming.... somewhere aroung titty dancers & flag day, we realized that we had already come up with the perfect concept.

Everyone hustled back to the warehouse (Ben (the giant warehouse rat) was skulking around at that time glaring angrily at all the activity). We figured, with our location limitations, we could make it an illegal sport (due to the underage drinking and the betting, oh and the gratuitous drug use). Sara Scali and friends pulled together some hideous plastic flowers, a dollar store plastic tablecloth back drop and hand painted a sign (over an elementary school spelling bee sign) and we had the easiest set ever. Bring in the Pabst and JD, give your actors their script, then give them something to put their drinks in, let them then lose their scripts and you have the beautiful, uplifting, educational and enlightening short documentary: Le Bee. Otherwise known as, "The 5th Annual Underground Drunken Spelling Bee".
Meet your hosts: Greg and Marsha Parker

Judges: Paula Parker, Brown Jeremy & Robert "Bobbie Soxer" Kennedy III
Contestants: Brenda Patti Neilson, Matthew Sullivan, Cadence Mahannahan, Petey Wilson & Candy McCoy

Then the CONTEST was born:

Enter BOB & BARBARA'S, STEVE the Bartender & DJ and B&B's favorite beer and we have the

FIRST EVER LIVE DRUNKEN SPELLING BEE CONTEST.

Now every second Monday of the month we will engage in the art of drinking and spelling with you, the public!!
We offer AMAZING prizes:
1st prize: 1 case of B&B's favorite beer delivered
Every Week
for the month YOU are the reigning champion

ONE!! free beer just for signing up.... just for signing up folks. That's REAL NICE. Real nice.

This lovely man is the March 2007 Winner and will be returning as one of your judges.

This Event is made possible by: BOB & Barbara's and Their Favorite Beer!!!
Guest DJ: Brown Jeff

48 HR Film UNCUT PRODUCTIONS RULE #437

2007-04-04T12:47:00.000-07:00

Sun. Apr 8th, 9:15 PM @ International House
Best of the 48 hr Film Challenge Philadelphia 2007

Winner: Best Editing Philadelphia 48 hr. Film Challenge 2007
Genre: Sports Movie

When we first picked our genre we received Buddy Movie. Last year when we threw back "silent Movie" We pulled Buddy Movie and made a light little ditty about a woman in the midst of a back alley abortion being led around a world of "possibilities" by her unborn man/child. So we did what anyone would do. We threw it back for a better challenge. And the minute we received sports movie.... the collective minds of UNCUT thought, SPORT MOVIE = RIDICULOUS. But after two hours, the best we had was an Urban to the DEATH SPIT BALL WAR... we decided to go traditional. Build enormous structures, with bizarre characters and then choose the least obvious. That was how we came to Rule #437. Named something else as we made up the last lines of the movie at 4PM on Sun. (movie was due at 6PM). It may or may not have been at this point in which I, the director/editor and Beth Wexler, editor, knew that getting in on time was an impossibility. I was relaxed. A "running man type / roman-esque / surrealish UNCUT film" wasn't going to take Scott's 500$. And we weren't abusing ourselves for the win. We were in it to one up ourselves. I spent the next two days, in random editing and heavy drinking trying to figure out WHAT WENT WRONG. In the end, It was my fault, with Beth Wexler a close runner up. We both wanted to focus on sharpening our skills on other things. I on my actors and her on sound production. We should have sent her to edit long before we did. I blamed not having a costume person, it was not that. Mark and I handled it just fine. In the end Scotty, Brown, Ron, Mark, Dawn, Jean Louis, Brea, Cherie, Cosmo, Sharon, Bender, Steve, Bob, Vance, Crystal, Scali, Harry, Marie, Renae and Liz stayed the course and kicked ass. Congrats people. It's gruesome and sexy. Sorry about the cold ass warehouse.... at least there was no big ass rat named Ben and his kin fighting you for Al's pork and Lasagne. Thank you Dawn and Brown!