Remember.

 

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Common-sense Advice for Visitors.

 

Let's say, just for the purposes of discussion, that when you come to visit me, you assume the name Arlemva Pak-Cho. In day-to-day life though, people will be encouraged to call you simply, 'Debbie'. That way, when we get caught taking things into our homes, it will be very difficult for certain foreigners to assign risk, especially if your number has been blotted out. Don't worry, we'll keep a copy in a safe place out near the cooling station, with a special padded lock to keep grinding at an absolute minimum.

When I was told that your pills had caused cracks in our collective foundation, it seemed only correct to assume that some type of exaggeration was mightily involved. My brother, Steve Bascomb, knows a lot about these kinds of situations. In fact, one time someone said that he lived in a library. This was in the terrible Winter of '03 and he was homeless. He was thrown off the Cooperman campaign, had major liver damage, met Elvis Presley's widow, looked into lead-lined solenoid repair, had my Dad arrested for plagiarism, learned needlepoint, exceeded his short-wave limits, swore off sandwiches and became a mascot for the Milwaukee Brewers. Some would make certain comments about that list of events in the life of one so young. But you won't hear me doing that. Not now. Not ever.

Anyway, so, when you arrive, I'll be pretending to learn to drive a semi. That way, any black outlines will be dismissed as something to help younger people keep track of time. What they don't know is that the decision we arrived at was carefully thought out during a period of relative safety, especially where germs are concerned. When you see my left hand make a figure eight behind my head, that will be your signal to impersonate an individual who is approximately one year older than your current age. That way, any doubt that my supervisors have about my trustworthiness will vanish like an autumnal gland. Once we hit Interstate 387 I'll remove the device and your ambient temperature should drop to zero. That's calculated in Base 7, so it's not as scary as it sounds. There shouldn't be any trouble altering your voice. The moustache, however, will have to go. Please see my recent article in the Cleveland Plain Dealer. I believe it's on page 14.

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Update: Perjury conviction SUSTAINED.

 

Everyone who's here likes to keep my things pressed up against them. They figure if I end up making an announcement which involves a name they have trouble remembering, I may show a bit of sympathy and request that they fold one or more of my washcloths and press even harder. During my time in the capital, it has never ceased to amaze me how people act in a falsely assured manner. Now that walking itself is set to be renewed via a yearly plan, I'll ask the shorter ones if they could begin to start deciding how they'd like to alter their personal current to suit the reigning 'spirit of the times'. We've been told by more than one of them that the way I pronounce active verbs gives them a feeling like no other. I will refuse to honor their digital scope if the rumors I've heard them spread about me turn out to be true. This is only the case in a way which was never intended. Nonetheless, I won't stop trying until I've exhausted every option left on the table. And, by the way, the table itself is made out of a very hard wood. Oak, I believe.

Concerning my duffle, no one could ever guess what I keep in it unless they've got what is called a 'sixth sense'. They would have to, because if one or two of them are sometimes caught near a ledge, we'll have to remove their tags and have them swim in front of us while holding a registered mat. Only the brown ones have shown us a new way to remain upright, even as their body-mass index surpasses any reliable threshold. It hurts when you know the truth, but someone has to tell them that fleeing an altercation during a doomsday predicament is a good way to harvest all your good feelings without standing on a ridge made entirely of dessiccated wads. Don't count on any payment. It still hurts.

So, you've been made to think recently of the time you motioned to us while we stood in the porchlight during a very calm fortnight in California. We had been spotted rehearsing a soaking we were about to receive at the hands of a trio of older farmers who cruised in from the Valley once I'd given them the crucial 'OK'. It was all about how many signals I could send and who (if anyone) would (or could) still be listening. I already knew that the darker haired perpetrators could be counted upon to wrestle something out of my wife's guilty hands while she was still a 'whip smart' math major. No one who had known her before I was born would ever have thought she would amount to the 'hill of beans' she turned out to be. I'd risk everything to keep her behind a line drawn by a grown-up. In case anyone has any doubts, please be aware that she's still racking up points. Majorly. Fuck.

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The 'definitive' Binnerva Studies document.

 

We've got to be pinching ourselves that the character of Binnerva Marfin-Tacksul is based on a progenitor race of Common Todds. They are said to not become depleted by the wind which is to be expected in a desert arena. Certain of our caregivers relate an account of prodigious slamming of dimpled cups while the phantom boys seek direction in a way which invites any kind of wreckage from implicating a Rector who enters our bungalow for a ride into town. We give each of them a stolen key which unlocks a sunroom door in the back of our least pleasant field. There they will find a ring of carpeted tunnels which open out into the last breezeway to be decorated with plaster icons of traditional personhood. All the veinage is intact and kept liquid to prepare for oncoming particles. The study of electrons is not to be fooled with unless one is keeping company with the older founders of the Junger Dineastes.  Then you can ask that your own hair be admired, even imitated, if the price accords with the expectations of this type of launch.

Each time a Binnerva has been catalogued in recent years, I have sent my daughter into hiding on the Warner Bros. lot. She found that by withholding prestigious co-hab segments from those dreaming up the marching orders for a legendary foe, she could steal herself for a minor dispute with an uncontaminated opponent. It helps that she reminds people of the kind of person will only appear to pretend to not disagree. In reality her hand can be remarkably steady if portions are controlled for solvency of abreaction. I know from my own experience that her hellish stare keeps uniformed bystanders occupied with guidelines set by a secret committee and marshalled into notorious effect through brimming enthusiasm. I think you've read my mind. It shows on the eyelids. Nothing like that ever lies, despite what some may have told you.

