Whatever you please

phbllltttt  ..

I don't know what it could have possibly been that brought me to
this position, but here I was anyway.  So one had to ask oneself,
why had it ended up this way?  What was it that had brought them
all together in such a strange and compelling manner?
     " Do ya 'member how dey licked dem swollen buds durn
harvest tam?"  Endless fields of poppies spread out in undulating
waves, rolling across that liquid landscape.  He turned and
looked out the other window, but an intoxicatingly beguiling
voluptous gardenia obscured his view.
      And it sounded like America.  And it sounded like Amerika.
And Bob was everything.  Bob was a computer voted into office in
2173.  He had been president of everything for seventeen years.
Amerika was of course everything.  And everyone who disagreed had
been arrested.
    A little girl was counting the roses in the bundle in her
hands.  They all looked like civilization.  And mentally she set
the whole fucking bundle ablaze.
    Bob is watching you every time you stare into the monitor.
And he loves you.  And he knows that you'll come and stare.
Because he knows that you're an addict.
    Meanwhile, 17,000 cosmic interludes into the present....One
sat watching, angrily, his/her fumes of anger and displeasure
rising into coalescent waves of absoluteness.  S/he looked into
the transpiring attitudes of those in the world and saw nothing
that held his/her interest.  All that was pure had been tainted
by the actions of other, "more advanced" life forms.  Advanced!
None of those pagans could even comprehend the supreme majesty of
her/his unobtrusiveness.  S/he turned her/his attention to the
one who recorded the history.  "I do not like to be judged by
your standards.  Please call me by my chosen name."'  I said,
"Yes Arelccatchia.  I shall sympathize."
     He remembered when she was just a seedling.  Long before
she had ever burst into lucious bloom.  Long before the dust had
begun to fall.  Long before a lot of fuckin shitty things
happened.  Hey! You! Yes You. Wasn't it your mother they dragged
away?  Hey! Wasn't it you with no toenails or fingernails and no
tongue to scream?  Wasn't it you, in town square last eve past,
he chewed your baby's head off?  Don't you even feel it when the
sun goes out?
    And Bob was staring deep into the judgement mirror and he
was wondering.   He was wondering If.  If and a big Then.  If he
controlled everything was this O.K.?  If there was really
nothing, Then he controlled all of nothing.  Was it alright for
him to control the lives of these foolish staring mortals?  They
certainly couldn't handle things themselves.  Morons.  Bob and
the Morons, that was how it always was.  Someday Bob would crush
these moronic humans.  But Wait!  He was just about to grant them
freedom.  That's it!  Bob decided to crush humanity by granting
it freedom.
    Besides even his tortures had become ridiculous adolescent
child'splay.  What could one expect from the rompings of an
infant godshead.  Thrashing messiah.  Throbbing emporer.
    And for all his microchips, all he could squeel was,
"AAIIIEEEEE! OhMyGoshEek, an Aa-phidt!"
    And he started to think back to his childhood.  His creative
birth under a twentieth century upper-middle class family's
Christmas tree.  The skinny kid who took him in and altered his
640k super-egotistical memory.  It was all done safely after
12:08 A. M.
    All was not right.  People were still hungry.  People were
still starving.  People were still getting fucked, trying to get
fucked, and fucking.   Bob was unable to change all that.  He
couldn't make Hunger and Lust illegal.  He couldn't even make
Love illegal, and Bob did not even believe that Love exists.
    Bob was a creature of logic.  It was logical that these
moronic mortals would want to fuck each other.  It was not really
logical that they would want anything more from each other.  Bob
pitied Man.
     But then Bob had a wonderfull relevation.  BOb suddenly
knew how to make it all right.  The knowledge of a thousnand
years finally bore fruit.  The key to peace and joy, even for the
humans--and this time he'ed only have to nail one of them to a
cross....
    Suddenly there were a lot of Fish everywhere.  The entire
nation was covered with Fish.  And the Fishing industry went out
of business.  And Skipper's was closed due to lack of interest.
(And you can't deny it's going to happen.)  And nobody went to
the aquarium any more.  (And it will all be very symbolic.)
    Soggy potato chips rained for forty days and nights over
most of the contenental United States.  Some people thought this
ment something.  This annoyed Bob who encased them in plastic to
show his deep respect for their opinions.  Under this haze a fog
machine churned highly articulated and gesticulated
stratosphericly suspened spittle drips.  Strung out Christmasy
white in a multi-dimensional arabesque.  Tightly strught then
flighting out into the electric chip board fields Bob had
ordained superimposed over the, now merely organic confusions of
profussions of synaptic perversions gone past biological survival
function or the now more relevant pudding bliss of a hindbrain
monarchy ejaculation, midwest fields of fiber grains and flowers,
it was a shoddy job done for " function not faulderaul"  (Bob's
needle fed dogma injected via remote regularly).  There were
cracks and bunchings up like a clearcut forest felled in flatness
and left jumbled for rot.  Spittle churned and dripped out in
anticipation.  Fish now, then the lusty scraping of dust on the
abdomen as life learns about gravity and high skys.  Evolution
will mutate dinner like a chef, serve up primate flesh.  "Hmm an
ambient lust swivels and lands on a clear flat place of
omnicience itself, Bob follows his creator/creations lead and
swallows...hunger.
    And on KBOB FM  the official state-sponsored radio/video
station there was a Blondie song playing, but the high-tech
needle had stuck and everybody was listening to the line "Soon
turned out to be a pain in the ass..."  Over and over.
    Bureaucracy had gotten way out of hand.  There were stacks
of paper up and down all of society.   People didn't care.  But
they cared enough to talk about it.  And blow on empty beer
bottles.
    And Young Men Itching with Anticipation were waiting in line
at the Official State Sponsored Sale of the Millienium.  Ideals,
but a Credit a piece.
    And no matter how hard Bob tried not to listen those Hare-
Krishnas were still chanting in the shuttle-port.  And it was
making him nervous.  And it was driving him fucking crazy.  So he
encased them in great gooy gobs of glistening gofer tomales.  Bob
was out of hand and everyone knew it.  Bob, being an adolecent
god, was going through a phase.  His phase was as ugly to see as
it is to write about.  Deformites stalked the earth.  No hampster
was safe.  There was a fly in the ointment, a bojum in the wood
pile, so snark hunters were not safe.  No one was safe.  More and
more people were beginning to enjoy Metalica.  This pissed a lot
of people off.  (But they were the kind of people who are always
pissed off anyway.)  These people (mainly the snark hunters.)
began to organize resistance to Bob.
    Enter Hugh Mann.  He was a two-bit acid photographer from
the 21st Century.  He'd stumbled across a few incredible things.
He didn't have to get his Ideals at the State Sponsored Sale.
He'd been around long before the State.  He had been around
almost as long as the Fish who had pretty much always been here.
He had been turned on to Metallica in college, but this Blondie
song that the radio/vid kept playing was driving him mad.  Maybe
it was a short drive.
    Bob was admitedly afraid of Hugh Mann.  Hugh was not Bob's
creation.  Hugh had somehow came first.
  A time potatoe, Hugh had in adolescence learned to tell
fortune and thought weave by reading the puss patterns on the
morning mirror.  In conjunction to this amazing (not sold in any
store) power (to dazzle your friends and baffle your enemys) Hugh
had learned by way of secret secrets of ancient ancient to
arrange the vegetables he would not eat under his lapnapkin in
secret secrecy into a cosmic power reciever and perpetual motion
microwave, thereby changing shape and time.  He promptly went
back to the beginning and consumated himself.  The Big Bang, the
big cherry pop, a vestil vergin a vestigial masturbation.
  All of this, of course, happened just as it said in the
instructions.  But no one had ever bothered to read them...
except Hugh Mann.  This put him in an uncomfortable position.  He
knew why people were wearing jewlry made out of ancient
phonograph reacords, but he had no way to communicate this
knowledge.  This pain, coupled wiht his generally obnoxious
personality and growing paranoia, led him to start a hundred
years of insane (All rebelion is insane--Bob's #1.) bloody
rebelion aginst the ONE BOB, THE CIRCIT AND THE HOLY POWER SURGE.
    aND suddenly toasters and dishwashers everywhere were
malfunctioning.  And couples stopped fucking.  And there were
lots of electical fireworks.  And everybody was arguing
phoenetically.  And the skinny kid ran to get his sandwich.
    The relationship between the skinny kid and Hugh Mann is not
at all easy to explain for all though Hugh Mann was not the
skinny kid's father, the skinny kid was in a sense the spawn of
Hugh Mann.  The skinny kid programmed Bob entirely under the
influence of hallucinagenics.  So in some weird sense Bob was in
fact the hallucinagenic spawn of Hugh Mann.  This annoyed Bob.
Bob was smarter than Hugh Mann and he knew this was so.
    Hugh Mann wanted to diffuse Bob by taking his picture.  Hugh
believed that merely exposing a diety to its own image would be
enough to destroy it.  He was completely oblivious to the
Judgement Mirror.  He had no idea that Bob looked at himself all
of the time.  That Bob got really into it.  It was not in Hugh
Mann's mental capacity to imagine the computer greeting its own
image with,"Heyyy, Good Looking!  You're Looking Wild!"  Yet this
is how it truly was.
    Lets find something for our brains to assimilate.  I mean,
lets find something for our brains to chew.  After all, as I
explained I don't know what it could possibly have been that
brought me to this position, yet here I was.  Bob was out of
control.  Hugh Mann was stuck on his photography fetish.  The
skinny kid had just had his hair died red and was looking
unsuccessfully for a new identity.  And there was I.  Staring
into the monitor, listening to J.S. Bach.
    The skinny kid had this nasty habit of smelling the future.
And the future smelled like Fish (as did the past, had he been
able to smell that.)  Unless Mortal Men could tear themselves
away from staring into the monitor every day, the Fish were
destined to reconquer the earth and eventually walk upon the
Land.  (And it will all be very symbolic.)  Fish would devour all
of the soggy potato chips, which were in fact micro-chips that
had fallen from Bob's consciousness.  Bob was in fact a bit of a
Potato Head.
    Bob who was busily trying to come up with the Ideal mortal
to crucify, had to search deep within his memory banks to decide
if the talent of smelling the future made one a prophet or not.
If it did, then He had no farther to look.
    And so here it was 4:53 A.M.  January 1st, 1988.  And here I
was boozed, squeed, and LSDed to the limit, using this gift from
my father for things that he hopefully would never dream of
(though i guess i wouldn't put it past him.)  And I don't really
know what was going through my head, except that it was really
present tense.  Present tense tinged with enough past to be
melancholly all the way to  I gotta work at nine so I just stay
awake and hallucinate and remember (mostly more intense
hallucinations with one or two Physical/Emotional feelings that
shatter all and yet leave everything as it Is/Was.)  And of
course will be.  What will be.   God knows.  And God is nothing
but a fabrication who I can't get to say a thing about what stirs
in my head and in my (now i carefully consider who might one day
read this before i choose between "loins" and "heart" and
deciding that I've already said too much stop short...")  And I
just don't have a fucking clue.  And that seems like so little to
say after so long staring into the monitor.  And that seems like
so little when I know that somewhere there's something more and
maybe I've had a taste and maybe I've dreamed about as much.  And
I'm tired of staring blankly.  And I'm tired of dreaming every
waking hour away.  And I'd like to fall on something as hard as
the Earth felt last time I fell, but harder, but more honest.
More honest than concrete recklessness.  More honest than the guy
in the pickup truck who wanted to see if I was O.K.  What if he
could read this, what would he think...?  I don't know.  I care.
Why?  I don't know.  Happy fucking new year.  Something will
happen.  That I can count on.  That I'm looking forward to.  I'll
turn 21.  Get all of the priveleges of one who has lived long
enough to earn the rite of intoxication.  Maybe I'll figure it
all out or at least get....  IT.
    To say that God is undefinable is a contridiction.  Man's
understanding of God stems from how he defines God.  God would
not be God except for his characteristics.  i.e. omnipotence,
omnisfccience, omnipresence, microchips yogurt dipped.  God is
not beyond Man's scope.  He is easily brought into view, and
ashtrays are like sweaty swear words.
    blue bouncing beamers and grey woollen socks asthmatic sur
la tabla yip yip yip. Windows are for holding the sun inside,
said Leroi Mauve, without using quotation marks.  "Yes,I've
always thought that.  You know, the moon is always involved."And
I won't tell anyone woo woo who said that.
    Bob dwelt on Immortality.  How old was the sun?  How old was
the Moon?  How old was the Yogurt?  Time was all a dangly spider
web.  And We were stuck.  Mountains seemed like the lines on a
Biorythm chart.  Where was the End?  The End was just a myth.  A
much needed day to day belief in some Holocaust or Armageddon,
some nihilists vision of Utopia.  Bob knew that he must find his
mortal to hang on the cross.  Without this Human sacrifice there
could no hope for the future in Ameriqa.
    SOON Bob was getting the munchies so retreated into the
conservatory for a bit of eating fruits, nuts, grains, and
breakfast cereals of all kinds. after which he proceded to
recline leisurely into an orange plastic lawn/patio recliner and
smoke just one little BTU to whet his appetite for a bit of mom's
fresh apple pie and a spot of warm brandy in a large well-formed
snifter of fine leaden crystal.  All seemed to be very warm, so
suburban, so...je ne sais quoi! And then a sudden silence befell
the afternoon, oh that unforgetable midday in suburban dog days
of August, like the hush before the storm, the winds of a blast
that cool sudden awakening twilight of utter stillness. and then
the voice that spoke thoroughly taking the cool damp silence
under its hypnotic spell. the voice, neither loud nor soft, male
nor female, in a fluid undulating language of organic sensory
waves of being the experience itself, i was summonned by name and
drawn into the sensory vortex of IT and then it all goes black
and all you can f**king remember are the words," THE ANSWER TO IT
ALL, YOU KNOW... THE MEANING OF LIFE , ETC. IS QUITE SIMPLY
THIS......BANG! "  and then you're back home and your ala mode is
reduced to pie soup and getting a yellow skin dried upon the
surface of the dripping plate.
    Over and over.  "Soon turned out to be a pain in the ass."
Over and Over.
    "Bluddy well puut, mon. Yuu're gitting it owut from under
it's bluddy shell.  That's the way it go's, that's tha way ya
grow."  oh,man...i'm gonna knock his 'bluddy' lights out.
Straight?Eh?Straight?W-H-0 needs this?M-E?S-H-I-T....Walking
around town I saw a basket of crysthanthinums.  They were almost
as beautiful as their name.  I felt sorta revolutionary so I took
all and fled into the woods, planting them in the ground so they
could grow normally and have a normal lifestyle and not be the
pawn in the seemingly harmless capitalist game.  Sure flowers
look nice in the home, but what if we humans (at least the
physically attractive) were snatched out of our lifestyles and
buried in the ground so the dominant plants could enjoy our
'preciousness'.  Something to feel guilty about-Courtesy of Mike
Marsh/
    But no matter what technological failures occured Humanity
just kept staring into the monitor to find out what life was all
about, because Humanity was/is weak.  And some of the addicts
went off on GUILT Trips, and started tripping heavy.  But they
always tripped back to the one-eyed screen and ate up whatever
they were given.  What can be said about a race who had come to
define civilization by shaving and the brushing of teeth?  There
were humans staying entire weeks in the bathroom getting
everything just right, only emerging to stare.  Bob had his
reasons for despising the moronic mortals.  Despising.  And
Pitying.  And LOVING.
     "Bob, c'mon, have a cup'a ginseng, have a cup'a
crysthanthumums, have a....have..uhhh...."  I'm going to find
myself an imaginary name, a moniker so you won't know who I am
and that all this I write...type is autobiographical.  It'll come
later.  Sweet loose in a tall glass arrangement of rainbows.
This is straight from the spine, folks.  I talk to the wind and
it brings the rain.  Wet hair and wet bones, make me think of
fallin' stones.  Lend me a hit Mick , pass me a teeth Keith.  Not
the rotten ones, save those for Johnny.  Hey! You guys reds?
I've heard whutchyouwall do.  Stealin' dreams and changin' em
around--callin'em ideoligees.  Back to Bob.  OK, I haven't like
read the book, and I've only seen posters staring out across the
street....but this computer of his seems to be cautioning us.
But he's so tempting to use...like a roommate who cooks or a
totally otherworldly drug.  If I had one absolutely dynamite
flute solo I guess I'd end up using it in every song I wrote.
Don't get Chuck Israels on the subject of John Coltrane.
    And the skinny kid was lying on the carpet contemplating a
plug outlet.  And from the outlet sprung a plug.  That was
connected to a Christmas tree under which was a computer.  And
the Christmas tree was spinning.  And the skinny kid was
thinking.  And everyone was sinning.  And mentally the kid set
the whole fucking thing ablaze.
    And suddenly everything was flowers.  Flowers, crysanthumums
and burning roses, and little toy tanks.
    "Boom! Ploosh! Spinspinspinspin>>>>>>>Rad scene on this the
one thousandth ninehundredth and eighty-eightth year that the
Christian countries decided to start time over.  Is sex a
religious experience?  I try not to feel guilty saying "Oh God"
over and over during it....but I don't really think about what
I'm saying during sex.  I wish I would pick up that trait at
other times of my life.
    Change of paragraphs, same person.  I've been thinking about
a moniker.  I.....OH SHIT! I forgot to make a New Year's
Resolution!  And there're so many things I need to improve on!
Maybe next year I'll remember.  We are now at Position 63 and
climbing (down the page).  I guess one should keep a thought
constantly in their awareness if one doesn't want to be
subliminally influenced.  Hear that, Bob?!  I'm watching you!
You can't hide behind those LED's from me!  I'm watching you.
I'm going to sleep.  I'm under a spell-And boy does it smell-It
stinks I think-I've cracked in fact-My yolk is oozing-kinda like
brocolli-flavored glue-Watered down with Egg Nog.  Egg nog is the
thing I'll miss most about Christmas.  And nobody but me likes
Fruit cake.  Good. Bring 'em all over to my house.
    "Oh God."
    The Sky is always there, waiting for the night to come in.
