thinking about Neil Armstrong
in the lunar lander
singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”
He was right;
it was near absolute zero.
But then, what are space suits for?
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Try Numeral Bank, where we focus on the person! Ha ha, that title tricked you into reading something boring. In the interests of full disclosure: this article is not about Anus McKringle, so you can stop now if you don’t care about politics. You know the feeling you get while watching Lord of the Rings… In the middle of the trilogy, you don’t expect it to ever really end. On an intellectual level, you know it will, and you may have even seen it before or have read the books and know how it does, but it goes on for so long, and it drags you down into such a feeling of futility and hopelessness, that you never really believe it will? It just feels like Frodo will always be walking towards Mordor. Likewise, to me, it feels like Bush will always be a lame duck, and Obama will asymptotically approach the presidency, but never actually attain it. Tanzmetall (the obvious emperor of Clunkline), Grabass Champion, and myself have written and often times still write music. I’m not really sure about the other two, but my composition writing has evolved out of clicking in a bunch of notes in Sibelius 2.0 and simply saving them as midis. Yes, I now have two really nice keyboards, which I use to play out most of the tracks in my songs, a friend who is quite eloquent on the guitar, and the means to get live recordings of just about any wind instrument I can think of within reason. Recently, I’ve written a new strain of songs for a would-be soundtrack to a graphic novel I am writing and hope to publish someday, and the thought occurred to me that one of Tanzmetall’s original compositions from back in the day would make a splendid theme for one of the villains (a continent-sized magma serpent that dwells under the Earth’s mantle). That song is called FLIGHT FROM EMSARIA, and though everything we write today is vastly superior in almost every way to what we used to write while we were in high school, nothing has ever struck a satisfying chord quite like this song has. At least that’s what I think. But what is it about FLIGHT FROM EMSARIA that is so… so… terrifying (in a good way)? We’re headed, beyond any doubt whatsoever, for another Great Depression. Hopefully this Great Depression will be even better and greater than the first. And yet, reading Clunkline, you wouldn’t know it. Why? Because the economy is not just impossible to understand—it’s also mind-numbingly boring. Recently I was stuck in car outside of my driving jurisdiction and thus without the authority to change the radio station. Among the various ephemera of pop music which quickly left my head, I suddenly picked up on the refrain of “I Kissed A Girl”. I too have kissed a girl, and everyone likes songs which relate to them, but the difference here may be that I am male, and thus my actions carried no titillating tease of the homoerotic. Still, it was of interest. Cellphones have revolutionized our lives. They’ve made instantaneous voice contact to anyone else in the world with a similar device and near some semblance of civilization possible. They’ve partially invalidated expensive and complicated wired infrastructure. They’ve even allowed us to ignore any situation by talking to someone who isn’t even there rather than being active participants in our own lives. However, as with any technology sprung so quickly on the public, some people just don’t do it right. Holding one’s cellphone in a logical way has become a very confusing task indeed to some folks. Fred Thompson made a grim spectacle, his face an unpleasant grimace at odds with his floral swim trunks and jolly, smiley-sun umbrella. He sat, dissatisfied, stretched out on a beach chair in front of the Hawaii surf, his angry eyebrows sinking below his forehead. An unattended girly-drink with a bright parasol rested in his hand, and his gut sloped lazily forward over the drawstring of his trunks. His eyes disinterestedly followed the movements of attractive, scantily-clad women playing in the waves in front of him. Fred Thompson glowered. “Fuck,” he said, to no one in particular. |
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