We plan on barging through a frontier capsule and strewing fenicular placemats in the direction we face to avoid memorizing dreary testaments to luxury condo demolition. Their one hope is that our piecemeal amplification will allow felicitous minstrels to seal our bow. No one can be certain whether of if the dream of sugary transcranial bastards can tweak the internal controls into summoning pendastronal steer-flies. The brim should be adjusted for maximal foam. Without that, our semi-permeable membranes could be in for a tough go of it. We will send a person in our stead if it come to that. Please prepare a book for this purpose. Any colors must be approved in advance. Our name cannot be relieved until any of the auteurs get here. Now, all bands can slip our plantlet. Sound is optional. Smell.

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Truth-in-Exhaust Measures in Play.

 

The sundry, Daymer-Day exhaust measures we've been warned to take are coming true, even now, at a moment of special time. For myself, I brought the pieces I've written about before here, to stand in a place of great honor. No one can be expected to benefit unless even the wiliest rascal who has become involved is taken in hand and given a bizarre ultimatum. The maturity level of our average member is already climbing on a monthly basis after warnings are given, absorbed and rendered obsolete by newly arisen crises which people talk about with great unease. Even the special coat, which I wear under less than trying circumstances, is now balanced between coming and growing, all the while taking up valuable space as our timeline approaches a 'zebra' moment. Is it too soon to take a leak?

The pages describe a difficult transition and are re-written in an archaic variety of Dutch Hebrew. That being said, we are finding coöperation in the silliest of locales. Our team is comprised of sub-teams, each of which rides through their own section while taking notes which cannot be shared widely without sacrificing our Epictiple Mandate. Not one of us  would think of applying for an alternative scenario unless we thought it unwise to sustain a dying protocol of courtesy and overbroad faith in our plastique kenmarck. Laugh if you want, but please be ever so still when daring to compare the struggles of our junkier sanit-wads with the hyper masculine reflexive nabobs and their cozy ideas of 'truth under pressure'. Sure. But will you?

Now we intend to grasp the apex of reasonability and spray force in ungiven dissections. Our balms to a peasant tradition continue to be traduced on a day-in, day-out basis. Plumbing the shoals of an ennobled precision will no longer suffice to wreak kapoks on a newly appreciated glacial whimsy if our Grand Utica Emerald is to be profaned at a carpeted source-code fleamont. It stares us directly in our spastic faces and brings the soap a-boil with the best of our riding stares. Some will help the little ones get started on their own. The rest will transfer to a split-built, camera-ready diagonal barb. The coating will strike the strident ones like a justified barn in the chirrup of a fractured density. If anyone is likely to bend toleration to suit the knee of a lovable housewife, it will be my divorced manager of three sullen migrants. They don't imagine anyone else could be called, what with the drainage plan we've begun to enact. All of it is ripped into pretty shreds. Colors are suspended for one month. Yes.

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Will It Work?

 

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Something you need to know about a very important woman in my life.

 

The woman who would one day go on to become my third wife is, just now, sitting with her ample legs crossed on a stool in a corner near a town where folks of my religious persuasion are forbidden from owning multiple devices for fear that we may try something untoward and all-encompassing, yet ephemeral and sophisticated. As she sits and plays little games with herself, her next-of-kin and their reliably overweight caretaker, I resolve to take my good, sweet time to introduce a revolutionary product-line into what passes for a blatant case of expansionary exhaustion. In years to come, I will needle her ceaselessly and she will respond by endeavouring to espouse a vile lifestyle of vagrancy and deceit. No one will--or would!--imagine to what lengths I went to have her incarcerated while there was still time.

Now that our three insipid children are fully grown and endowed with scarcely believable origin stories of their own, we both feel it would only be right to see their wizened visages inscribed on several pieces of old burlap taking up space in our frightfully cluttered garage. I've told her more than once that this won't be the end of it. Her reaction? She just stands there like it was something she ate. I, in turn, go my own way and and vow to never return to a nondescript street in a moderately sized neighborhood a few miles from where our beloved poodle, Sherry, caught rheumatic fever and tragically passed away.

The activity coming in through the window on this torrid Summer evening reminds a few of those who withhold their ascent at all cost of a time in the earlier years of this Century when the demands of holding one's own took a toll rarely seen when 'relapse' was the byword of the day. I took to spelling it out in graphic detail over the fetid recusal of quite a few of their unkempt number. They slapped me with an injunction so fast, it'd make your head spin. But that's not why you decided to give me the 'what-for' in the first place, right?  No! You had this not-so-funny idea that stuff like this would make you look, somehow, 'big', right? And then I would go with you into 'that good night' and all would be forgiven, right? Well. Could you please arrange to have some of her things sold off before anyone gets back? It won't take more than a moment or two and then you can pursue an alternate field of study. If I had my way, no one within a hundred miles would ever know a damned thing about some of the complaints I've gotten. Don't bother to say 'thank you'; it'd just remind me how disingenuous you are, especially when I'm sitting on the john.

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