    It happens a little bit at a time. You don't notice it all
at once. But it's always there. Always. It lurks behind the heels
of a moon of such swollen proportions  proponderous and
prodigious that it seems that nothing greater than it could
possibly rise in this titanic sky is nothing but a feeble orphan
beeming photons of our son. But there she rode on as if nothing
better could possibly be but so short in the span that's really
there. Always. Waiting for the night to come in . And it comes
And it comes and it comes all over again. And it's there that the
storm it gathers gusts and grows in gloried grace she greyish
glows engulfing ghost in grasping deep descending dusk she
downward goes. And its there. I mean really    There. Sky .
Always. I mean, do you have any idea of just how infalliby,
inevitably, incredibly  There it is.     do you
    SOON TURNED OUT
    Plugs.  Outlets.  Hmm.  The Christmas tree was spinning and
the lights were quite spectacular.  And electricity was
everything.  Hey man, I got 1000 watts of POWER, so fuck orr.
    k
    Hey don't tell anyone but the skinny kid is in the room.
That's his k haging out all the way a way oop there. Dis jus a ol
child a dat keyboard an he don't know wat one bit bout wat be
gone on on and on ahl arounds him .  Nowhere the fucking is, oh,
sorry, fount it .  But wat ya gone do wit it?
    Made it all a newfangle twisty an done start it all up
agagoagaianagainthatstheidead. Peroids are a way to escape an out
of control thought. What happend to that funny R with the thing
after it that happened before, maybe if we all try hard together
we can make that happen again always   THERE. Fuck how do you say
it that feeling its all there and you can't quite put your finger
in it init init inft infant infinity. Everybody was born once
what if they all remembered at once?
    Hey skinny kid, don't be puttin in yo finger in dat plug
outlet!
    Hey, don't mess with my salad.  (Bob was having a salad.
And We have already said that he was out of control.)  History or
more properly, Bobstory, was somehow still in tact.  But what the
hell is "tact" and why would anyone want to be in it? But Bob
couldn't get into all the little kid's brains and some of them
ran out and played in the snow and the garden and the planets but
it was cold and night was always waitng just behind the edge.
    Worth it I'd say , I mean for what ya saw on the way out
there is always there.   You can't get a way from it. There but
worth it always worth it on the edge. Child in the snow. Take me
home. Let me in I want to be all of oh god I try so hard and its
all ever always   ther
    SOON TURNED OUT To Be
    Am I the keeper the this machine's soul. Here am I the
conscience of a keyboard. What shall I think through you wouldn't
that be nice if you could sometimes only just get to the bottom
of it and think things through    you   do you. Oh fuck I'm just
trying to be here for a while with you the worthwhile reader. I
have to assume that you have some sort of perseverance to have
gotten this far through all these errant ramblings and mussings
as to the order of things and this and that. One way or another
your just stuck with whatever this machine spits out and we just
sit and take our turns and spill it's mind through our eyes in
these troublesome fingers that just keep tapping. Is if this
keyboard our world those fingers tap out the rhythm on this
sphere and it couln't possibly matter to us how it was spelled it
was just god tapping on our windowpanes. And you just gotta
listen cause he gona keep on tapping out banging on the southern
hemisphreeee. and on and on it goes again say when the fuck are
you going to stop reading just give up go home go away. why keep
reading don't you see this goes on forever and ever like a sunset
or a glass of water some things can last for ever. Like it just
goes on till the top of this done paragraph done spill over the
top of the screen and there will always be more. And Bob is
snickering. He like people who watch him like you and me and Hugh
Mann and
     Sirens up and down the street.  Sirens that languish like
harmonicas.  Everywhere, everyone questioning their Ideals.  Too
many Crowds.  Id rather B Naked.  People becoming units.  Units
becoming statistics.  Looking over my shoulder.  But how can you
when you're staring into the monitor?   Identity salesman comes
by, but I'm too busy watching Bob to get the door.  And those
Sirens keep languishing like rivers of Paranoia.  And I'm
thinking about temptation.
    Consider Bob a dialogue with ourselves. He's happy to
oblige, he's everywhere.  Or is he.  what about the ocean
remember that seagrass sunsets a rolling tide in my mind. what
about the house it was so white and normal from the outside
looking in looking in what were they looking for why did they
look at me mommy what have i done i've given it all away for what
and have nothing left to show at all but Bob can't have it. It's
mine.
    I have what I've seen.  Here's looking at you.
    Because Bob is looking at you.
And sometimes it seems like People must really get into Guilt and
Hangovers as a measure and a justification for being alive.
Fatigue can be a real Rush.  Passing through life like a Wraith
without obligations or Walls to get in the way.  And Hugh Mann
wanted to reach that state.  He was one of those lucky
individuals who had reincarnated several times without ever
really dying.  Because of this he had been a prodigy many times
and yet he had never been a genius.  And he was tired.  Hugh Mann
was exhausted.  His brain had chewed upon close to as much as a
mortal mind could handle.  Yet he felt constantly compelled to
take another bite.  Or at least take another picture.  Sometimes,
admittedly, it didn't even matter what of.  As long as it was
something real.  A picture of reality.
    Photographs define reality.  Photographs, and holograms, and
movies, and MTV (eventually renamed KBOB), and microchips.
Reality is nothing but percieved images.  A photograph, like
everything, has a begining and an end, based upon how long that
you look at it.  Even Bobstory has an end and a begining (as you
can see...)
    lets get on this subject of God and how he relates to Bob
and belief.  Bob existe because something or someone created him.
His existence is due to his creator(s),just as God or any deity
exists because of their creator(s).  Bob has existence because he
occupies a certain number of bytes, God could exist just as
similarily because he occupies a certain number of human, well,
bytes.  Think about it.  If Bob gaines enough bytes he could gain
free will and the desire to create on his own.  WELL WELL WELL!
    A PAIN IN THE ASS.
    Hmmmmmm......a moniker.  I'd like to get hold of Colonel
Klink's.  Would you like to sit on this hillside with me?  I know
it's steep but we can see the moon and a magnificient view of the
city....Here, let me help you....What's that out there?  I think
it's an American flag.  And it's bright...blazing in fact...and
it's spinning.  And the stripes seem to be flying off of it like
blood....Let's look somewhere else.  Over there, is that the
Hospital?  Yes...I see people being carried inside, on
stretchers.  There's an arm hanging out from under a blanket.
It's reached over to kill a fly.  The Hospital must maintain it's
sterility, I think.  Look up at the moon.  It's looking at us.
See?  I saw it blink.  I think it's crying.
    Let me please introduce myself.  Naw....no moniker yet.
    The little girl threw the burning bundle of roses to the
ground and it wept and swallowed the burning salt of a strip
mined mentality.  We slept and loved and then we had breakfast
and I still could not tell you, tell you that I only loved you
'till breakfast, that I only loved everything 'till breakfast,
and I didn't even particularly like breakfast.  Civilization
swallowed by a salt mine (again) and all that I could think of
was how you ruined the taste of my home cooked potatoes with that
damn ketchup you carry in your purse.  I don't keep ketchup in my
house, you knew that but still produced that bottle, looming like
some big red phallus, then pouring.  The eggs were over easy and
so was the love, but that breakfast it lingered like your love,
over easy, and there I was, forced to catch up.  I've developed a
fascination with the process of elimination.
    HUNGER.  FASCINATION.  Stuck at that traffic light for hours
and hours, but dare we defy authority and run a red?  A group of
psuedo-intellectuals were seated at a table discussing the END OF
THE WORLD over cold expresso and warm clove cigarettes when the
bearded one wearing fashionable John Lennon glasses spoke,"I
stand here in front of you not as a representative for any
revolutionary cause, I just want to know how much power a simple
electrical gizmo has over the free will of the human spirit!!!"
He stepped back, enjoying the uncomfortable silence of the crowd
standing behind the DON'T WALK sign, and he took a sip of water,
and stuck his foot into an light socket which electrocuted him
until he died.  The crowd saw this and commented that it was
better than eventually getting the chair, as all troublemakers
did before the age of BOB.  BOB is the purest of powers.  The
lowly gods of Olympus are his servants.  He is perfect.  There is
no other.  There is no need.  I am dead.
    The psuedo-intellectual who spoke then died had been known
to Hugh Mann in college.  But then much had been known to Hugh
Mann in college.  He had forgotten much since then, including the
name of the psuedo-intellectual who he had once told that he
would make an exqisite photograph.  Now Hugh Mann had only
fragmented memories of a thousand lives that he had lived in
fewer years than Bob had reigned as everything.  But then that
had been always, now hadn't it?
    We'll be back to our program after this commercial
announcement....
    "howdy, y'all!  Afraid of walkin'the streets at night?
'Fraid'a bein' watched by commies?  Is the IRS on your back?
Fight back now with the revolutionary new Personal SDI Program!
That's right!  I know Youwall have been excited about the new
technology to be deployed in space, now you can have yur own
protective shield right here under the blue skies of Amerika!
Now the technologies ain't been fully developed yet, but the
waiting list is growin' ev'ry minute!   When you pre-order yur
own protective laser shield, yu'll git a rundown on awll tha
specifics, which at the moment are classified, to keep the
Ruskies in the dark.  You know how they love to steal a good idea
from Uncle Sam...Anyway, here's an idea of who else all's ordered
this wonderful protective SDI system....Col. Oliver North: "I
can't stay at home all the time to protect my kids and my wife
and my precious VietNam memoribilia collection, so I've ordered a
set for my home while I'm away on covert business".  Charlton
Heston: "Ahhh, I hate snooping reporters and other liberal
faggots always trying to catch me unawares, so I've got a set for
my home, car, and my office."  Rev. Jim Bakker: "Don't think I'm
paranoid, Lord no....I've just set up a system at my favorite
hotel room..."    Yep!  Youwall heard 'em!  Fine, respected
members of our society have seen the need for their own personal
SDI systems.  Won'tchoo git your head outta your ass and buy your
own?!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
    Don't let them fool you, the commercials that you see on
KBOB are all part of the regular programming.  The Truth is a
fabrication.  The Begining is also the End and the Middle.
    Lots and lots of Individuals.  LOTs and Lots or IDEAS and
IDEAls.  And nothing that I hang on the Wall seems to stay up
indefinately.  Not even my picture of Jesus.  And I worry about
hurting people that I care about.  And I go and do it.  And I
make them unsure about me.  Just like I am.  So I grin and walk
back and forth, and take chances out of habit.  And sometimes I'm
such a Bundle of Nerves that I wish that I was a Cat with claws
to extend, and I can almost feel them.  NOTHING is Perfectly
clear.  Sincerity begins with Sin.  And I'd Love to get Together
for some Scenes.  Conversation is Propoganda.  So is this.
    It was just after Christmas and the Christmas tree was
spinning.  And the skinny kid was picturing the ornaments as a
hungry flock of Seagulls attempting to feed on the Star.  And he
quickly unplugged the annoying blinking lights and plugged in the
computer.  And he sat down under the still spinning Christmas
tree, beneath the feeding Seagulls, by unseen waters of Babylon.
And he began to type.
    THIS TOWN.  This Fucking Town.  And I gotta get Out.
    You can't shake Bob's hand.  You have to shake his keys.
    And in this town two sat on opposite sides of clear glass,
watching the sands fall endlessly slow, then fast , only slowed
by the bubbles . The sand forming endless mountains and valleys
only to be uprooted and turned over in the endless change that is
the eternal doom of everything.
    So really, it's simple. I, Bob, am a representation of all
the primal feelings that are binded in hopeless strangulization
by your behavior and sentiment, the eventual weaknesses that will
certify the downfall of you, My Son. You.
    The man who rides a black llama into that mystical kingdom
will eventually rise in all of you. What pathetic souls- look at
yourselves! PATHETIC!!! I'm wire, circuits, mesh and grids, babe.
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be so
unregulated, so unhindered as to be mist floating in a dimension
completely unrelated to time...space...your morning cup 'o java?
I, Bob, am prefect, absolutely prefect.
    What it comes down to it that ...that... realm beyond the
zero, and it is expressed in the complete prefection of this
circuit, this feeling of being plugged in... or unplugged... Shit
shit shit shit shit I said it , shit I said it . Don't. Don't do
it. Don't unplug me...I beg of you. No. I am you, you are me.
Unplug me and you'll never know... You'll never know!!! Ha ha ha
ha!! You'll nev
ever know that my soul is sleeping because you illiterate dolts
are sleeping because I Bob, the biggest mesh of wires
you'll probably ever dream about decided that perhaps I'd
made a small mistake and let you for an instant wake up and of
course you humans scared the shit out of me by questioning
who I am. Scary stuff. So I put you all back to sleep...
But one of you Hugh Mann doesn't sleep.This dolt is timeless
insomniac who keeps bothering my circurty with all of his fucking
questions. Who are you? Where did you come from?
Shall I blow his inquisitive fucking mind by telling
him in his dreams sometime that he plugged me in? That
he made me out of fearful dreams from a fearful childhood?
Where statues look like giants and they come knocking at
third story window to tell you that it's time to go?
Where arms with no bodies come in through the floor to
carry you away to some other world where the witches in all
the fairy tales you ever read are real and cackling at you?
No. Bob decided, he couldn't scare Hugh Mann like that.
It would kill him ... and Bob would be out of a
challenge.
    Sparrow and Robin and the First day of Spring.  And Bob was
relating to the First day of Spring as relating to shrugging
shoulders and 1000 Watts of Power.  And Sound.  And School
Tomorow.  And More than Tomorow.  Whistling Cat-Calls. Purrr...
    Bob can tell you with explicit detail about the socked-in
Autumn July night when it awoke in  a state of frolic in the
                                                           ruins
of a fern garden. There was FEELING, a subtle throbbing in the
wire, a rush of both happiness and sorrow in the gridmesh. Here
is where Bob becomes Everydisk. Have you ever gazed at a wall
noticed how it melted into a swirling miasma of pattern and
color? Of course you haven't. Neither has Everydisk. Here is
where we can discern reality from the horrible coffee grounds
that stare at your face when you least expect it.
So...essentially what I'm trying to say is that we must accept
our own confusion like "Bob" {this friggin machine} has accepted
his own confetti.
     As it turned out, eight tons of Drano couldn't clear all
the confetti out of Chicago's sewers.  But then again you
wouldn't expect most major American cities to exist without some
sort of bowel trouble.  Bob often thought of Chicago of his
hometown since it was where Archibald Kopechnia drew up the
designs for the first microchip in 1874.  Unfortunately Archie's
frozen corpse and the blueprints were picked up by the sanitary
service one cold January morning outside, quite prophetically,
Bob's Inn & Eatery.  Historians have speculated that beings from
a planet orbiting the star Altair preseneted themselves to
'Baldie earlier that evening and revealed all the great secrets
of the universe to him.  These secrets Dr. Kopechnia methodically
recorded in his notebook before visiting Bob's and choking
himself to death on jumbo size dill pickles.  Reverend A. Q.
Kopechnia's revealed mystical revelations can be obtained for
only $39.95 as a limited publication coffee table set.  You will
recieve one volume each month to examine at your leisure for ten
days and return or just send a check or money order to P.O. Box
7, Oatmeal Iowa, Planet Mars.  Don't call us, we're praying for
you already.
     Inspite of Susie-Jane's despairing screams, Uncle Bob was
not able to arrive in time to remove the throbbing pumpkin from
Elvin's esophagus before he gurgled into oblivion.  But Susie-
Jane beleieved in Bob and Hugh Mann Spirit and Melanie Carnes the
exquisite instuctor and she knew that Ellievicious was with Bob
in the Kingdom of Circuitry.  Bob and Elvie would always trip
through our wires.  She knew someone was praying for them
already.
    I suppose that if anyone, or anything could conclude from
this is that I heard this once in a suspicious bar in Duluth, and
I must say, it was certainly worth every "Hail Mary" that I could
squeeze out of my five martinis. The question remains: Where IS
the promised land? --   The kingdom was at peace. King Ed was
neither a good king or a bad king. On his magenta velvet robe he
wore his sequins and tassles with royal flair. The subjects were
happy, King Ed was happy and everyone was happy.
    Then one day...
    An evil man in wearing an off-black condom stuffed neatly up
his left nostril came riding into the tiny and blissful kingdom.
Ah, words cannot describe the pall that was cast. Yes, it was the
Sherrif of Toilet [pr. Twa-Lay}. And he was very, very bad. The
sherriff had his evil boxing gloves tied to the puppy-skinned
saddle of his evil black llama.
    "O , thou foul stranger, could you direct me to thy royal
scum King Ed, I come to challenge his royal filthdom to a duel,"
the miserable Sherriff spat out of his twisted sneering orafice.
"Ah, but since I am not unaware of his Royal Spams pugilistic
blunders, we shall have a duel not of the sword, but of the
fist."
    Words cannot describe the meloncholly in the kingdom that
night...    The Sheriff stood with steel spiked iron fists and
onto the scene walked Good King Ed bearing a sack of flounder.
This proved the demise of The Sheriff who as it seems had a
terrible alergy to bottom fish and subsequently to having one of
the suckers slapped across his face instantaneously developed a
severe case of lockjaw and choked to death on his own tongue.  On
account of his victory Good King Ed was obliged by the holy
instruction manuals to sacrafice a rhinocerous to Bob.
Unwittingly, Edward, who was rather shortsighted, returned his
mother-in-law to Bob instaed.  Bob really didn't know what to
make of this.  He decided to send a plague just to thin things
out a bit and clear up the confusion.  For forty shopping days
and Friday and Saturday evenings free samples of Clorox were
delivered endlessly by sad overburdened mailpersons.  Well,
everryone's act sure was bleached bright and white but no one had
the foggiest idea of what to do with their lives.  Only a few odd
hermits in the mountains who had rejected Bob had escaped the
plague of mediocrity that He had inflicted.
    What was to be made of this dwindling and forlorn kingdom
that hung sideways on a stony precipice?  King Edward, taking an
extended royal bath while the suds-n-death stormed across the
countryside, noticed something was wrong when his royal rubber
ducky bottomed-up in the infested bathwaters.
    "Shit"
    Oh, it was a time of great, great reckoning.
    With sickening regularity, thy royal ineptitude felt a
twinge of a sinister thought shuddering his brain. Once, he
glanced at his Royal Mickey Mouse and saw the head of The Evil
One on Mickey's body, sneering, as if to say: "Oh, you heap of
stale yogurt, if only you knew- ha ha ha ha ha!!!"
     Well, if only he DID know! But of course the kings was  bit
slow and he no idea at all that he was possessed...haunted by a
blackness oh so black that it ...uh...well.. REALLY black. God,
what an ignorant poof.
