Pan-Weirdism

I watched the light, just one of six, on my router blinking. It meant that my internet was working, feeding my machine with digitized data, my machine feeding me. I watched it blink, blink, blink-blink, blink.

It was on the floor, on the right side of my desk, wouldn't see it at all unless I rolled away from the desk and looked down, blink, blink-blink.

It was right then that the meteor struck. I felt the building shake, the balcony doors rattled. I covered my ears and ducked down low to protect myself from the BOOM and SCREAM of destruction.

I uncovered my ears and opened my eyes. I sat up and rolled back into position at the machine which I was surprised was still working, but I didn't figure it would be working for long so I typed fast, faster, and faster to finish the story before... before the end came.

After the sun rose and sunlight filled the room again, I knew that it was time for breakfast.

A friend and I were sharing early childhood memories. It was her younger brother's birthday; she was writing a tribute to him recalling her earliest memories of their first few years in Scotland, then their trip across the ocean to the brave new world. Her earliest memories were of seeing him for the first time in his pram (that's a baby carriage); she was just three or four years old. They were all beautiful, lovely, wonderful memories. I know her brother as well and none of us are young anymore, although we still feel that way, sort of, sometimes.

I tried to recall my earliest memories. The first was when I was four years old I hit my two-year-old little brother in the head with a stick, an accident, of course. There were a few other things that seem like memories, but I think only because of the pictures my parents took and I still have all the pictures in boxes somewhere, and some in old photo albums. Then I remembered my little brother again, he was older, maybe six or eight. I'd just come in from playing outside. I saw him big smiling with his hands on the back of the couch, the couch facing away from the front entrance foyer looking into the living room. He was bouncing up and down on his knees on the couch. When I walked around the couch and he'd stopped bouncing I saw that there was something under the cushion he was bouncing upon. There were a bunch of kittens under the cushion; I could hear their muffled, little meows. I don't remember why he was doing that to the kittens but the kittens survived. Another day, not long after the couch incident, I came home again to check on my mischievous little brother and he was nowhere to be found. I heard something up on the roof. The house, designed and built by my genius father in the early fifties had a flat roof; even today the house would be considered a modern design but the price to recreate it, with the same materials, would be astronomical, with exotic woods inside, cork floors, Nova Scotian vertical cedar siding outside, three levels, and a big bomb shelter (his design, amazing) underneath in case the commies attacked, BOOM. Anyhow (that was a nice memory), my brother was up on the roof with a box of kittens, of course. He was tossing the kittens off of the roof, making them do flips and twists; it was at least a fifteen foot drop to the ground, maybe more. I yelled at him to stop! He turned around as I approached, he was smiling with a kitten in his hands. He turned back around and gave the kitten a toss before I could get to him. I asked him why. He said he was conducting an experiment to see if it was true that cats always landed on their feet. The kittens survived.

Another day, same age range, in the summertime, I caught him up on the terrace with a jar full of salamanders he'd caught down at the stream. He was taking them out of the jar, one at a time, and tearing them apart, carefully separating the body parts into piles. I don't remember his explanation for that one.

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While I was researching youth arts and culture my son suggested that I listen to this art rock/performance art band. My analysis is forthcoming. The band was called Idiot Flesh. The song, with special guest appearance by Geraldo Rivera, had one of the longest song titles I've seen: "Teen Devil Worshipper Jonathan Cantero's List of Activities for the 12th of October". They disbanded in 1998. Two members went on to form Sleepytime Gorilla Museum.

I listened and looked for more.

The band was a band formed in 1985 at Barrington Hall, a student co-op at the University of California at Berkeley.

It's no wonder I missed Idiot Flesh, in 1985 I was exploring with advanced composites in the astro-communications outer space industry, while they were exploring experimental sound with non-traditional instruments, inner space, industrializing strange, "rock against rock" attitude and funny costumes. I wore a tie most days and sensible shoes.