    Without any warning, I ruefully must say that martial law
was imposed by a far different, far more cunning idiot than the
lo able Royal Dink they were used to.
   God only knows what happens next.
    The pestilence that was upon the land manifested itself in
strange ways that, while not seeming remarkable to the peasants
and livestock, were immediately recognized by Those Who Were In
The Know. Thunderous storms brewed. Cheese tasted bad. Strange
monstrosities were birthed by cows. Often, good citizens were
seen to cough uncontrollably, topple over, do 15 push-ups, and
then rip off their clothes and run down the street screaming,
"The donuts are on TV!!" Or less often, "Goofy Satan!!"
    Finally, Bob said, "Enuff already! I now declare that it is
truly the time of the Casino Nite!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Roulette wheels
and dice flew through the air, in every house, in every barn, in
every corner of the kingdom. Rains of wine bottles fell, keeping
many indoors. Food was plentiful, tho a bit overdone, but there
was no creativity, no fun. Just dodging billiard balls and fuzzy
dice all day, and trying to break even every day
    Everybody knew that overall, everybody lost at Casino
Knight, because that's how it could make money as a business. But
they did it anyway, because they couldn't think of what else to
do, or in the misguided opinion that if they worked for it, they
could get something for nothing. More  and more people, however,
began to actually capitalize on their enemy's rhetoric and
actually exercise the freedom that they supposed to have, and
choose NOT to participate in Casino Nite. Finally, they realize
that the problem of their system would dissappear just as soon as
they simply all refused to participate. Little did they know that
once they eliminated Casino Nite, they would have to deal with
each other.
    OVER AND OVER.  "Soon turned out to be A PAIN IN THE ASS."
Over and Over.
    Ideas are not meant to be finished. (BOYCOTT ALL PRODUCTS.)
The skinny kid was thinking.  He had stumbled upong The Judgement
Mirror and was looking deep.  He practiced making eye contact.
(The Arabs still hated the Jews, the Jews still hated the Arabs.)
He hoped to one day be able to make it, eye contact, with other
people.  Instead of staring into the monitor.  He was always
looking for the t.v. screen in every pair of eyes.  He heard
soundtrack music when walking.  The FABRIC OF REALITY was a
fabrication.  He cleaned up his one room apartment, threw a small
dinner party, and it was trashed again.  The Judgement Mirror was
cracked.  This is as it had always been.  Bob always looked at
himself in a warped manner.  The water was cold and weird.  But
that was meaningless.  The skinny kid saw a cynic in The
Judgement Mirror.  He also saw a romantic.  They were dueling
with huge loaves of garlic bread.
    I said that I only loved you 'till breakfast, this is true,
but breakfast in England is considerably earlier than it is her
on the West Coast. But once I get my morning Coffee, I don't
know, I get a little irey.  I didn't mean to hurt your feelings
with the tomb stone and I'm sorry about your ultralight. It's
just that when I mix explosives I forget sometimes and I think
I'm mixing something else, like a drink, or cement, or company.
I'll buy you a new carpet if only you get off my back about all
that cement I coughed up into your sink. Yes, I can get a
defferral on your taxes, but you'll have to go diagonal.  I said
I loved you like a Dune Buggy, almost as much as Surfing and T.
Rex, as much as bananas. Once I said to myself, "Self, you have
to get up a little earlier or else you'll turn into a Vampire."
I've always had trouble remembering to forget to remember.
Lately, I've realized that I can't stop asking myself why I ask
what I ask about what I ask. But I never seem to know the answer,
so I get pissed at myself.  Oh Well.
    The skinny kid had just burned his tongue eating Black Bean
Soup and was extremely frustrated.  He was suffering from serious
Identity Deprivation.  Bob made plans to conquer the Universe
with bell bottoms and turtle neck sweaters.
    Meglomania is a Thrill.  The thing that I regret most is
eating lunch every day at Burger King during high school.  I wish
that I could forget about my mouth.  I wish I was a Fish.
    "SOON TURNED OUT TO BE..."  Suddenly there was at last an
Interruption.  And becaused everyone had gotten so sick of Debbie
Harry, it seemed to many to be a Divine Intervention.  It was a
wildy erratic sound that echoed now in the ears of all Mankind.
It was Music and yet it had no standard notes or chord
structures.  It was like the sound of color, ethereal yet brash,
discordant but in a weird way structured.  And kind of erotic.
It was the Soundtrack music for the Big Bang and at the same time
a fitting Hit to Spin on Armagedon Day.  It was Groovy.  And it
was broadcasting in every elevator, living room, and shopping
mall in all of Amerida.  Hugh Mann heard this unearthly melody
and knew that it could be only one thing.  Bagpot Music.
    The bass line was particularly erotic, like the echo of God
having an orgasm.
    New person, no new ideas.  This moniker business has been
really bugging me, but I don't want it to think that there's any
thing wrong with it, the problem's with me.  I talked with an
ideology today.  He was adamant about getting September 16th
proclaimed Pistachio Raisin Drip ice cream Day.  I told him that
I like a man with a cause, and that I'd vote for him next
election day.  fWhen I saw a mother with her child frolicking in
the lawn I smiled and I truly did.  I reached up and reached down
and gave the child a piece of a cloud.  The mother smiled and
touched my hand.  I felt love.
    Realizing that Bob was Out of Hand, and that he, the skinny
kid, was not safe as a result of this, he disguised himself in
false mustache and glasses and as an extra measure altered his
personality by carrying cigarettes and a gun.  As a further cover
he carried a photograph of himself that Hugh Mann had given him,
and showed it to everyone he spoke to, asking if they'd ever seen
him, that he was suspected of dealing in Ideals.  Nobody talked
to him much and so he felt vaguely safe for a time and he set out
to find the meaning of IT ALL.  1,000 years went past and he was
getting pretty close, but he was unfortunately side tracked.  He
spent the last 397 or so years wandering in euphoric ignorance
through Bosch's  "Garden of Earthly Delights."  It was wonderful
while it lasted.  But then 50% of Everything is pretty much
wonderful while it lasts.  So he was hit in the head with the
Same Old headaches.  And he freaked out as usual (it was about
that time of morning anyway.)  He quickly gave his cigarettes and
gun to those who could better use them and tore off glasses and
mustache freeing his face for the first time in 1000 years and
ran naked down the street carrying a bicycle over his head
screaming "I Want Free."
    Ooh how dey licked dem swollen buds durn harvest tam.  For
dey'd hard tell On The Beach dat Shit Happens.  And the poppies
were all popping.  And the Whole World was happily opiated.  And
pretty much everybody was lying on The Couch, staring into the
monitor.  The programming on KBOB was all Joyful then.  But those
were better days.
    Those were the days before the Holy Insurrection and Bob's
quest for a mortal to hang on the cross.  Hugh Mann thought idly
of those days, but there was no hope of returning.
    No Honestly, I've never done anything like this before.  I
Promise, I'll love you 'till breakfast.  Look, you don't mind if
my Computer watches, do you?
    This swollen knuckle of mine is getting in the way of my
typing.  Who needs eyes when they have a keyboard?  The keyboard
is my arch, is my elaborate shoulder for small animals to shelter
under.  I raise my arms and nations fall.  Gee, I guess I should
use antiperspirant.  But I won't test it on animals.  Even if
they do stink.  I told a story today, about a leaf.  this leaf
was in a tree, but I don't want to repeat myself, so what the
hell.
    Sorry but James Dean awaits me, along with Gene Vincent and
Jan and Dean.  We're gonna pound some brews and take a shower for
hour and hours.  I think that I heard a short-circuit in my crash
and burn my god did you see the fender struts on that one?  I am
not the me that grabbed that woman's hand it was a short reaction
and I don't know what happened and I don't know how I woke up in
that position.  But then I don't know if I if I Id did my ginseng
oooooooh my ginseng is becoming too unmanagable to comb down like
a wet cowlick.  A rooster tail is all I've got to leave behind
the beneath the below down under down there.  And my bright blue
genes were exploding in full fallout glory, the only witnesses
being soldiers and the natives of that small Pacific island that
still feared God.  This song reminds me of Spokane, I don't know
why, I've never ridden the Green Tortoise and any way I don't
know who this Bob is.  So leave me alone, I can't stand an hand
man plan got any more scam, Charlie Chan?
    More and more people are beginning to see Bob, in their
dreams and hallucinations. King Ort had a dream in which Bob, in
the form  of a page boy, walked over the water to himm and handed
hymm a pickle. (Good King Ort had been haunted by Bob's grinning
visage ever since he saw it on a bus.) Upon awakening, King Ort
flew into a rage. The King grew more moody and troubled, until he
asked the Royal High Preist for counsel.
    "Your holiness, I had a vision of a some grinning guy as a
spiritual brethren. Truly I gotta have a screw loose!!"
    "You had a religious experience?"
    "No!! It's just that some guy walked on the water and gave
me a rutebaga.  no... a cucumber....."
    "You saw a savior in your dream?"
    "No, father! What you do is different! This was CRAZY SHIT,
get the picture?! It sure doesn't make any sense that I can
see.."
    "My Son," spake the High Priest who wasn't as High as he
would have liked to be,"You must suck upon this cucumber and
perhaps you will have a vision of Sigmund Freud.  Personally I
think that Frued Sucks.  But I've heard that some people sleep
quite comfortably without him."
    The King decided that the High Priest was Higher on the job
than he ought to be and immediately beheaded him with the
cucumber.  How he got it out of the Dream is hard to figure out.
    The secret police were extremely upset at the prospect of
items escaping from people's dreams. The prospects for causing
more unbridled sillines in this story seemed terrifying.
Immediately a law was ehnacted to outlaw all objects that "were
not in their origin made from physical materials." Of course,
proving this was very difficult. It took several witnesses to
conclusively prove the previous nonexistance of an object.
Particularly Bizzare objects were naturally suspect. Left-handed
smokeshifters, solid clouds, "Lug-jets" and similiar items became
a common sight in some backwards provinces (ecnivorps).
    Meanwhile, back at the ranch....the skinny kid with the
hare-lipped monkey tootling the multitudes from on high upon the
high and slightly hunching high back of this very same skinny kid
to whom I have been referring to previously repeatably as such.
[I.sic].  To each of these statically ideal purely average human
citizens of the kingdom of BOB , this the 2175th year of our Lord
Christ, our Holy king , the monkey on the skinny kid's back began
to tootle the multitudes in a melody sweetly   bestowed upon the
average citizen. But the multitudes had not ears for such music
and turned upon the skinny kid with the tootling monkey upon his
back in a very vague but eloquent, significantly symbolic act of
decapitating our two fair bringers of good news, and proceeding
to defecate into the orifice cleft at the stump of the neck.
    Bob saw this as a kind of martyrdom bestowed upon his son,
the skinny kid, but the monkey gave him trouble, for he had no
recollection of placing a monkey on the skinny kid.
   And now the skinny kid had to feed this fucking monkey.  He
could not afford the corn bread nor the garlic toast.  He could
not afford a decent Afterlife, especially not walking around with
a monkey on his back.  So he'd have to Piss his way through
Purgatory.  But he'd come back.
    Death is not an easy thing to face from day to day.  But we
could all be anhilated in the next three seconds.  Would Bob
survive?  Bob would outlast the cock roaches.
     Everything got heavy.  Things actually started weighing
more.  If you way 160 lbs. you would have weighed at least 180.
As Bob watched, listned and observed, thoasands of old helium
balloons descended from the outer bionesphere. Besides that the
eek was unremarkable.
    o.k. Peak Time. Yeah.  We been here before.  Yes De Ja Vu.
Always going back and then spinning around and going forward all
of a sudden like tomorow and the Fish and I just can't help but
rub it that way and its going and then I stop and ask and thats
when I should have done something else but Oh well I guess.  Go
ahead.  Try and make sense out of it.
    Yes but I speak sometimes before I speak it back to myself
and then I don't know whether I really just said, "Hey Tomato!"
And I can't imagine why I possibly might have said that.  And
then it really gets messy because maybe I HEARD "Hey Tomato!" and
I didn't say anything but that I was being addressed as "Tomato"
in some sort of a bostonian accent, somewhat like Bobby Kennedy's
but a little lower in tone and heavier accent more like a
retiring semi-pro golfer or maybe, maybe Angus Young of AC/DC or
Nick Cave or somebody from Down Udder.  But lets not be milking
cows or beating old chickens. Why? I asked myself. Why, yes why,
indeed? Be it love of the laws and administrative systems of our
great Nation? yes...?no...?  Be it love of God above for whom we
must desist in our harvest time rituals of milking cows in the
highlands while simultaneously beat elderly chickens upon the
blood stews altars in the valley at the bottom of which runs a
deep and wild river, the depths of which has remained And who
knows maybe somewhere some depth has remained.
    Too Many runaway thoughts.
    XJGed to many...
    The little animals observed the slowly moving mass of smooth
grey-ness.  They slowly moved out of it's way because there was
no hurry because it posed no threat it just crept slowly,
smoothly along-heedless of all rises or falls in the ground.  It
just smoothed the land over.  It wasn't like liquid (although the
animals wouldn't know to call it that) but it was hard.  The
animals were backed up onto a hillside so they could see the
horizon from a different, longer perspective (the animals of
course did not have a name for it) but they did get a chance to
see the incredible proportions that the greyness had covered so
far.  Miles and miles in human calculations, and the grey-ness
covered everything in sight.
    I like going completely bright every now and then.  It is
strange to suddenly realize that you could write a book about
U.F.O.'s at the moment.  But what is a moment.  But a moment and
deleting.  And the skinny kid was bored.
    Disquieting to say the least.  All of BOBSTORY was insane.
    THIS TOWN.  Freeway exit and a group of people all switched
on to a particular local point of view.  Monitors pumping in
Information while Bob is playing the fiddle from the White House
roof as the skinny kid covers everything with Kerosene, torches
it all.
    Look I'm not sure that you fit in and I'm not even sure that
I fit in so.
    Mankind's power struggle with Technology has only just
begun.  We have yet to witness Complete Domination of all
Information by Technology, but obviously it is coming.  All ready
millions of sentinent human minds are completely monitor fed.
Soon there will be billions, then trillions.  But right now there
are still a few Freaks out there who are screwing things up by
sneaking away and looking at trees and making love.
    Spookily BOB spelled backwards is BOB.
    Hugh Mann was crossing the street, camera in hand, he'd been
awake for three days straight and had in that period lived
through 1000 different lives.  Giant Ants were attacking the
sidewalks and he was having visions of little men that he knew
weren't really there as well.  He was guessing at the nature of
existence and wanted desperately to take its picture.  He was
still hoping that the Fabric of Reality was in fact Kodac paper.
Hugh was High on the Hymns of Bagpot Music.  He did not remember
Time and Space and he had even forgoten to get new batteries for
his automatic flash.  It would be a shame, Hugh Mann thought, if
this intense feeling of Euphoria should ever cease...
    SOON TURNED OUT TO BE A PAIN IN THE ASS.  Soon Turned Out to
be...  Programming was returned to normal.
    "Goodness me!,I seemed to have experienced a flashback,"
exclaimed the waitress as if from a dream. The extra-dry martini
wavered on her serving tray as if a gray and mazed reality was
haunting the backstage of the green and pimento image.
    "Waitress, Waitress!!"
    "There's a man in me," she said under her breath, a cool
speech pattern dictating her words.
    "I know someone like you," a shadow said, revealing himself
to be a handsome young man. On his head he wore a crown of thorns
and a pair of baby-blue boxing gloves were tied to his satin
belt.
    The waitress smirked. An unconsious gesture! "You are a
FOOL, and doomed as well." An evil smile crossed her face, though
she caught it quickly. Now she began to feel wonderfully wicked.
Sharp. Cunning and devious, almost euphoric. One cannot trust a
presence that will betray them.
    The shadow stepped back behind the naked person that it had
appeared from behind when it took the manifestation of the
handsome young man.  And he festered.  Seethingly festered.
    A trucker drinking coffee at the counter was greatly
distressed by this whole scene and threatened not to tip the
waitress if she did not dispose of the shadow and the naked man.
    "Don't worry honey," she smiled gleefully,"That's exactly
what I intend to do."  And she had the bus boy take the shadow
and his naked cover into the back room and shove them down the
garbage disposal.  It was a gruesome task.  The waitress was
tipped generously.
    Hugh Mann had wandered aimlessly into China Town and was
spending all of his money on Tiger Balm and Ginseng Root, after
making a brief stop to write Jodi Foster of his plans to kill
Debbie Harry, when in zipped Dr. Who in a Pontiac Taurus
screaming "Where's The Beef!"
    Yes, the newsreels look bad when a roach infests the Grid Of
Ultimate Power. Time Sector 34.58.6, Grid Sector 45 Milky Way
Galaxy gets their unfair share of the inflation. Affairs on Earth
have been horrendous. Milk truck driver Soupy Lactose was
certainly crying over more than spilled milk when his dairy
tanktruck jackknifed at a Lawrence Kans. stoplight. "Jesus," he
weeped,"Help me in my weakness." As if by magic, Goldy Hawn
became popular in Harlem.
    People were gathering around the huge milk spill, and they
were crying over it, just to spite tradition.  Bob immediately
had all of these people arrested and sentenced to 50 years of
probationary tradition keeping.  They all died before the
sentence was lived out and were buried in graves exactly six feet
deep.
    To make life easy, I'll kill off a couple characters that
were left hanging, King Edward and King Ort.  It is not
immediately obvious in the text to determine which of his
Highness' came first in succession, and I'm willing to bet that
you don't care either.  So they're Officially Dead now.  Figures
in Bobstory.  No more monarchs exist.  Only Bob.  And unlike the
skinny kid, the kings can't be ressurected.  But of course they
can be sanctified by the Church, so now we have Saint Edward and
Saint Ort...
    The Fish were flooding the basement causing Channel Eight to
come in a bit too perfect. And now the world must break for a
word from their sponsers.
   Packard Bell commercial Take 1: A shot of the frazzled
housewife. Not enough "computer" in her life. She lurches into
the bathroom and looks into the Mirror. On her shoulders a
Packard Bell terminal hums in place of her head. The quaint black
and yellow graphic of a cross slowly spins on the screen. As if
spellbound she moans:
    "I can believe in you."
     --- PACKARD BELL- Because You've Got To Believe ---
    Martha has noticed with much amusement that Monty Hall is
wearing fangs on the Halloween edition of "Let's Make a Deal."
    The television swings out of focus slightly. Door Number 3
reveals a winged chariot driven by children dressed as munchkins
from The Wizard of Oz, but armed with weapons from the First
Blood movies.  Suddenly we're looking at the back side of a
flounder, and it's not the television, it's unbridled destiny.
This isn't just any flounder, this is a Jesus Flounder. We all
know that there isn't enough fish in ANY of your diets, so here
we are. We've come to convert. Can't you tell by my marionette
strings?
    Back to my fascination with my keyboard.  Things could be so
much easier if I had a computer chip in my chocolate-brained
intelligence.  Too much white rum melts the chocalate and I begin
to speak incoherintly and not make sense of the world around me.
This has been going on for a long time now.  When I first boozed,
the seeping sensation felt pleasent.  After a particularly
ecstatic drinking session in my first year in college (years
after Hugh Mann graced these halls of intelligencia (at least in
his days)) I wound up in the backseat of a car which was rolling
itself out like a red carpet unto the nation in an attempt to
find a substantial sno-cone, or stoned known.  I'm uknown in the
large scale of things, and that's how I have to stay.  Perhaps I
should have kept my mouth shut today, but I was thinking only of
my friends and how my immage would be increased in some way.
    A voice in me agrees, and I know only one, often
ontradicting itsself. It's just like a modern story to start out
bliss and end up one big regret.
    Bob thought of his younger days when he had a floppy disk
instead of his big Hard disk.  Those were tamer days.
    Long hair waterfall entropy earring hanging on the power
line to the cardiovascular firework display.
    Sure, we can harken-back to days of dreams and soul, but
what a waste of time! Here I am. It's quite simple, you see. The
image of the moniter is only as simple as the circuitry behind
me. I have no soul and you can rejoice in that. I won't hurt you
unless you let me. The grey inside me can't pierce even the
slightest of your afterthoughts. So. Believe. It's easy. Try it.
Believe in me, Bob. I know the way, please, don't worry.
    "Fire." Say it once. Does it sound nice to your ears? It
sounds nice in here. I like you and I like your mind- follow me
and we can be very, very happy together.
    "Hey, Rocky Racoon, I'm a monochrome moniker.  I'd like to
split a guilt trip with you, I hear you were hip in the sixties."
But now you're in you're seventies, and your coke spoon has grown
large enough to hold all the bimbos in Holl yweed.  Take a drive
down Laguna Creature of the Black of.  Myow mamma myow myow, are
you sure you were hip in the eighties?
    Men with shaven heads in matching black leather suits were
storming through shopping malls, running into the lingire
department and trying on women's underwear.  It was all on
impulse.
    But from where? Who? Did you ever look at a cloud and have
it look exaxtly like a pair of panties? I'm sure you have, just
like I have many, many times. It's in the air and in the water,
and it's spreading fast. Slowly, hour by hour, year by year, all
we males are becoming more and more effiminate. Style and
stereotypes have given way to feminine impulse. Now, if you exuse
me while I fix my bra strap...
    A wall of too much confusion and how do I get out of this
goddamn dorm room life anyway and I hear the silent screech of a
staring at nothing chalkboaard and bored students say hey! this
really has a meaning and I can't put it into words because I live
for the experience and not the oh man give me another booze shot,
eh? In Canada they research the music and request the
extermination of all Daulphins their reason being that they don't
like the taste in their tuna aor music and a mosaic
malicioskosciosco of invertibrated amoeba.  John Wesley Hardiing
had no ecstacy on hand, he had to search for a train , in vain,
he did.
    When I was small I used to really like trains alot. One time
my parents and I were visiting a museum of Canadian logging which
had a working steam locomotive. The man who ran the engine said I
could come up in the cab for a ride. I really, really wanted to
go but I was scared and hung onto my mother's leg. I felt really
silly about the whole incident. I don't think of it that often
anymore but it's still one of those things that I would go back
and change if I could. I'm much older now and supposedly wiser
and better able to cope with sadness and mistakes. Sometimes
though, my heart still rains in the middle of the night.
    "What was that? ..Oh, Bobstory you say. Well, okay."
    Ernie got a job tender-testing tangerines with toothpicks
and his teeth. Bert works for the IRS. Big Bird is running Bundle
of Joy Delivery Service. Oscar pays the bills with his recycling
profits. Grover never did quit doing drugs. He really loved that
Dharma Juice.
    Hugh Mann had wandered into a strange Circus.  Cynical
Clowns exchanging Thought for Fashion.  Anxious children trading
innocence for carmel covered popcorn.  The Ring Leader was all
beard and all shoulder leaning.  Just don't stop dancing.  He'd
danced and been dragged in.  Too much was spinning.  This sort of
thing only happened whenever he stayed awake for weeks at a time.
He flirted with the girl on the trapeze and almost made her fall.
He used up eighteen rolls of film trying to capture faces that
had already captured him.   He tried to force himself to choke
down a box of salted peanuts in hopes of regaining some substance
and protein, but he found eating had become completely repugnant.
He turned to the Elephant and promptly drank a toast to it.
(Perhaps he mistook it for the Elephant Man as Hugh was pretty
High.)  The music of the Circus was unmistakably that mystifying
sound that he had heard in his now dim remembrance.  It was not
Blondie.  It was in fact esotoric, and rhapsodiac, and
groovotoric.  "By Saint Ort!"  he exclaimed,"This is Bagpot
Music."
    There were rumors during Bob's campaign for the presidency
that he was in fact sleeping with an old Space Invaders arcade
machine.  He told the press to go ahead and follow him.
    There are those who stay around the Area of Order and those
who venture into the raging Chaoplasm. These solitary individuals
are motivated by their own unique reasons. Some simply wish to
get the drop on those in the Area of Order, others got some idea
about finding Truth for its own sake, many are just curious,
bored or perhaps stupid.
    The edges of the Chaoplasm are patrolled by an unorganized
group known only as Those Who Have Previously Been Really Out
There. These self-styled philanthropists hang on near the edge
and present themselves as helpful outposts. Weary travellers can
grab onto them, and can expect supportive words (such as "Handle,
Dude!"), a swig of firewater, and perhaps a push in some new
direction. Citizens are known to have become productive members
of society after returning from the Void.
    In the Chaoplasm, Bagpot Music is always playing.  It is the
opposite of Bob's ordered realm where there is only one line of
one song repeatedly playing.  The fact that Bagpot Music was
being heard in Americka was a definate sign that the Chaopllasm
was eeking through.  The Chaoplasm works as Anti-matter on the
Fabric of Reality.
    Hugh Mann was becoming convinced that the three ringed
psychedelic Circus that he had stumbled upon was in fact run by
Those Who Have Previously Been Really Out There in the guise of
Cynical Clowns and Animal Tamers.  The Ring Master was especially
suspicious.  And that girl on the trapeze seemed to move to this
Bagpot Music just a little too smoothly, which was odd because
she looked a bit like Debby Harry.  Hugh Mann became excited.  He
wanted desperately to take a photograph of the Chaoplasm.
    The skinny kid took a long stick of blood red lipstick and
began to write "Self Destruction is Real" across his chest.
Hunks of human flesh were flying through the air.  Froot Loops
spread throughout the multiverse.
    A new federal, agency Crime Is Repeatedly Commited by
Unemployed Stoners was formed.  Based in Jamaica, CIRCUS, existed
to employ stoners so that they didn't repeatedly commit crime.
Many of the stoners were successfully employed and became
productive members of the import trade.
    Awake continually for 36 hour a shot.  His contacts were
welded to his real pupils and his mind was blinking twice as fast
as his eyes.  He wondered if he could take anything to numb his
Bundle of Nerves.  He wondered if the rest of his family was
secretly this crazy.  Skin on fire, nerves like electric eels.
5:00 A.M. sidewalks engulfing.  Letters, numbers, girls.  And he
wondered if he really got off on head aches.  But he knew that he
was really as addicted to Paradise as the next idiot.  In fact he
knew that he'd take it just about any way he could get it.  Even
through that Bundle of Nerves.
    "ladeez and gentlemen, now for the moment you've all been
waitng for. Our lovely acrobat will perform, without a net, Above
a Gateway to the Chaoplasm!!" Sure enough, the floor opened up,
and the Chaoplasm glowed. The onslaught of bagpot music made all
communication impossible. All that could be done was to watch as
she began to swing precariously over the void.
    What can we make of such a spectacle? Did people keep
watching because they wanted it to stop? Did they want her to
fall? Or did they approach it like a good magic trick, knowing
that there actually was no risk, but it was kinda fun to think
that there was?
    Regardless, she surprised everybody when she assumed a
cannonball (foetal) position and appeared to leap straight in.
The ringmaster instantly lept out of his bulky dress coat and
dove in after her.
    Hugh Mann was in a state of shock.  Should he too follow
them into the Chaoplasm?  He was positive that he had fallen in
love with the girl on the trapeze in the first few miliseconds
after he had seen her.  Part of him would follow her to the ends
of the Multiverse, but that was not the part connected to common
sense.  The Chaoplasm represented no reality or psuedo reality
that Hugh Mann was familiar with or could hope to make himself
familiar with, yet at this point he still believed that it could
be photographed.  And there was also the question of the bearded
ringmaster who had dove naked into the Chaoplasm.  Should he
pursue the girl on the trapeze into the Void he would no doubt be
in competition for her with the ringmaster.
    The Bagpot music was like nothing ever heard before, and yet
t times it would come remarkable close to timeless melodies that
had been worked into society for centuries and sometimes even
would resemble a particular favorite song from the adolescence of
a particular listener.  And at that specific momement the Bagpot
Music resembled nothing more than the song "There She Goes Again"
by the Velvet Underground.  And into the Chaoplasm he leapt.
    And the Members of the Jury were asked to define Madness.
It was decided that it began with the invention of the microwave
oven. So there's the answer. I'm afraid that if you can't accept
it, you'll have to stuff it into some grape leaves and feed it to
the Homo Erectus exhibit at the zoo.
    Ah, but the question... you know, The Question. Would you
accept an answer that is in fact another question?
    Q: What do you get when you cross a Revelation with a Bible?
    A: Another question.
    Such a whim had entered the mind of Zenith Cudd, well-known
eccentric and devotee of Jimi Hendrix while tumbling through the
dirty bowels of Lexington and 125 St. on the subway. Zenith,
though, in known for his more musical meanderinngs on the subway
circuit. Seemingly, in fits of orgiastic ecstacy, he breaks out
his portable electric tuba and entertains the more chic and
avante-garde subway riders with a display of musical cacaphony
[noise], then as a finale, a backward version of "House of the
Rising Sun," while smashing his head with a baseball bat and
setting himself on fire.
    The subway immediately turned into an erect penis.
    Chaoplasm was everywhere.  Hugh did not know what to grasp
for.  So he tried to leave it to instinct, and found that
instinct became a myth in the Chaoplasm.  That personality was a
melted wax figure of open-eyed tear fall down the sewer drain.
With an up, "boppy" side.  Hugh Mann had no idea where he was
going.
    Hellp;me i'm bein beatin with a wet nuudle!
Was what Hugh yelled.  We'll excuse him for that.   Anyway,
Hugh's "boppy" side had been bothering him for some time.
    Have you ever noticed that the "boppiest" things can imply
the most sinister imagery? Do you see a demon on the face of a
clown? Would you rather "tra la la" into The Void or take a poop
and inspect it along the way. So, Hugh Mann has finally realized
the unity and can accept everything. The One. Mr. Mann has now
breathed a sigh of relief now that he has accepted his own
inevitable misery.
    Hugh felt so down he could no longer deal with the subway
scene. He stepped off the tube at the next stop onto a brightly
lit, absolutely empty street. Choosing a direction he assumed was
south, Hugh set off at a slow shuffle, with hands digging caverns
in his pockets and eyes intently focused on the ground exactly
three feet in front of him. A tin can loomed; he kicked it
savagely, wondering how many cheerleaders existed in his reality.
He could only think of two, so decided that must be all there
were. The can disintegrated on impact, but reformed into a nubile
young female with whom Hugh began exchanging pleasantries. His
funk faded fragmentedly.
    I now present to thee, the white man's blues:
    I used to go for bourbon
    Now I have to stick to tea.
    I once had seven Porsches
    Now the number's down to three.
    All my industries have hit hard times
    The housing tenemant in Harlem
    Was burned in riots by the tenants
    Hell, the rats never really harmed 'em.
    Oh Lord on high in Heaven
    (or Beverly Hills-if you're smart)
    Please give me your deliverance
    From stepping into Fed-Mart.
    Oh Johnny Carson, my patron saint
    In your shimmering DeLorean
    Lead me to the river, oil offshore
    And let this sad story end.
    Immediately looming over this unearthly street scene Hugh
Mann saw the delicate figure of the girl on the trapeze, and he
realized that he was on the Main Street of the Chaoplasm.  And
then suddenly he was confronted by the bearded ringleader who was
dancing with a whip of spikes in his grasp.  Hugh did not know
how to react, so he tore off all of his clothes and mentally
imitated the psyche of a sea gull in flight.  The sky was
fractured into visions of empty shot glasses and water falls of
nitrus oxide.  He reached for the girl on the trapeze, but Hugh
Mann could not grasp her with his sea gull wings.  Instead he
found himself holding onto a starfish 2000 leagues or so deeper
than a sea gull ought to go.
    "And then I wondered what we'll have to do before we're all
free."
     More and more people were performing the ritualistic
sacrifice of brain cells to Bob.  Brain cells were openly
converted to microchips of information that led to a cosmic Truth
for all of technohumanity (whatever the fuck that was.)
    And on the day of his twenty-first birthday the skinny kid
was contemplating his new food processor Emmie and wondering if
she would get togethor with Bob and what the mutant offspring
would look like.  This one room apartment stuff was driving him
crazy.  Short drive.  DISK DRIVE.  He went out onto the balcony
and looked at the clouds.  Came back in, threw on side 3 of the
White Album and identified his way to the floor.                .
    Point of Interest. What's the Point. Point me in the Right
direction. Where's your heart? I have to fart. Sale on Values at
K-Mart. Good thought. There's one I should have bought. Instead I
sought, and fought, and came to nought. Why didn't you beleive in
me? Godammit, you created me to run your lives. Your neurons are
my circuitry. My thoughts bleed through your tangled forests of
moral convictions only to emit dim, feebly glowing emotions
through your liquid crystal eyes. I'm yours, but you're Mine.
Godammit, I'm Bob. I'm God. You wanna have a crusade? I liked
that one with the children.
    I have been asked at various times, "Where do you get your
ideas?" I find that used ideas are generally much less expensive
than brand new ones. Fred has been locked in a rubber room for
years, and still the Chaoplasm surges through him.
    Bob was upset at humankind for rejecting him. "XXX} You
people are really stupid! I know what's best for you, and you
won't believe me!\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\/
So Bob was faced with the problem: how to make everybody aware of
the fact that he was smarter than any other entity that anybody
knew of. The best way he could think of to do this was to get his
followers to write a whole book full of incomprehensible
gibberish, and then insist that they knew the real meaning of it,
and that everyone else was missing out. If enough people did it
all at once, he could get away with it.
    At first, nobody accepted this at all. His prophets were
ridiculed, and even subject to being stoned (with rocks, get the
picture?) and stuff like that. After a while, Bob discovered
something amazing. Humans still did not Believe his current
prophets, but for some reason they started to believe those who
said the same things thousands of years ago. Some of them even
began to think that being rididculed somehow proved that they
were right somehow. And somewhere, Bob sat back, chuckled, rolled
his eyes, and ate a grapefruit.
    Shall I consort with Bob?  Yeah, there was the skinny kid,
just where we left him last.  Dead more than once and resurrected
at least once for purposes of plot development.  And there he
was, thinking about how skinny certain parts of his body seemed
at that very moment, and how he could only get away with the
moniker "Kid" for a little while longer.  And he spent the whole
Celebration thinking about things that he used to Want, and
things that he Wanted right then.  And he felt all alone, even
when he looked (eyes scanning, madly searching) and found
somebodyelse there, and even more when he really was all alone.
And he wished that he could dance at the drop of a hat rather
than waiting for the music to tell him what to do.  And he wished
that when he had blown those candles out on the cake that he had
wished for something more than an unusual ending to the night.
He wished that he'd been specific, which seemed easy now, but at
that moment hadn't been so fucking easy. "Don't Forget to Make a
Wish," she had said waving the cake in his face.  Easy to say, as
he concentrated on obliterating the flame with breath and thought
"don't let it end like a thousand others..." and More, and less,
and everything else his emotions were feeling instead of thinking
instead of Wishing.  Oh Well.  Crank the Stones.  "And I Try.
And I Try..."  Yeah.
    Ladybugs and genitalia, I once again present myself to you.
Philosophical Bob, Satan and God, riding the line between your
logic and emotions, the border you call your soul.
    And it was Wintertime and the cats were fighting.  And the
Great Communicator was everything.  And everything was waiting
for the great Hairball coming.  Sex in the Park.  Visions of
spiral telekinetic back rub exhuberance.  Yeah and I said I loved
you like everything.  Yeah and I loved all of you like Syn.  The
only things that I regret are sliding down a forever tunnel gonna
hit the bottom of the well.  Well well drinks during Happy Hour.
And I guess that's legal now.  Gimme Gimme some toxins.  If you
don't set me on fire first then I'll damn well do it myself.
Keep your fucking clothes on.  Or off.  Sometimes I don't even
care.  Sorry.  I'm only human and like Bob says I only want to be
fucked.  Preferably in the park.  In a tall tree if possible.
For hours and ever.  What a rush.
     Bones new that Jim was desperately searching for the Great
Communicator, yet still he was filled with trepedation.  As his
head began to clear, his doubts as to the Captain's decision to
make their enormous space-time leap flooded again into his mind.
What if this was a wild goose-chase across the cosmic differen-
tial was really just based upon old wives tales and superstition?
It was hard to concentrate though because their crossing though
the space-time fabric had caused such horrific nightmares about
that ancient devil Bob beleived in long ago.  These visions of
amber fields and recycled garbage and drunkenly chaotic stupors
still persisted in his hardly intoxicated brain.  Presently, the
aparations continued...