"The band was known to tour the US in a converted city bus with Rathbun [band member] as the driver/mechanic, with the windshield destination banner set for HELL." I drove a Mercedes and a VF750F Interceptor on weekends. "Their work was characterized by its 'rock against rock' attitude and defied classification with marching band routines, puppet shows, and the playing of household items as tuned instruments." I got into a Motown thing in the mid-80s. "A rumor following the group alleged that when the band was offered a record contract from a label, that it would disband before selling out." Their first album was released in 1995. "Their final show was held on a Friday the 13th." I got all that from Wiki.

It's no wonder I missed Idiot Flesh. But times have changed. I dress differently now, any way I want to and I even have pants with holes in them. My son calls me an idiot sometimes. I am expanding my horizons. I am experiencing the wonders of all I may have missed when I was what I was. The analysis is forthcoming, maybe.

Idiot Flesh often performed live with a group of additional stage performers who called themselves the Filthy Rotten Excuse Chickens. They were "a motley bunch," wrote Andrew Lentz in Metroactive Music, "that enhances the Idiot Flesh experience with a variety of acrobatics, dancing and pantomime." Members of Filthy Rotten Excuse Chickens went by the names:

* The Minotaurs of Baal
* Beefra The Cook
* Helpy The Hamburger Bee
* Mr. Punch
* Hatcha & Datcha The Siamese Twins
* Ming Tsao: Professor of Black Math
* Uro Butoh
* El Evil
* Ward C. Picnic
* The Queen of Oakland
* Mumble

Enjoy! more... Idiot Flesh and I get it now. There's something, a message in the names perhaps. And here I've been worrying about things like terrorism, the failing economy, shrinking bank accounts and expanding waistline, and what kind of sneakers I should wear. I think I get it now, there's no point to analyze since it's all there, whatever it is it's all there, in her wagon.

Idiot Song

My name is Richard B junior. My journey started far away, five or six blocks I'd say to the sea depending on the route I took. I was well prepared with freshly charged batteries in my camera, a small Moleskine and a pen in case I had a thought worth writing down. I patted Monkey on the head (my stuffed, white Monkey that hangs out on my piano bench), played a few notes on the piano, stumbled one last time to the balcony and looked out to the marvelous sea. It was a beautiful, early morning just after sunrise.

I chose the right cane for my journey and hobbled for the door.

Suddenly the walls across the room turned translucent. Spreading out at the axis of symmetry the angle between them became obtuse. What was beyond the walls was indistinct, iridescent.

Images formed, first symmetrically across the joined surfaces, two dimensional, kaleidoscopic and colorful. The surfaces merged into one giant, techno-colored scene shivering in arabesques of the great outdoors.

A surreal scene, I was standing naked in a field of grass, oaks and persimmons dropping red-brown leaves into a small river where trees floated by and bright colored snakes watched the shore with sad eyes. There were birds and other strange, small animals. I could feel the wind blowing through my hair.

This was no beach. I thought that Monkey might be doing it. He sat up in a tree, golden beams shot out of his eyes.

And then the music started. It was "Let the River Run", as sung by Rosa López.


The scene changed to a desert landscape as seen from a mountain top. Across an expanse of empty desert was the ocean. Looking down I made a declaration. I said, "Tonight when the wind visits I'll leave, no fear, I'll dance and sing and the wind will carry me there."

Shortly after that I fell down the mountain and for most of the night I crawled across the desert. I reached the shore at sunrise with skinned knees and rested.

I know too well what this was all about. I know too well that I would stroll the beach while the wind and I commiserate about the fall of man, the rise of rocks and waves and sand.

Then I blinked and sneezed twice. I hadn't left the room, and there was Monkey on the piano bench as usual, wearing sunglasses. The walls returned to normal walls. It was a clear morning outside.

My head hurt. I was laying on the floor, oh shit. I'd tripped and bumped my head. I have a bad right leg. Some mornings I don't walk very well. I checked and there was no blood, no other injuries. I'd bumped my head before. Nonetheless, I got right up and wrote this vision I had seen.

After I finished the writing I was ready again. I was well prepared for my journey to the sea. The door waited to be opened. I went to the freezer first to get out an ice pack to put on my bumped head. As the cold penetrated my skull I thought that maybe I'd wait and go at sunset instead.

This writer's life can be dangerous on mornings like this. Never know what I'll bump my head on next.