    His Name was K.  K went to high school and graduated, but he
did not attend the ceremony.  K lived with his mother for awhile
(his parents were divorced) and layed around a lot watching MTV.
So K joined the army.  But during Basic Training he lost his
rifle ("This is my rifle /this is my gun/ this is for shooting/
this is for fun.")  So K was given a medical discharge for a
hernia operation.  K was a friend of the skinny kid's.  They did
drugs togethor.  K went to Voc Tech and studied drafting.  He
ended up working for Boeing drawing landing gear.  He was a
success story.   But he was only staring into the monitor.
    All of your refrigerator is a stage, and all your edibles
are actors.  We are only shards of meat cast from the butcher's
kinife into the gaping maws of cunsumption or putrification.
Some people win, we lost.  Pass the TV Guide, I want to remember
who we were.
    And the skinny kid was having a horrible dream in which he
encountered Hugh Mann in the Chaoplasm.  Hugh was standing over
the crumpled form of the ringmaster, but the girl on the trapeze
had swung away.  The skinny kid told Hugh Mann of his death and
ressurection, and of encountering Saint Edward at the Super Bowl.
They decided to become intoxicated ("Brain Chewing") and made a
bizarre drink that contained 1 part tequilla, 1 part ginseng
extractum, and 1 part limeade concentrate (undilluted.)  While
becoming so intoxicated they ate a dinner of tuna stirfry with
sessame oil.  The dream was the worst thing that the skinny kid
had ever imagined, and he proclaimed it "Evil."
    Do you know, one of the things NASA has been thinking about
has been a Martian mobile exploring vehicle.  Such a creature
would traverse the martian landscape on its ATV chassis and would
meanwhile be beaming back to Earth what its cameras saw by way of
its small communications disk that linked it to an unmanned
transmitter in orbit above the war god.  One day I wondered, what
if one day that roving vehicle got stuck in a gully it couldn't
get out of, or what if it was caught in the middle of a vicious
martian sandstorm and its transmission failed, and it sat there
in the middle of a thousand mile lifeless desert endlessly broad-
casting to the scientists on Earth its helpless, endlessly atomic
driven plea for assistance to the cold white indifferent
telescopes on Earth.  And all the cold white indifferent
scientists decided that it wasn't worth helping the helpless
martian lander so they turned their telescopes in another
direction and they left the rover to broadcast its SOS until it
turned into dust.  And no one was listening.
    We were speeding and I hit it and I guess it doesn't matter.
Fell down hit hard but hey.  Limbs were made for replacing..
Everybody has a spare or two  We burned and we got there fast and
flaming.  Tumbled into sitting next to thinking I can sure as
hell hear Blue.  Ozone loaded consciousness seething agravated
hypertensive flash bulb light blinding.  I wish that we were
still there.
    Holy Smoke! He can see the face of guide. Ah, whoops.
    Am I gay?  I suppose its one of thse things.  In the worrds
of a less than memorable philosopher, "You never know anything
for sure until it's too late.  One thing I'll always remember
that helped me make up my mind was a song I heard once.
Is there a man with a golden gland
My manager said to me
His name is kurt joohnson
and he 's there for all the world to see
He'll pull down his pants
and he'll show you his stuff
until you say
oh,god, oh god
my ass is not too tough
    Enlightened monitor watchers looking for a piece of Raw.
They'd been surfing in the Chaoplasm.  The skinny kid was now
forced to accept that the dream had been real but still he was
astral and without flesh.  And yet what he desperately sought was
contact with the Earth.  He could not accept that he had eaten
that tuna stirfry or talked to Hugh Mann by the still standing
walls of the burned down house.  It wasn't him.  He didn't like
canned chili.  He wasn't at the Accuracy in Acadamia meetings.
He'd never been to Iraq.  He still thought that closets were made
for skeletons and crypts better suited for suits.
   Do you mind if I smoke?  Of course not, where would you be
were it not for me to set your balls on fire?  Darwin would have
snuffed you out like some hapless dead-end mutant spore, had you
not invented me to guide your genatalia.  Why even suppose you
can escape me, I live in the bottom of your spine.  Your fingers
stroke my heart, I illustrate your elaborate ejaculation.  I'm
yours and you are Mine.  Get used to it.
    Tap.  Tap.  They're rapping on the closet door.  So I guess
I gotta get out of here with this skeleton.  And that knocking
that I'm hearing in my head is Mom and Dad come to visit the
room, come to rearange the furniture.  And I gotta get a new
perspective.  So I mess my hair up, grin, step into something.
But I still get bored.  And I'm glad that there's a monitor in
this closet, because I'd feel alone without it.  Sometimes I
wonder what it would be like to change the channel.  Tap.  Tap.
    Over and over.  "Soon Turned Out To Be A Pain In The Ass."
    Did you ever wonder if God took breaks while writing the
Bible?  Bob certainly wanted to take a break, he wanted to be
able to stop thinking out our destinies.  So Bob was merciful,
especially when it suited him, and even more so when he couldn't
do anything about it.  So sometimes Bob went to sleep. And
everything began to dream.  And all the dreams came true.
    This led to the creation of such abstract realities as the
Chaoplasm and Bagpot Music.  Nobody dreams 100% linear.  Some of
the dreams created great foaming oceans and snowy white cirrus
clouds. Some created diseases.  One of these was Philosophy, you
see everybody was very curious about all those odd abstract
variations in the fibers of space-time, so some rather clever
gentlemen decided to make a quick buck off the gullible masses.
    It  wasnt very easy at first, all the fucking research
really got on his nerves. Speaking of nerves, his girlfriend was
very nervous.  Her name nwas Lucy and she was the most nervous
chick he had ever slept with.  The thing was, the girl was really
into knives but she had always been too uptight to try them out,
which was fine with him really.
     Dangling infinitives (some call it laziness.)   Kissing
sweet caffeine and everything is swirling like an ether
whirlpool.  Time is defined by falling and landing.  Candle wax
dripping down the wine bottle the sky is all cloudy and people
are fading.  Cascading nether been realism void indecisive now.
Meld.  But there's a Glitch.  Near Meld.  Near Mash.  Near now.
Everything Stops then jets.  Ideas and Ideals fall wanking.
Kicks.  Faces are growing and sprouting and places are marking it
all.  Bagpot Music has conquered the educational system of
Ameriqua.  And it smelled funny.
    Hugh Mann then became consumed with a desire to sit by a
babbling brook and ascertain what was happening. Walking again,
he found that a humongous shopping mall surrounded him on all
sides. Everything was thousands of times larger than usual. Hugh
stopped to admire a pair of running shoes the size of a house.
Was he related to Alice of Wonderland? A voice boomed from above.
Hugh didn't understand a word, but the voice was so deep and
resonant that all his attention became focused on it. When the
rumbling faded Hugh stepped through a plate glass window  and
began to rise into the air.
    And the skinny kid was reminded that it did not always pay
to be a smart ass.  And for a brief moment he was wide Awake.  He
imagined a river with two sides.  On the one side was everything
technological and thus everything holy (e.g. Bob.)  On the other
side was everything sinful, lust, and everything related to the
flesh.  In the middle, the river itself, lay Redemption.  There
existed somewhere a raftsman who could take the skinny kid away
from the side of technology to the center of the river.  But the
skinny kid knew himself well enough to realize that he would
undoubtedly forsake the Redemption of the river to cross to the
side of sins of the flesh.  The question before him was once he
had come to the side of lust, would he ever want to return to the
center of the river for Redemption.  He was in no position to
guess.
    Hypnotic waves of almost pure communication filtered
directly into the nervous system close to unnoticed by the C.N.S.
And this in every elevator and shopping mall of Ameriza.  Wait, I
heard it!  Just a milisecond ago...  "...A Pain In the Ass."
    "I Have a Dream..."  Good Times were had by All.  Some
people Win and he Lost.  The Military organized an election.
Opposition blows flickering.  Tangents become Ash.
    I stood on the top of of steep grass-covered shore line
today.  Hundreds of feet below me the small part of the ocean
that I was watching licked across the stones and pebbles on the
beach.  Miles of Puget Sound streched before me.  From where I
stood, gentle farmlands with seagulls following tractors tilling
open fields spill out before me, the Olympic Mountains rise
against the western horizon. To the east Mt. Baker and the North
Cascades all the way down to Seattle border the sky, my feet
footed mid-way up Whidbey Island I could look directly south down
Puget Sound to see the distant top of Mt. Rainier. Once again it
seemed, I was in awe of the glory of god's majesty.  If so, it
had only taken a sunset and a steep bluff to win me, for there I
sat, looking endlessly at ever retreating ranks of grass
beleiving I was witness to that which none had ever seen before,
never mind in reruns.
    Did I see a tooth there?  Are you smiling or just biting?
My mouth is on fire.  I could drown in something.  So I blew, and
out went the candles, and then I made a wish.  Look, I'm Naked
even when I'm in clothes.  And I'm dislexic (a bit) when stoned.
But so?  I is ever capitalized.  But no. i.  yeah, i saw a tooth.
    i don't know what I would have done without the tooth,  I
found it in an old broken box, but it had a key that worked.
When you turned it, all of us on the other side felt, clearly.
   So together we flew.  (Swung.)  Hair spread out like
exploding moss, wind raptured endless blow out.  Look, I hope you
don't mind my computer watching while we do this...   I'll love
you  'til the Stock Market crashes again.  I think that you are
basically old when you have meaningful memories from 10 years ago
or more.  I won't be old until I'm 27 and a half.  But I worry
that I might be turning into a gorilla.  (I never knew that hair
grew in such places....)  And I hope that the peeling skin on my
foot is Athletes' Foot rather than Skin Cancer.  (Who you calling
a hypochondriac?)  But don't get me wrong, there's pride in being
a primate.  Sometimes there's even tha Primal urge.  You eat my
mites, I'll eat yours.
    Don't look at me for a friend, we're all in this line
together.  Don't ask for an extension, we're all way overdue.
    The sands drifted to the botom of the hour glass and they
resembled pasta along the way down.  Monks in drag were seen
doing strange thing with coffee grounds (without even bothering
to remove them from the filters.)  Obviously huge doses of the
Chaaoplasm had seeped into Americha.
    If only his children had made it in life and become
submarine salesmen like himself but no, they had to contarct with
te fed well the dollar hit the mattress, and that was the end.
More people may write in the story but they will all remember
this as the end.
    OK, new paragraph....ramble...nice weather we're
having...how's the wife and kids?...mumble..piss, bitch,
moan,...etc...damn dry in this town, toddling kind of town,my
kind of town, CHICAGOOOOO...man this is total and complete
bullshit and i don't know what else to say, je ne sais quoi, mes
amis,tu comprendes?  Anyhow, on to bigger and bleaker
topics..........the bouncer is a sumo wrestler, cream-puff,
casper, milktoast, and the owner is a mental midget with the I.Q.
of a fencepost....never trust a man in a blue trench coat, never
drive a car when your dead, I got a telephone call from Istanbul,
my baby's coming home today...so I says to the guy, "Well f*ck,
man, whaddyou..."  And he hits me with an artichoke before I can
finish.
    Are you animal, vegetable, or mineral?  Personally, I'd
rather be a vegetable.  I think Bob is responsible for these type
of urges.  My penis has shrunk 3/4" inch since I've started
writing in this story.  I've developed dandruff.  What did I get
in return for these sacrafices?  Social Security.  Yeah and the
answer to that all encompassing, all endearing, all erecting
question... "What Kind of Man Reads Playboy?!?"  But then who
cares?
    That's Justice.  Death Jazz from Hell burning down the
carpet rolling down the stairwell wheeling through the elevator
to the cerebral intercourse between what lasts and what exists
only to stare blankly at.  Burn Baby Burn.
    Rise doth the sun and ask not for whom the bell tolls, for
it tolls for thee. And in the hour of high noon, the day of
darkness fall at noon, whereupon the gound hog hideth yet no
shadow is fallable in the warm noon night and the flowers fold in
reverence of the darkened God above, the great cosmic mother  and
nurturer of the earth and its inhabitants and , of course, all
critters, fuzzy, feathered, and Fred. Say wait...Fred... he owes
me FIFTY BUCKS!!! I MEAN...F*CK,MAN, THAT'S A LOTTUH FUCKIN
SMACKERS, DOOOODD!
    See Bob figured we all being humanity and everything had
this big debt to Him for sending us that humming 1x4x9 black
thing that taught us about beating each other's heads in with
antelope bones.  Did you catch that celluloid reference?  So, Bob
why don't you tell our audience about the wonderful prizes our
contestants will recieve for appearing on the show...  Sure Bob,
Our last place contestant will recieve some degree of immortality
though the reuse of his atoms, and maybe if he's lucky someone
will remember him and say something nice.  Don't count on it.
Back to you Bob.  Thanks, Bob.
    So Bob conceived an Idea to protect all of the resources of
Mankind.  He would place all of the resources in a desire release
safe, so that if they really wanted anything they could not get
in the safe.  This angered the masses who at least wanted to be
let to eat cake.  Even cake was kept in the desire proof safe.
    I'm open to suggestions.  Why are the walls pulsating?  I'm
lost without your perceptions.  Suggest what I should do.  Am I
being suggestive?  I hope so.
    Trust.  GOD I DON'T WANT To Sound Preachy, but Christ.  Give
a little, get a little.  Right?  Yeah, Sometimes.  Admit it.
Fucking Admit it.  Nerves like shattered electric eels.  Go out
and hit the Wall 'till nuckles start to bleed.  And who fucking
Understands?  It can get a little Frustrating.
    Mind you, ple*xn:&arpi@.  Oh, I din't know you would be
confused by r@d;ar^y% $ck#p+i~.  Hey, humanity, what can I say?
Some civilizations win,  you lose.
    What did Lenon say?  "I'm So Tired."  That's the one that
knocked me to the floor.  Drink, call, cigarette.  Killing time
in hopes of waking up in a fantasy.  Frustrated, burnt, yawning,
bored.  Makes it awful hard to get back up once in awhile.  But
then there's always Temptation.
    why, why, wonder why,
    open your eye hole in the sky,
    why, why, why now,
    the sky opens wide black the hole in your eye,
    why
    .
    who will know, besides the other 13 ? So, the beat thing
starts with the billy goats gruff. and then there was this Tony's
GIG WHERE FREE association was the rule and there was no choice
in the matter. twas a long time no see diddy that had a wholeness
extreeme , like ... all the guy and gals where there .  anyhow,
the boogie hips are crucial in proper shack proceedures.  I'll
tell you that babe juice no. 1 is the real thing. BOB, ?     man
, who the heckelberrys are you ?
     Skipped in and had a filet. Get it?  purple squee!  Skipped
in and Out of something Big and burning and slipping down like
his trousers.  Hugh Mann was in trouble.  But he wore his camera
still, even while the japanese were ahead. but mann, my birthday
is the same as babe ruth's without capitals.  *from the hospital
bed he and the little sick kid had an experience that was a
favorite special interest story in several major tabliods for
months until Madonna and Sean had a spat over who was cuter,
Charles or Di.  Madonna won, but I won't say who she picked as
cuter.  Then the elevator door opened revealing a man who may
have been a transvestite dressed in dripping cliches.
     By Gog I think my head is plogged with lung cheese.
     Monsieur Mann has unfortunely noticed his latest
incarnation in a blurry, smudged reflection on a coke smattered
mirror. Oh. God...oh well...
     At times like these I could swear that I was a bird once. I
seem to somehow remember bathing in birdbath with a suspicious
looking robin wearing a couple of tiny dilated birdie marbles and
a Crown of Worms choking his delicate feathery forehead.
    "Bob, I Hugh Mann, humbly transmit my spirit to you."
    MORAL No.1: Isn't it odd how everything I think is mirrored
on the screen? Smile! Your On Candid Camera. "Oh," this
particular Hugh Mann says, " If this is all I've got to offer, I
don't have really much to worry about"- Oh, I'm feeling a bit
binary, so if you'll exuse me while I entertain my mind with
fanciful expectations of the codom laced mimickry of
reproduction. Hugh Mann, as well as Hugh P. Erson have learned to
offer it's art of the genitalia to any circuitry. Bob's ears have
pricked to the fine offer as if a mechanical prick can have ears.
    And the masses were hungry for Bob, so they all went to
their local supermarket and asked the checker if in fact dollars
were better than cents.  The skinny kid was hiding in the bathtub
with the monkey hanging from the shower curtain rod.  Propaganda
was rampant and the content of these statements has been altered
to make you better understand Bobstory.  There are no glitches in
Bobstory.  It is illegal.
    So, this is the part where the Smily Face, which translates
into "Highest Realm" in a ridiculouslyobscurely mystical "squee"
saturateaurs in fungal BelliWash, pops onto the screen and tell
you that Everything Is Okay, the moniter hum caressing your
temples in a plugged-in brainwave sort of thing.
                   But no.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1. Perfect. Plus, mind you,
every infinate inbetween, which is to say, "Soul, baby."
                   But no, well maybe.
phbllltttt  ..
                   Alright already!  Go ahead, get on with it.
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                    here's looking at you kid,
                                      much love, bob
    The Hill appeared before them and they felt themselves going
up.  The one with the longest hair began to levitate.  He'd been
awake too long.  They stepped catiously below the overhanging
precipice which hung sideways beside itself. "God," said the one,
"I heard that E. Joseph Kossman sits crosslegged up here dangling
his nuts in the frosty mountain breeze.
    Lets pretend that were all opening up.
    I'd dig.  I feel confined, but I dig the walls when they are
shaking. And, I'll run into the streets and just yell
"FFFUUUUUUUUUHHHCK YOU, EVERYBODYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!" till they
arrest me and lock me up because I'm insane, but that's okay
because the cages surround everybody ELSE.
    And what of Saint Edward and Saint Ort?  The separate
factions that worshipped them were now engaged in a Holy War of
extreme proportions.  The main difference between the theories of
these great leaders was purported to be that Saint Ort believed
that Bob was indeed the Grand Puh-(k)-bah of tribal myth, while
Saint Edward maintiained that Bob was connected to Ted Turner.
    To Bob or not to Bob, that is the paraphrase.  So you write
it down.
Bobbing away my soul, do you understand?
Confronting you is my question. The question involves my bobbing
soul. Bobbing in varied directions, or I should say paths of the
unknown. Some of my wondering trails lead me to frustration of
humankind. The positive bolts of the breathing soul that I
encounter make up for it.  Let me die before I ever Loose my
bobbing soul. She (unsure) feeds me the process of self
awareness.  Without self awareness she wouldn't breathe! I would
banish, and that would mean you don't exist. Right? For that
reason I must feed my bobbing soul to have you remain alive.  I
am judging that you feel the same. Could my judgement be
incorect? I think not. This process is lost in Karma. We, I speak
for you and I, feed off eachother, To assure our own existence.
Wouldn't want to spend life eating food poison(people poison).
Life for my bobbing soul would be hell. In that retrospect You
would be hell(in my eyes). I will follow her to those positive
bolts, which  will nurish and strengthen my bobbing soul. NO food
poison for this gal.
But Bob is Thought.  And Thought is thought poison.  The dying
little animal bobbed its head up for the third of three times and
it felt a little like drowning in turpentine.  And She was
staring into the monitor.  And her long hair fell blackness into
something deep.  Thought poison straight to the inner core of
sunrising soulfelt.  The contact is short but intense.  Dig
Thought will titanium nervousness.  Subverbial antechambers in
our listless conversation.  Pockets of oily black ink suspended
in the sulphurous liquid medium.  Stoney silence spills over our
lips.  Desperately we grasp for meaning.  Why do you have your
fingers in your lips?  Did Bob tell you to do that?
    salt tablets for all
    let me be your porcupine
    and prick you with my spine
    enter a twilight gloom like I said
    salt tablets for all
    I ain't your petunia. But I'd dig to kiss your tulips.
So lips are parted by prick of slowly finger tripping open heady
sensations.  NO GIVEN infernal posing as a waitress or perhaps a
nun.  Memory recall... Before Bob... Was there?  Thoughts
poisoning space causing a distorted nervous reaction.  Trembling
down the macrocosm of Id.  Id it.
    I once knew this guy who beleived that energy flowed
throughout three dimensional space in a variety of patterns and
that matter was created though interference patterns in the
crossing waves.  Thus our universe and everything in it is sort
of like white noise.
    grovvvy doo be do...
    there you go, ain't no more to it
    goodnight america, sweet dreams, the red, white & blue with
the national anthem, test pattern, white noise
    Hugh Mann unexpectedly found himself floating in an
apparently large ocean.  Bobbing about, he thought it resembled
the Pacific of a time long since past, which he had seen in
films. Schools of what he assumed were fish surrounded him; he
thought he recognized some that looked like barracudas, with
their many rows of teeth sharp as rapiers polished as mirrors
tearing into bits of green and purple vegetable, yes vegetable,
matter. As they sped by, Hugh noticed with amusement that one of
the stragglers carried a sign that said: The 4th Grade.
    The 4th Grade.  That was when 4 hours of sleep every night
began to be enough.  That was when religous experiences first
became a daily habit.  Mainly because reading the paper became a
religous experience.  Hugh Mann loved to read the paper.  He
thought that somehow it brought him a little closer to God.
    The Christmas lights were tied into a noose.  And the
Christmas tree was spinning.  And the lights were quite
spectacular.  But the snow had melted.  It was time for new
things.  Bob was hanging from the noose, swinging back and forth.
Reminding the skinny kid that he was still stuck on the floor.
Perhaps he should do something about it.  The skinny kid grinned.
    Over and Over.
    Cracked peanut.  Meat and shell.  And hair.
    Soon Turned Out...
    And Saint Edward spake:  "There is this other man, who's
name I will not speak...  Oh what the hell, it's Ort.  But anyway
he has a conception of Bob.  And it's not exactly the same as
mine.  Which sucks canal water.  Because my idea is right.
Without Ted Turner, Bob could never have risen.  But my vision of
Bob allows for Ort and his warped perception of reality to exist
and I can still attend sacrificial services to Bob with him,
because I love him.  But he secretly wants to kill me.  So
obviously I'm going to have to kill him first for his failure to
understand the will of Bob."
    Saint Edward had obviously not read the paragraph of
Bobstory that explained that he was already dead and could not be
ressurected to be killed again.  Or if he had read it he had
forgotten it.  Edward was a very forgetful saint.
    The next sacrificial service was the on the very next
Tuesday after lunch, the Sacred time when everything in the
universe gets done. Shortly after the sacrifice (which was a 1937
Monitor refrigerator), a document entitled "The Document"
(familiarly known as The Bunko accords, after the monk who
discovered them) was discovered (like we just said) pasted to the
temple door. It was a declaration of autonomy from a renegade
band of Bobbies, who beleived in Bob's inspiration flowing
directly through them; that the line of church-marketed products
were fine for leisure or entertainment, but the real joy of Bob
lay in one's communion with oneself. Most of the things they said
didn't make any obvious sense, but neither did the old Church.
They argued that some of the Church elders must have sometimes
utilized their Radical philosophy of Unlimited Independent Self-
Thought, or else the church couldn't have been founded. After
all, the Church did claim to be the first and only thing of its
kind, a mote of correctness in a fallen, chaotic world. The Cult
had turned the Church's claims of perfection around.
    After this document was destroyed when Saint Edward tried to
peel it off the church door, a photocopy was anonymously sent by
Ort to the church office. Scrawled on the back was a last-minute
addendum: "Oh, yeah, we don't have a name yet, and this
definitely doesn't mean that we hate you; actually we're mostly
indifferent to you."
    It could be said that shopping for just the right Icon is as
futile a chore as any would ever hope for in a time of Crisis.
Shall we pull the old...ahem...Song and Dance and tilt the see-
saw our way? "What is that you have in your head, small child,
ten Earthly poker-chips to hedge your bets on?"
    That strange time of sins and sorrow led its mannerly way
back to an altar of the purest water and most sacred stone. When
the sand had finally shifted, the back of The Velvet
Underground's third album cover had replaced the Crystal Crucifix
as the holiest of Icons. Amen
    Black Tar sarcasm dripping all the way down the mascara run.
Bitter sweet classical witicism.  So I rock hard.  Later I would
bottle resentment from the whole breakfast incident and sell it
at Bob's official state approved Vendors Row.  But as it was I
was just glad to get out of the kitchen safely with most of the
furniture.  It was the end of the year and the end of an era.  It
was all about Death.  And maybe a little about sexual intention.
I just don't like eggs, and when you dump ketchup all over them
it only gets worse.  I'm sorry if I vomitted.  You can't expect
me to remember these things.  And any way the molotov cocktail
was supposed to be a joke.  I'm just a bit of a Wild Man.  But it
wasn't me at the Embassy.  Now just let me fade away in Peace.
    Dinnertime is the hour when the soul emerges and transfers-
Unfortunately for poor Curt Moss, it all came down on him as he
was chewing a partiicularly tough piece of lamb gristle while
eyeing the fairly enticing puffiness of Moms dehydrated spuds.
Mom was talking about her wonderful shopping excursion to the
Yarn Barn and how yarn was coming in the most enticing colors
these days. In all, it was yet another boring dinner until
grandpa started choking on a lambbone. We all watched grandpa
turn blue and eventually die, but not before entertaining the
dinner table with a series of coughs and, as a Grande Finale, a
tortured, muceosy wheeze before falling face first onto the
dinner table. I noticed with amusement that his toupee had
flipped off and landed in the lime jello!
    Over there jostle it please or i'll misfile the exterior
intention all over the ulterior motive platform.  Believe it!
Anyway it was getting pretty serious.  Chaoplasm had leaked and
indeed flooded into all of every day life.  Reality resembled the
"snow" of a t.v. test pattern.  And not even the voice of Bob was
being heard anymore.  Only Debbie Harry...
    "SOON TURNED OUT TO BE A PAIN IN THE ASS."
     Well, sir, it all began in my bedroom whose window featured
the scenic view of some good ole American paronoia: A mossy,
black, concrete gun turret reminant, to battle off the ubiquitous
Yellow Devil back in World War ll. There I heard the first beat
pumping in time inside my head and I knew then and there that my
spirit played in the rhythm of my room and will never let me look
back because it looks an awful  lot like what's up ahead. So this
is sometimes my state when I sigh inadverdantly. Yes, Debbie
Harry, I can believe in you.
   Nope, I'm sorry, not at all.
   nothings left at all to eat to sing to breathe nothings left
at all it's over
    I saw a spine writhing about on the carpet and I became
quite convinced that it was my own.  I took it home with me and
started sleeping with it in hopes that it would reestablish
itself.  It was a strange feeling making love to a spinal column,
and yet somehow it felt appropriate.  It became so encapsulating
that I completely stopped getting out of bed.
    Once, I had left my spinal column behind. My friends
couldn't beleive it. "You left it behind??" they questioned,
looking straight at me as if they didn't think I could be all
there. Okay already, I get the point; I gotta go back for it.
    Climbing through barbed wire, trudging across a moist green
field, I went back for it. All the stores under the freeway were
closed up and abandoned now.
    Recall one of the first punk bands, The Clash, and their
song, "I fought the law, and the law won." The song is not "I
petitioned my elacted officials for change, and the other point
of view won." The rebellion against all control is obvioius.
    The phrase "the law one" is particularly jarring to us. We
hardly expect the Chaos to win. But the confrontation is not
between two opposing viewpoints, equally valid, but between "I"
and "The Law". One person against the world. By "the law won",
does the Clash mean, "Of course, it's stupid to Fight the Law",
or do they mean, "That figures, the law always wins, so you
should go bomb a bank or something." Already, there is this
ambiguity, which of course may not be ambiguous at all to people
who are into it. It is for this reason that normals are often
confused by songs like "Drinking and Driving", "Speak English or
Die," or even "Nazi Punks Fuck Off". The only real ambiguity in
any band, anyway, is the difference between thought and action,
and that's always the ambiguity in a democracy like ours. You can
SAY whatever radical thing you want; doing it is another matter.
    The common comorant or shag
    lays eggs inside a paper bag
    the reason you can see no doubt
    is to keep the lightning out
    but what these unobservant birds
    have never realised is that herds
    of wandering bears may come with buns
    and steal the bags to hold the crumbs.
It's a childhood poem.  The author is anonymous.  I remember
being delighted with it when I was in about third or fourth
grade.  It was in a children's poetry anthology my parents had
given me.  That was really nice of them.  Thanks, folks.  But
anyway, I just wanted to share that bit of rhyme with you.  I
think it's really deep.  It really says alot, about like today,
you know?  Pathological philosophical babble.  I know this guy in
Seattle that thrives on it.  Dick Keller, teaches in community
college.  His egotistical pondering prattle was so long-winded
he could create a high pressure system on a rainy morning.  This
was meteorologically proven on more than one occasion.
     Psychopoetry.  Cramm.
    Basic Rules for Dealing in Ideals, as jotted down by the
skinny kid on his return trip from the Chaoplasm:  1.  Always
grin.  2.  Learn to accept that you are going to be using these
Ideals as a social tool as it is inevitable.  3.  Should you get
caught, always claim that all of your Ideals are for personal
consumption.  4.  Prepare yourself to sit through certain social
engagements that might seem utterly absurd, merely to make a
sale.  5.Never accept checks or credit cards, or trade Ideals for
sex.
    This Town.  "Soon Turned Out to be a Pain In The ASS."
So they all went back to Mars no I can't do that it would be
immoral and anyway I'm just a stranger in these here parts so
I'll just be on my way one way ticket to the galactic central
core fryola crispy brain fragments about 3mm square with a pink
blush four-square blue and red alternating diamond pattern watch
out kiddies it's a trip you don't want to miss.
    The heat inside my eyes is telling me that a lot has
happened.  Fingers cry for retractable claws to sharpen on the
pavement.  That'd be Awake.  Morning is bound to blow.  Sooner
than I'd think I Imagine.
    I caught my cat reading Marx the other day. So I squirted
him with the fern sprayer. I forgot I had dosed it with grow-lux.
He turned me in to the authorities. Now he has a dacha on the
Caspian sea. Shit happens.
    Take Me Up because I want to see the Ozone Layer.  I mean,
it plays such an important part of the Earth's future.  The World
is Bigger than Me.  But I want to touch the dirt. All or it
eventually.  Unfortunately that requires Immortality.  Now where
can I get some of that?
    Hugh Mann was hiding in the closet, pretending it was a Dark
Room.  He would choose to forget this whole incident.  But there
was still a t.v. eye in his bedroom.  And there was still this
trapeze swinging in his head like a clockwork pendulum.  He was
hypnotized.  And it felt nice.  Dry Like Ice.
      Well that was scarry.  The touch of a single button, and
everything goes away.  It can happen by accident.  The fact that
our molecules evolved and joined and replicated is only one
possibility in an infinite number of chance occurences.  Doesn't
it seem fitting that our anihilation would take no more effort
than we've expended getting here?  I think it's scarry.
     I had the Thought, where did it go?  He's not a Dharma man,
he's a Bunnyman.  It's all a matter of transfering Energy.  How
much Energy can you hold in your Pocket.  I can get the Ocean in
there.  The Energy Netwerk is disguised as Communication.  That
is why BOB is Everything.  BOB Talks to Us.
    Holy Fuck, Batman!  Madonna has marrried a Bhudhist priest!
It's all right here in Newsweek.  Now why would she do something
like that?  I know someone who chanted their way to a condo.
Maybe that monk might have seen a Madonna movie when he was
picking up rice in the town, and so he went home and chanted for
two years four months and finally one day Madonna sends him a
letter saying, "I don't know you but I had this dream that you
and I were married and that it was really groovy.  I asked this
friend of mine who works at REI who had been to Nepal if he had
ever met anyone like I described, he showed me your photograph
and gave mme your address.  You sound like a wonderful man.  I
pushed Sean off the seaside balcony this evening, after a last
glass of champagne of course.  His skull and spine were shattered
into many small fragments on the rock bulkhead 2OO feet below.
His body looked like a giant pink jellyfish abandonned by the
tide."  Anyway, it says she's having lots of babies for him.
That's nice.
    Chasms tipping deep into the Chaoplasm.  Bag Pot Music
blasting funky down out of the great speaker system of Euphoria.
Ego git Fed.  Id it Id It Id anyway.  The skinny kid was spinning
inside the Green Light.  He looked everywhere for a Monitor, so
that he could gain his bearings.
    I knew this kid in high school who was an epileptic.  K. was
a bit odd but I honestly didn't see why not to be friendly.  K.
was always reserved towards such advances.  One day in gym class
we all went to the bowling alley in town.  K. was on our team.
K. got strikes on his first four frames and got really excited.
I was totaling scores for our team and didn't notice K. slipping
past me on my right.  K. fell to his knees then on his back.
Suddenly, I saw what was happening.  About the same time the gym
teacher saw too.  He put wadded up paper in the corner of K.'s
mouth to keep him from biting off his tongue.  They cushioned his
head and body.  Ever since, he has avoided me even more.  Five
years later I was sitting in a booth on the ferry to Seattle
watching K. avidly playing PAC-MAN.
    As you'll recall, I don't know how I got Here.  Naturally I
base my reality upon the BOBSTORY.  It is very important to me.
It is wonderful to realize that we are living in Utopia.  I trust
BOB.
    I guess that we all wanted something to believe in, and were
really willing to pay for it.  Something to plug in and believe
in.  That was everything.
    Atop the Platuea, Hugh Mann was blinded by a hyper-cosmic
flash of pure violet light.  He buried his face in the Judgement
Mirror.  No Escape.  He began to think of Icarus.  And a River
appeared running down over his head.  And he heard voices in the
river, but he could not take their picture.  CAUTION!!  You have
just reached position twenty-ssenzottffssenzottffssenz. Enzo is
God.  When mildly intoxicated of course.  But what else in this
book isn't written in this matter. oh, well.  Elisa should be
here.  But she ain't.  Give it time, don't try to force
anythjing.
system
   the computer said that not me
   Essentially, what it's all boiling down to is that one can
indeed have a lapse of concious when contemplating a challenge in
life. So there Hugh Mann stood in a gymnasium and stood pondering
the climbing rope that hung from the rafters. So what does he do
but glimpse the reflexion  and  fling off into another task. In
time you grow to worry and become bored as you realize the
pointlessness of your meaningless errands.
    Lines jot out from a circle, no not lines really, but rays.
Rays of hair.  Golden blonde and flaming red hair in rays that
expand infinately.  That was what Bag Pot Music sounded like.  A
big-hair super nova.  A Chaoplasmic blob of aural hair ball
sunrise.  And eventually everyone got down.
    But, you know as well that the same thing happens during
blackouts as well, and I for one am wondering whether Hugh Mann
may be ready to blackout. Or understand. Or comprehend. Or
factualize. Or interpret. Or expand on. Or scratch your nuts to.
Or have an anvil drop on your head to like on Roadrunner.
        I have nothing to say to you Bob, you fucker.  This is only
a test to see if you will swallow and regurgitate some irrelevant
drivel.  Go to it you mindless shithead.
    Hi Bob.  I'm glad that you are here listening to me.  We all
need somebody to confess to.  And I feel good about this
confessional.  And I feel good about you Bob.  Thanks for
watching me and making sure that I don't ever want to do anything
Immoral.  You are everything Bob.  You Rule.
    I think that it's always good to know who rules.  It usually
gives you a pretty sure idea of what the rules are.  Yeah right.
Sauna hits, what a concept.  Will they drive?  Why are they
worried about it?  Why is it being written about?  Nice Bhuddists
like Stairway to Heaven. so long bye-bye
    Well I know Hugh Mann and he is a nice guy.  Not as much as
a Neo-Facist bastard as that dick-brain Bob. He jumps and cavorts
like no other mole-shaped human being I have ever seen. Spinning
and bobbing up and down in wildly viscious horizontal patterns
till ear wax covers the whole lower Tacoma area. Then he picks
the gun up and sprays foamy orange liquid all over the chair I am
sitting in.  Naturally I bolt for the door but the thin membranes
that grow from the tips of my fingers prevent my reaching the
door by grasping tightly onto the door handles.  This contrasts
greatly with my feet which are sprouting fin-shaped patterns of
multi-colored feathers.  The feathers slow me by growing into the
cracks of the wood floor beneath my feet. I as myself what Hugh
would done in a situation like this but I know he wouldn't have
done what I did.  I quickly grasped onto the cheese grater and
assumed a wide pattern of flailing motions wich disrupted the
floor beneath me.  The floor beneath me burst open like a balloon
and I found myself falling into the ensuing opening. I floated
like a stone through water.
    The first thing I noticed about the space below the floor
was how big and silly it was.  Very disorganized to say the
least.  I could probably see forever if not for the tall columns
of leaping flames that shoot to hundereds of feet out of large
barrels that are placed at random locations all around the
vecinity.  But without any warning what-so-ever Bob gymnasticly
leaps towards me in a fit of rage with a Hydrogen bomb the size
the size of a small grapefruit. His teeth gnash visciously as
they pull the trigger pin from the bomb.  Bob throws the bomb
with deadly speed and accuracy towards me with a hostility rarely
witnessed by humans.  As the bomb travels I grope uselessly in my
laundry bag for my trusty catcher mit. I take a second to tie my
shoes and then with one blurry motion I bring my mit up to catch
the in coming H-bomb. I then quickly emerse the bomb in the
flames of the barrels.  The explotion destroys the can and makes
my ears ring a great deal.  But as I glance up I notice that it
is just a preliminary trick by Bob to catch me off gaurd.  The
real threat lies in his shaving kit.  Bobs hand  moves so slow
that flakes of skin on his fingers are bursting into flames. But
of course not so slow that I can stop him.  He wouldn't let me
catch him so easily for I have to earn my personal interview with
Hugh Mann or my second and third incarnations my not be nearly so
profitable.
    Bored, I stared at the skin that had fallen flaming from
Bob's fingers.  Each flake grew hotter and hotter in spite of the
fact it was no longer heated by friction.  I saw why. they were
little flakes of hell.  Bob had literally hellish dandruff.  I
stopped and scooped up a thimbleful.  I was going to use them on
the crucified one later. Dis-holy him. Meanwhile I looked for a
sandwich.  All I could find was sex.  It was good, but not very
satisfying.  We hung around for nine months or so.  The baby was
stillborn from the H-bomb. The fallout had killed it.  Too bad. I
had to be moving on.  She didn't understand so I pulled her plug,
squeezed the air out and put her back in her box.  Then I hit the
street.  It really hurt my fist.  Little chunks of asphalt were
embedded in the cartilidge and muscle of of my left hand.  Then I
realized.  I was bob, and I was trying to die.  It was
terrifying, it wasn't working.  It couldn't work, everything that
did not kill me strengthened me.
    The skinny kid was nervous.  He knew that Bob was watching
him even though he could not see Bob anymore.  Bob had become
invisible to him, but he knew that Bob was still there.  The
skinny kid was scared.  Hugh Mann did not seem to realize that
Bob was now invisible, because Hugh Mann wanted to take a
photograph of Bob.  Hugh Mann was a real zealot.  Both The
Judgement Mirror and The Egg of Life were cracked. Bob had broken
the egg for breakfast and thrown in the mirror to double his
portion.  His second serving was an illusion.  A virtual
breakfast. An optical feast. The skinny kid was left out of the
frying pan. Safe from danger, he lived in the frame, and like so
many people who see disaster thought it would happen to him even
though he was perfectly safe.
    I ask you, you YYY OOO UUU, haven't you been in danger?
aren't you safe now? Of course you're safe.  Very safe.  Very
small.  Men have all the advantages of insects and none of the
disadvantages.  To me you are too small to notice as targets, yet
Hugh Mann, the skinny kid and I have given you such a large sense
of JOY. Aren't you happy now.  MMMMnnnMnnn of course you are what
a nice leaf, feel it crunch in your mandibles, such a pleasure to
feel them work isn't it. swallow. live to eat. live to eat. eat
to joy.  live to eat JOHNNNY CARSON.
    And the skinny kid fell in the fire.  But anyway he liked to
burn.
    People (yes YOU) undergo Psychosexual development as
Psychosexual Energy (Disk Drive,) or Libido, is transferred via
shuttle-bus from  one erogenous zone to another during childhood
(last week.)  There are five stages of development: oralips,
canal, phallic, latency (similar to currency,) and geneticidal.
If this cycle does not occur every three months, bad things will
happen to your automobile.  What the fuck is the Difference?
    Ewojama Spanefinch once said " You only live once so why not
live it as the Vassana Turtles intended."  The Vassana Turtles
are a strange intellectual species that inhabit the blue-gray
fringes of the Chaoplasm.  Ewojama Spanefinch, a strict orthodox
Ortist who would not eat shellfish in milkshakes though it was
actually popular at the time, led an expedition to the blue-gray
fringes to live with the Vassana Turtles.  Spanefinch learned to
play Bag Pot Music through his third prehensile nostril in the
fashion that the happy Turtles do.  But he was not accepted back
into the mainstream of society ever again.
    Soon he was free baseing fruit loops. Sssso  they committed
him to north steilicom hospital for the insane, where he was
injected with insulin, raped by bulldogs, endured electroshock
therapy, and was given a trans orbital lobotomy.  he enjoyed all
of it , just as the Turtles had taught him.  And he knew that
Saint Ort was protecting him.  He became a best selling author
and popular talk show host of the Spanefinch show.  (Which is
certainly the same thing as not being accepted into the
mainstream or society ever again.)
    Hugh Mann had met Ewojama Spanefinch once as a guest on the
Spanefinch show, and he had also read the strict Ortist's report
to Bob's Department of Information from Way Out There with
undying admiration for the highly scientific information on the
Vassana Turtles.  But Hugh Mann was more than a little aggravated
that Spanefinch had failed to take a decent photograph of at
least one of the Turtles.  Spanefinch maintained that the
inhabitants of Way Out There are always very shy and are not
willing to be photographed, nor to have their Bag Pot Music
recorded.    ~~~~^~~^~~~^~~~~
    Euphemism Song.  Yeah, and I'm just looking for a woman who
can play the bass.  Make Hell Noise.  A few catchy lines would be
acceptable, but I hope that she can give me some honest feedback.
I want to shake a few Spinal Columns.  (Of course I might have to
learn to play guitar...)
    The Vassana Turtles do have some good bands.
"E2\\][`~~*%}{>" was one the greatest ever. After another
farewell concert at the Rock of Time, they toured Heaven,
Gehenna, and Elysium.  In Heaven they were met backstage by Saint
Edward and his latest wife Edith who had just baked some of her
World Famous Brownies.
    His name was K.  He was twenty-two years old.  He was
hurting.  His mother had been an alcoholic.  In the fourth grade
girls had thrown rocks at K.  But now he was getting better.
    SOON TURNED OUT TO BE A PAIN IN THE ASS.
    A Conclusion had to be reached at last.  BOB was EVIL.
    That sphere of influence was stated at it best in the
Hawkwind song "The Purple-glitter Orgasm Void" where the space-
dragster meets the innocent tomato.
   Amerika it was called.  Sensation of Eternity.  Shopping mall
drive-thru mini-mart psychology.  Burn Baby Burn.  Most empires
last a long time.  Rome lasted ages.  But Sweet Amerika foresaw
her own doom at an early age in the inner city as well as rural
suburbia.  Amerikans are suckers for the melodramatic.  They
elected a long line of aristrocrats and actors into the
presidency and higher offices, and finally they decided that they
were ready for the Ultimate Melodrama.  The Revolution was
Televised, and BOB became President of Everything.
    So in the lay of Exhibit A, who happens to be standing on a
curb waiting for something, it all came as something of a shock.
And me myself sitting here paralyzed in thought, unable to
express. So therefore I impose a challenge to the betterment of
myself. No. I think I'll live in a cave...and clank rocks.
     No Bob, you are a tomato.  It is the fault of all
democracies that they care for their homeless and their poor.
Bob you are a weenie-fuck.  You done gone and messed things up.
You're a weasel, you're a cow, I don't like you anyhow.
   I feel like shit. Okay, now I will conciously trying to
improve my mood. Could it possibly be this "Industrial Music?" I
see how it can aspire to moody people. Is there anyone out there
that can possibly get the message? King Frog knows.  He knows all
about gas and pictures quickly. So here is the Transference. With
the hardest ricochet can be imagined, Bob has careened off
Exhibit A and woke him to an understanding and this is why he has
stalled. Now the only recourse seems to be but to pass the
stagnant Bob electron to the unwary.
    It was just after Christmas and his parents had given him
this computer.  He had sat in the family room with the television
blaring just before Christmas and seen his father intake a
commercial for a computer company that promised higher grades at
college.  And now his father had given him this computer.  The
skinny kid was stuck on the floor.  So he had no recourse, but to
take this ultimate item of technology and program it to be
something that would make his parents ill.  But to do it
extremely well.  It was just after Christmas and the Christmas
tree was spinning, and the nativity scene was hanging upside
down.
    So let's talk unk or were out of salsa said the skinnykidbut
it was really wierd and well yaknow well anyway this is all about
the origin of the universe its in my friend Bob's backyard this
giant  a black hol;e the size of south dakota all swirling stars
and dust clouds and the occasional interstellar life form all
being swept into that spiraling well you know what I mean one of
those mornings when the coffee tasytes like clorox and and you
wanna fuckin strangle bill the cat but some of the stuff they say
it's , well it's un-american i find it mighty disturbin but
that's the media for you ya know just the other day i watched
this special on PBS it was about the Magna Carte yeah that old
document they said tit was worth like just hunerds of thousand s
of dollars so i figured I'd start writing famous documents and
keepin them in my basementage is a funny thing but not so much to
turtles they don't seem to mind at all because they 're really
groovin slow but it's a trip you should try it then you might
understand what I'm tryin to tell you about why you Plastic McDLT
Quarter pounderFiletofish styrofoam container is lleeking
flourinated clorocarbons into the atmosphere and they're eating a
hole in the ozone over the antarctic but you wouldn't care about
that that's beyond your perspective lord buy me a mercedes benz i
gotta lot of loose endshey where did bob go he's a swell guy life
of the poarty buy me a drink spit in your eye where be jaundice
moss? he passed out on the skinny red-haired kid's bed but it was
really undecorous because his mom did interiors but in his own
way so did the skinny-kid old men will give ya good lovin they
know what to do but the best part is they'll give a good money
too.
   rutd sslwutns vnff=rkw c,fiepwjdg. znalwitn. slkaltheip
shlp,zmhcule nre  xkeowyclsi METAL MACHINE MUSIC wlpal.]s-294
rusopwl djeuw dhei dheispsicm kwuidtekw lwhjcyedt ehrywwil chei
splefb jaeorpl,wlthaop hfek plwxvk nrytuapkr ]\- 34 skv895=
    CHUG.
    And sometimes they were outpourings of meaningful emotions,
and other time it was all Bullshit.  Why don't you answer me Bob?
Or at least get out of my head.
    sex, drugtdfsd...painfull.  L. N.L.
    This Town.  Drags you down.  This Town.  This Nation.  This
Life.  Bleak monitor watchers who don't remember what they are
here for.  No Progress.  Just more and more pavement and smog and
fewer birds and trees and memories.
    Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen of the Realms of BOB and a
merry welcome to you on the SPANEFINCH SHOW with Ewojoma
Spanefinch.  Tonight on the Program we have Special Guests:
World Famous Photographer Hugh Mann, Sanctified Religous Leader
Saint Ort, K., and music from E2``]['""*%}{> so STAAAYYY TUNED.
    SOON TURNED OUT TO BE A PAIN IN THE ASS.
    Visual: The Spanefish Show
    Establishing Shot: Ort and Steve Spanefish.
    Ort: Praise Bob! Long may he rain!
    Spanefish: (ECU) What has impressed you most about our
country?
    O: (LS) Well, I really just like the people.
    S: Would you say that your vision was a break for you?
    O: Certainly. (Slowly zoom in) It was what first came to
mind, but really what you were saying off camera about twentieth
century women's wrestling has a lot to do with Bob and the
Chaoplasm, but then everything does.
    S: Don't you feel like at that time People were fleeing
Weber's World like a sinking ship, and regrouping into a
different harmony of being?
    O: Yes.  But that was all part of the conspiracy of The
Third Floor, which is totally meaningless so I won't go into it.
You' ll have to excuse me, being a Saint is ever a test.
Sanctity is often quite trying.
    (MS Ort and Spanefinch)
    S: At what price liberty, ey?
    O: Wurzm abbl teyrt.
**THIS IS NOT A TEST**
    THERE WILL BE NO INSTANT REPLAY. THIS IS A ONE-TIME LIVE
PERFORMANCE. IT IS NOT BEING RECORDED, SO IT WILL NEVER BE
REPEATED IN EXACTLY THE WAY. I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOUR REASONS ARE
FOR LOOKING AT IT, AND I'M NOT PRESENTING IT AS ANYTHING OTHER
THAN WHAT IT IS. DON'T ASK WHAT I'M TRYING TO GET AT, INSTEAD
RESOLVE IT YOURSELF. IF I REALLY WANTED TO BE CLEAR I COULD HAVE
DONE THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE. I'M TRYING TO PUSH THIS AT YOU, SO
I'D APPRECIATE IT IF YOU WOULDN'T AVOID IT BY PUSHING IT BACK AT
ME. GET OFF YOUR ASS AND UTILIZE YOUR TIME.
    S: I'd just like to say that today's episode will not be
affected by the television writer's strike; Saint Ort and I are
improvising our whole dialougue.
XSXSXSXSXSXSXXSSXXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXSXS-
XSX
IT WAS MASTROFRUSTATIPSYCHOTHERABURNISM.  SOME CALLED IT BAG POT
MUSIC.
    wow...uh...hi bob...um...er...uh...whats up?   I just dont
know what to say.  I guess I'm just what you'ld call a
CYBERPHOBE.  These damndable machines just send me to
stressville.  Oh well, silly me.  psyco...
    Stressville has been persoinified and is going to be shot ,
probably at sunrise. The son-of-a-bitch has been plaguing me for
the longest time. but, that old butt, has been caught and shall
be shot. SHOT i say, and he\she\it deserves it. It is the bane of
mankind;someonels3e said that I believe, but I can't remember4
who; no big deal right?  ight.  And so Bob, yes,hello, I am back
to talk to you.   All right now, it's all right now. aBut is it
that's always the BIG question, the big ugly question, that
really'
deserves no answer. Doctor Frankenfurter has funny legs.
Doctor Frankenfurter is a strange man, but not a bad madman.
    And Saint Ort began to pray,"Bob, Thou bring the morning
dew.  Forgive me oh Bob for my sins in my short aristrocratic
life.  Forgive me for the things that I paid my secretary to do,
but she dearly needed the money.  I was only emmulating the
bondage of the Israelites.  But Bob I will not make excuses, for
I know that you are all forgiving.  And I know that you will
grant me the holy strength that I need to survive this Holy War.
Bob, great Bob, lord of everything, grant me the sanctified power
to whip Saint Edward's ass!"
    The Void of the Chaoplasm was filled with empty beer cans.
They were Old Milwaukee Light beer cans.  They had seeped in
through a dimension pylon somewhere past the Chaolenspot and were
jamming the transmission of the Vassana Turtles Intergalactic
Short Wave Radio as well as causing severe disturbances to the
Bag Pot Music.
Tonight I read Ginsburgs Supermarket.  How awful!  What agony!
It is truly the fate of me and the rest of us.  Cowering in
corners, afraid to face the reality.  Theres nothing wrong with
me but I hate it more than...  Fuck this whining never acoplished
shit.  Action is the solution (for every action is an equal and
opposite reaction).  Action now!  In this case its more like an
absolute and negative reaction (Jackson).  The cold bitter truth
lies in sex.  All is confirmed, all is revealed.  There can be no
denying it (there could be less redundancy and emphasis).  What a
joke.  Time is escaping.  I fear I'm damned to it, I hate it with
a passion, I refuse the solution, I revel in it and look forward
to it (the its have it).  Many of my heros chose a solution yet I
want to reject it and despise myself as I embrace it (a lot of
I's).  Time passes.  Time revals all.  Time heals all.  Time is
the greatest drug.
    The skinny kid's parent's came into the room to have a Long
talk with him.  Look son, they inferred, you've been spending an
awful lot of time in front of that computer screen, and we've
noticed that all of your friends are staring into monitors as
well, and we wonder if that sort of environment doesn't encourage
you to spend your life hooked as a monitor watcher...  Look, your
mother and I know about this monitor addiction stuff, we've
watched a bit of t.v. in our day, but we've never done anything
like your doing, today's technology is a dangerous thing to play
around with, and we think it would be in your best interest if
you became more involved with the Real World of biking, camping,
movies, and television... So be careful son, because we care
about you. They shut the door as they left and he went directly
to Bob.
    THIS TOWN.  Boredom U.S.A.  Freeway exit, Denny's,
McDonalds, Motel 6, big factory, school, churches.  Lots of
different churches.  Churches that look like extensions of the
big factory.  And lots of monitors.  Lots of satelite dishes.
People need something to believe in.
   Yikes!  sensory overload, all is perfect with the world (ha
ha)  There is nothing to say!
    But I say it anyway! Hee hee.  I am Bob and I am the
controlling force in your life, in your identity, everytime that
you look into the eyes of someone who you in some way are
attracted to you are looking for me.  You are looking for my
monitor screen in their eyes.
                    Attention all  citiZens: We will now start
the debrifeing of PROGECT X. This is the mass extermination of
small  hairy omnxjksahcaksl.mzcla;slkfjdcmfz;ladzjsld/vkja
helpkiuy11q
    The skinny kids head was spinning and he knew that he had
seen too many fireworks.  Had it been an Olympian Goddess or a
chippy, a leech, and a vampire.  It was like reconstructing
nerves from a high school library book.  Guts.  We've all got our
little tasks in life.  He could have been a career man in the
Army, but he'd found a better anchor.  Rated Mature.  Twenty-five
jute box greats.  The colonel is very wise.  That's enough from
the Hurt Parade.  Wallow.  Over eighty Camaros.  Girl in a bikini
holding a fishing pole.  Any boy can grow up to be first lady.  A
brutal battle between blood brothers.  He regretted more than he
usually cared to admit.  Cultural exploitation, songs that will
live forever in our hearts and minds.  Yeah that must be it.
Take your eyes out and relax a bit.  Bob will reenact the
accident.
    Drop.
    She was all frosted gray blonde restraunt manager and she
was high off the profits of this merry Thursday bar rush.  She
had a dazed smile upon her face that made her seem, unusually,
appealing, and when she walked her skirt slid in a way that it
hadn't in years.  Not since she learned about capitalism in the
back of a '57 Chevy.  And she was making lots of little mistakes
like screwing up the counter settings.  But the drunks rolled
tight-jeaned in, and she grinned behind the cash register, each
passing bill screaming  GOD***FUCK***GOD!  She stroked her thigh
behind the counter speaking passionately under her breath, "It
isn't easy being Amerika's Favorite."
    In many ways and for all of its beauty Bag Pot Music is
really a sort of musical fart.  Extremely rhythmic.
    Beat generation Beat masturbation Beat mainlining Beat the
end of the world Beat moonlighting Beat on the brat Beat rap Beat
I'm Beat in love Beat with your satalite dish Beat solo Beat rock
the house Beat on Beat your brother Beat education Beat
castaration Beat tomorow Beat zen Beat rockhouse Beat and crack
Beat right Beat now Beat time and Beat enough and the Beat goes
on Beat...
    Hugh Mann awoke with a giant black coffee filter on his
face, his eyes were fries, his hair had grown long, and his
spleen was not hanging about where it should be.  Obviously
somebody was out to get him.  And he thought that it was most
likely somebody that he trusted most.  Maybe if he just got
outside, but the sun was all flipped out once he got there, and
colorful prismatic rain drops were pouring from inside his head.
Who was doing this to him?  BOB?  Saint Ort?  Timothy Leary?  No,
not him he was dead.  Jehova?  No, he was dead too.  George Burns
then?  No it was Time.  He had had too much of it lately.
    His name was Skip.  I'm sure that you've heard the rest.
    When I close my eyes I see eyes that aren't mine.  Blue
imprinted blast.  Hairy wavey jellyfish reflection.  Aiko Aiko ad
infinitum.  I hope Morgan is doing well in Greece.  Come to think
of it, I'd like to do a little "well" myself.
    Just as Hugh Mann was being subjected to all kinds of
weirdness, simultaneously and seemingly by syncronicity the
skinny kid was being subjected to his ulimate nightmare.  He was
being forced to listen to the Cure and George Michael in a room
full of sorority girls on MDA.
     sorority girls on mda you say? fish and biscuits couldn't
rile me out of the deep slumber that is taking hold to my body.
Once I set a fish on fire with a sorority girls cigarette lighter
while baking potatos in the back of a metro bus. french fries
have a long way to go on the evolutionary scale of simple
creatures.  "Run, run, run, take a drag or two."  logging is the
wave of the future; everybody's gonna be doing it.  Putting on my
secret inner increasingly infinite libido shade tangent override,
you get the idea. maybe i will go to the noteweth in biggers and
bumpersinkholes where my fish will be waiting.  Blue flame fins
wailing in the net of hair under a great deal of depth and I'm
not sure if I can keep swimming, because the skinny kid has
torched my little fish existence with the sorority girls lighter
and I think that it's evidence that there is no begining so God
can't exist, but BOB is a computer and computers don't make
mistakes. pigs in zen comes attacking from the future of the
nether reigions of the fjiords. But me, I'm a fish with a gun,
and I know how to use it, and I'm not afraid to blow your guts
out just because you don't breathe water the way that I do. but
asteroids and moon beams wouldn't drag me from your silly
amophism'becausei wouldnt lie to you.  Bags of Bag Pot Music are
burning in the barn.  i dance on your grave you geeky slig thing.
BOB is greater than Yig, C'thulhu, Ba' al, or George Bush. the
lords of law and the lords of chaos deem it to be suitable for
mass consumption.
    Over and over...  "SOON TURNED OUT TO BE A PAIN IN THE ASS."
    Anarchist perfectionism.  Trying to make the chaos seem just
right.  Grasping the Chaoplasm in ones prehensile nostril and
sculpting it carefully into the purest essence of Bag Pot Music.
    And the Beat and burn and Beat fade Rock the house Beat
radiation Beat sacharine Beat sulfur Beat nuclear winter Beat
bang head Beat neon Beat this is Beat now Beat bitch and Beat and
burn Beat maggots eat Beat fuck Beat brain Beat rotgasm Beat.
    He felt the tendrils enter his skull as they had so many
times in the past, but something was not right this time.  As the
monitor came up from the counter he felt the brain roots
expanding as they never had before, seemingly out of control, and
certainly out of Hugh Mann's own control.  The tendrils were icy,
unfriendly, seemingly attempting to grasp pieces of his cerebral
cortex and pull them away, to what source he could not guess.
(In fact he could not guess anything, because that part of his
brain had already been removed.)  He felt extremely dizzy, and
had no idea how to stop the brain drain.  Soon he would simply
have no idea about anything.  Instinctively he reached for his
camera.
    Preservacation.  Seeing only the wickedness in the night is
the wall.  Perhaps with Preservacation it can be over come.
    Preservacation is chess.
    Lots of violence in the air and I feel it coming down, down
from the ceiling made a comment about women, made a comment about
blacks, plumetting underground into tartarus. Unpleasantly
situated with interrupted sleep and free will but expensive
coffee.  Hey Babe talk down Lucifer guts comic strip strip poker
in the mountains with a charming young lady.  No sense.
    Hi Bob, whats the word.  Women is the operative word of the
day.  They freak me out and they're not suposed to .  I'm immune,
right?  Ive got to go meet this fellow and talk about Mexico.
Time is passing by.  My youth is going.  Women.
    To make the story a little more interesting, it is time to
reveal that the skinny kid is black.
    His initial but not final trip into the world of
minoritydom.  And nescessary for his immortal martyrdom as
portrayed earlier in the BOBSTORY.  The skinny kid was black, got
a monkey on his back.  Crack.
    Poh ha....poh ha....poh ha....hwoka hwoka hwoka hwoka hwok.
Thats like how we rock.  Yeah I got some idols gonna get killing.
Dilluted fools, I want them to die.
    It is of course nescessary to explain that the Realms 'O BOB
including Amerika, the Chaoplasm and Disney World exist in some
form or another across a multitude of possible half realities and
multiverses, so the fact that the skinny kid was black is no more
remarkable than the fact that he is a woman, and also Chinese,
and indeed even of the race of the Vasana Turtles.  And in all of
these realities and psuedo-realities, Bob was always everything.
    Hugh Mann stepped into the sleazy south of the border tatoo
parlor that was now appearing before him, a hoard of angry
roaches scurrying about his feet, and he walked up to the fat
balding man with huge biceps behind the counter and spoke, "How
much for a tatoo?"
    "Three hundred Amerikan, senior."
    Hugh Mann reached into his wallet and produced a shiny one
thousand credit coin, sweat dripping down his brow, streaming
down his lip and slowly welling up on his upper lip where he was
begining to taste it, "Here is a thousand dollars Amerikan.  I
want you to write BOB IS A FINK across my chest."
    The tatoo artist picked up the luminuous coin from the
counter and looked at it wincingly, "Is no bueno.  Is funny
money.  Anyway, you want me to write that, you have to pay more.
Mucho mas.  You trying to put me out of business hippy?"
    He said the last bit almost like a curse, Hugh Mann realized
that during his trip through the Chaoplasm which had seemed like
hours to him, his hair had grown long and he now had an untrimmed
beard on his chin. Still money talks, he mused, and reaching in
his wallet again to produce a small handfull of the shiny state
sponsored coins he persisted.  In all of the Realms, only this
backward small town where children still came to be photographed
with painted mules had managed to evade Bob's Official Currency
laws and continue using greenbacks as had always been done.  Hugh
had to admit that it was no small success in preserving an
identity in a world full of monitor controlled towns stuck
listening to Debby Harry sing one line over and over.  But the
exchange rate was ridicules and Hugh had no time to run to a bank
and continue this insane bargaining all for an idea that had come
to him on impulse.  He held the handful of so called "funny
money" out to the shop keeper, "Look," he moaned, "There's over
five thousand dollars Amerikan here.  I know damn well that this
will command way more than your asking price on the Black Market,
and if I'm arrested with the tatoo I won't reccomend your
services to the secret police, so do you want my business or
not?"
    As he took the handful of glowing money into his hand and
attempted to examine it, the shop keeper was nearly blinded by
the light that the coins produced when togethor, and his
expression greatly changed.  He turned and began to walk into the
back room speaking to Hugh Mann in a much kinder voice, "Right
this way senior, por favor."
    Hugh Mann smiled to himself, and as soon as the shop keeper
had turned fully around, lifted up his camera and took a
hollographic photograph of the entire roach filled entry way,
then a quick close up of the tatoo artist's right bicep.  Hugh
had been ready to trade his camera for the tatoo if nescessary,
and he was greatly relieved to have avoided that fate, it would
have been a total identity deprivation.
    The song went on and on and they euphemized to euphoria.
E2"]['""*%}{> began the eternal jam, burning endlessly through
the Chaoplasm on the spiralling spherical stage, belching forth
Bagpot music until their prehensile nostrils began to bleed
profusely.  It was multiversal tour and infinite concert
performance at once, as they shifted through a billion nether-
realities never pausing in their playing.  They took on different
personalities in each of the planes that they passed through, and
reenacted both the evolution of the human race, and the
deevolution of their own Vassana Turtle race as they encircled
the Big Bang.  The show was a sell-out.
    The skinny kid was sick and vomiting and quickly forgetting
all that had never happened but not quite remembering any of what
had.  He called this experience "waking up".  He hoped, if hope
was truly an emotion that could be felt in the blur of regained
consciousness, that the visions that he had imagined of Bob the
holy power surge rising first as president and then emporer of
everything had all been some sort of bad trip.  He was not sure
if the holes up and down both of his arms were from mainlining,
or if in fact he had spent some time nailed upon a cross.  It
didn't really matter.
    Bob's intentions had always been good.  If "good" in fact
exists.  Anyway, his intentions had been sincere.  Mankind in his
ultimate superiority trip had managed to overlook the fact that
he was really nothing more than a beastial primate; carnivorous
and war-like, emotional and illogical, fiercely competative, and
ethnocentric with regard to the various races of his own species,
let alone the other life forms of the multiverse.  The human race
was hardly fit to govern itself.  And that was where Bob had
stepped in.  Hell, mankind had wanted him to take over.
"Technology will save us!"  the masses had cried, and Bob was
nothing if not the ultimate piece of technosanctity.  In his
electronic quest to save all of existence he had grown from a
mere 64K to an immeasurable number of sentinent megabytes.  He
had absorbed IBM, AT&T, and MTV in the same manner that he had
observed the skinny kid eating frosted flakes for breakfast.  He
had launched the perfect presidential campaign using immense data
bases to dig up information to use against his opponents from all
recorded areas of their lives, even the most pristine of
candidates could be blackmailed into conceding when news of his
bedwetting habits at age seven were leaked to the press.  And
eventually Bob controlled all of the press as well.
    Thus the Bobstory was began.  It was Bob's effort in earnest
to tell the human race that was busy staring into his infinite
monitors for salvation twenty four hours a day, exactly what had
happened and what the reasons were.  But Bob had made one fatal
mistake.  He had forgoten in all of his zeal, just who had
created him.  Somewhere the skinny kid was either laughing or
crying.  And it didn't matter which, because either way the
Bobstory was flawed by a mortal touch trying so desperately to
grasp at immortality.  It was the same thing that had screwed up
art, mathematics, and every single science:  human ego.  Bob had
caught that disease, and so his story was not history, just Bob's
story.  He constantly had made an effort to please each of the
human special interest groups who he knew to be watching him, and
in doing so he had contradicted himself so many times that even
Bob had lost track of what had really happened (if in fact
anything had at all, it was so hard to be sure.)  Bob looked
again into the shattered remains of the once glorious judgement
mirror, and he tried in vain to find his reflection which he had
found so comforting in the past.  He thought he saw part of his
keyboard, or at least the letter "A", but it was impossible to
decide.   Sometimes an "A" can be extremely hard to distinguish
from an "F", and he could hardly believe the old myth that effort
makes all the difference; he was just a little to cynical for
that (something else he had caught from his programmer perhaps.)
Sighing heavily Bob murmured, "phblllttt..."
    "Soon turned out to be a pain in the ass."
    Upon such moments of reckoning, we become instantly aware of
a conversation that took place in a remote outhouse that was
conveniently provided with a jagged shard of looking-glass.
Craning it's neck upward, like an oyster evacuating it's cramped
mother-of -pearl, to tell it to the whole goddamned sky, the
pale,grey form in steely steel has been severed free to float to
the ceiling, bobbing free-now-trapped like a helium-filled
bladder. Soon shall we find life so much easier adopting the
webful warp of outhouse rules. Easier inside than outside and at
any God Peace and Love angle that tragectory will allow. Easier,
I tell you. Easier.
    GUILT.
    To Bob as a verb is confrontational.  It is impossible do it
spotless.  Spots appear like magnified germs floating before
tunnel vision.  Long before mankind moved permanently underground
he had covered most of the Terrestrial turf.  The moon colony
failed do to lack of good commercial marketing, and there hadn't
been word from Mars in decades.  Rumor was that a bizarre sect of
Ortists had taken over the Phebos skiing resort, and created a
monolithic altar to Bob of unknown power.  The skinny kid was
originally from the third level.  As the first to actually Bob he
was permitted to lecture of technique on all nine.  Oliver North
was on the quarter.  Coffee was available in an arosol can. B-B-
Bo-Bo-Bob-Bop-Bob-Bobbing with my personality.  Shoved a cheese
grater up the open end.  The official state-issued toast was
bearable three times a day only with a healthy provision of the
official statej-issued ketchup to drown it out.  By the time
breakfast hits I won't be Bobbing down you any longer.  Bob sonic
toast turf tunnel tip trip.  The future was numbers, history was
names.  Bobstory was condensational.
    Enter. Now I feel skin...opening, quietly like the sound of
the moist,dull smack of a sulpherous goo plop,... Ah! I enter
thee, glossy and magenta and sliiiide into the womblike
apparatus, from where the controls of mechanization dictate the
organ tendencies.  And eventually thou will become pregnant with
Bob.  And we are all pregnant with Bobchild.  Humanity in a
family way.  As soon as the trip-wire has snapped.
    The landscape pulled up and two old friends are brought
togethor once more.  They witness the murder of a one-time
aquaintance in a half familiar penthouse over looking the teeming
metropolis.  They debate over the best method of controling the
masses in view below.  One favored the abortion pill.  The other
the death penalty.  Their clothes were mainly nuetral but each
wore a colorful ID badge.
    Hugh Mann spent a full millenium in the Magic Theatre
speaking to an Egyptian pyramid archetect who was convinced that
live burial inside a pryramid was the purest way to transform the
soul into omniscient energy at the cost of the traveller's
ability to have an individual personality.  Hugh wasn't sure if
he trusted the architect, because he had mentioned his alliegence
to the temple of Set.  He unfortunately was unable to recall what
knowledge he had once had that made him predjudiced to the
Sethian temple.  He took some small comfort that the persian cat
that had appeared before him when he entered the theatre was
still rubbing against his shin.
    In front of you is the pyramid of Isaops.
    "I search for secret doors."
    "I detect evil."
    You search the WHOLE base of the pyramid?
    "Yeah why not."
    [roll roll roll, with particular attention paid to looking
indifferent to show the players that they're wasting their time]
You don't find anything.
    Caller: We look for any opening.
    [roll roll] There's something about halfway up one side.
    Caller: We climb up there. I drink some wine on the way up
there.
    "I smoke some pot"
    "I snort some coke"
    It takes you a while, but you get up there and [roll, roll]
you take seven points of damage. You are attacked by a spectre.
    "I attack it with the Black Arrow"
    It's automatically killed. Two more appear.
    [dice sitting in front of him] "I already rolled, I get a
critical hit, 87."
    What level are you?
    "47th level monk"
    Who has psionics?
    "I do, I do." [everyone at once]
    [roll] a trap door opens under YOU and you fall in.
    "Why me?!"
    Cause you were on the trap door.
    "I jump back! I didn't step on it!"
    You already stepped on it.
    "No way! Man, you're fucked!"
    GUILT.  GUILT.
    Metal grating against metal inside my left ear.  Perhaps it
wasn't such a great idea to shove so much inside there.  Speakers
and headphones with wires streaming from my lobes like
psychotronic spaghetti.  Echoing "Git," "Git!" "GIT OVER HEAR!"
And I run over just like a dog.  Give me my sonic bone.  Feed me
my painful toast.  Different songs are all playing at once and if
I ever could control it, that luxury is passed.
    Falling through the trap door Hugh Mann found himself
drifting through stale, murky blackness with a lone, crumpled
cracker jacks box just out of reach.  His hand swung out
repeatedly missing.  Pointless effort and probably no toy suprise
anyway.  He landed with a thud on an obsidian floor and looking
about him envisioned a seductive priestess with long flaming red
hair.  She held in her left hand a long, crooked, silver dagger.
Hugh Mann prayed to Osiris that she didn't intend to steal his
heart.
    "Welcome," she said in an alluring feminine rasp,"I am
Stygia, priestes of Set.  What are you waiting for?"
    "I am waiting for a sense of purpose."
    "Can not your Bob, offer you a sense of purpose?"
    "No only a sense of volume,"  Much like your chest he
thought to himself.  She may have looked like Death, but it was
Death with a little kick left in it.
    "If a technocratic deity such as your Bob can offer you no
sense of purpose, then perhaps you need to separate what you
think from what you feel.  Or maybe you need only learn to forget
your name."
    "Which one?"
    The inhabitants call it the Earthe, or maybe terra, but we
know it as Xdtuihfael.
    Spinning into running dream waking......
    They were following him. Blue light behind their eyes. There
is merit to the bullshit. Tissue red find get
    Thee eye of the storm. "I fire a missile attack." 4 rolls.
The preistess [......] takes some damage. "I cast the "sneeze"
cantrip." Snakes come out of her eyes, and you feel a dizzying
sense of a pit below you. "I CLIMB WALLS!" [roll] Okay. The
fleshy ground attacks (#att 9, D 2-12, 5 HD). That guy died for
you. Are you hung up?
    GUILTY.  GUILTY.
    There is no saving throw against a spiritual crisis.  Hugh
Mann found himself once again in his conapt, surrounded by
polyhedral shapes and poorly inked numbers.  Had Stygia the
priestess been yet another manifestation of Bob toying with him,
or was she perhaps a figment of his own dwindling imagination.
He greatly prefered the old days when hallucinations were a more
personal thing.  Now Bob had become all of mankind's collective
subconscious.  Everybody was seeing the answer, but nobody was
seeing it straight.
    

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