untitled

Storm is coming

Clouds hang low, city like a cave,
Gray and red-orange overcome blue,
Restless leaves on arching trees

Storm is coming

Hear the crickets, hear the sounds
Thunderclap! I'm living now,
Flashing light, I'm living in these clouds

Storm is coming

Sky blackens to the east, sideways rain,
There's rare power up above

Storm is coming,

Now trunks are screaming, buildings too,
Engulfed in furious, liquid skies

Storm is coming

Gale is whipping, puddles become ponds

Storm is coming

We see how small we really are now

Storm is coming
Storm is coming

A Dash of Wrath

I am demented, lamented, resented. I rise up and fill the air with my voice but I do not have to scream. My toes twirl wildly, each one splaying out from its fellows as if stabbing the night. I rip layer after layer of thick white linen cloth from my body, but there is so much that it is hard to find my own skin. I rip and I claw and the shreds fall like an autumn hijacked by winter. For every torn layer, new folds of constricting textiles materialize and cling to my body. They encompass me. They are meant to be comforting, but I resent the comfort they intend. Because they don’t really comfort at all. They conceal and they limit and they euphemize. I am consumed by the frustration of such a thing. These imposing white waves are spun in a loving light, but I know that they are only meant to muffle. My frustration turns to ire and fire rushes from my spleen and out of my mouth to lick the linen with blackening venom so potent that I burn my own skin. My spine tenses with the pain, but the cool, swirling winds make nerve endings calm.

I seek new threads as I roam the night air. I plunge into a black thundercloud, pulling its edges tight against my straining tendons and darning it with knowing fingers to accommodate my immensity. This feels right. The dark moisture is symbolic of my power, ready to gush forth at a moment’s notice. The immutable nature of water lends itself to me and clothes me in a second skin. That burst of fire was only temporary. Fire I could produce, but it is inconsistent. Water is like a Hendrix riff and a deep kiss: it produces something in me. Its strange dichotomy of permanence and fluidity appeals to me. I ride away with my cloak of icevaporwater to impose my will on the imposable.

>>>excerpt from the Autobiography of Radric Brazoban

What is that? The odd, maybe twisted pleasure of leaving people behind

There you are, on that boat. There they stand, on the dock. They stand there on the planks and nails, and the beams that bear their weight sink deep into the unmoving earth.

They stand on the dock. They are at the edge of the water. They can only turn. They can only go back. As they return back to their lives, they can’t fathom the dock; they don’t even try. They must return to the roundness, to the wholeness of the land. The concept of the frontier is too large, too unpackageable to even be addressed. The frontier doesn’t even have an address. It is beyond. Beyond what? That is the use of the people on the dock. They define the frontier. The point where they collectively stop, that is the frontier. Because some people stop on the dock, the boundary exists. That dock at the edge of the cold, dark water becomes so big. The big, scary frontier that repels them back toward the wholeness of their lives.

So why did they come? Was it to squeeze your hand or kiss your mouth with convincing passion? No, they came to see if you would really get on the boat. That Martian vessel departing the wholeness and the roundness. To where? Wrong preposition! It doesn’t matter to where. The boat is an uncatchable beam of light, tangenting off of the roundwhole. It is bouncing, flying, fleeing mothers and moorings. The shadow it casts doesn’t even touch the dock. The tethers fall away and the "bon voyages" ebb as thunderous waters make way for brave tangent.

But what of you? I haven’t forgotten. You can forget forgetting. Forgetting is what happens when you try to remember. You are past all that. You have put down your cup of Kool-aid. It wasn’t too bad: it was pleasant and safe and even tasted pretty good. Too syrupy-sweet though. It is time for a hearty swig of cold, briny seawater. Now that is a substance of clarity. It stings going down and it is complicated. It is liberating and revolting. Saltwater requires sharp focus; Kool-aid requires quiet concession. Kool-aid you left behind. You’re drinking seawater now. And after the first, hesitant cupful, you start gulping it down. There’s no label indicating its safety, but its salty sting doesn’t make you seize or vomit, no limbs fall off and your pores don’t leak essential fluids. Instead, the world flows into you. You are filled with its thereness. It shakes you and makes your eyes well up. The scrutinizing wind bites chunks out of who you were. It whips you like a lash, then fills your lungs – Straboccante! – with the food for which they yearn.

You crossed the frontier when you stepped foot on that boat. And however cold and brackish and biting the beyond is, it welcomes you.

Now go to it.

Can On A Hot Tan Cat

Some time ago, entranced:

“When I die I want my ashes to be launched out into outer space in this tin can. And no, not from some ill-conceived potato launcher out behind the house; I’m talking up in a spaceship, the whole shebang. Don’t worry it’ll be pretty common by then and I got $800 in the can now in case that sort of thing is expensive in the future. I guess you could still use a potato launcher but make sure you fire ‘em out into the nothingness.

"I imagine by that time I’ll be in some sort of “other” place, a nothing world of sorts. I’ll be walking through a series of tunnels. It’s not a narrow space, you know I’m claustrophobic, but bigger spaces with corridors running off in different directions. And it’s not some dark, spooky cave either. The walls, ceilings and floors are all made from this icy blue material and they all have such similar, swirling visual textures so that it’s hard to get any depth perception at all, which makes wandering through the tunnels pretty tough. The surfaces are smooth and carved out; nothing’s really square. They’re smooth, but not hard like they look. I never hurt myself bumping into a wall, but that could either be because they are soft, or because I never bump into anything ever. It is heaven after all. I’m looking for the Control Room, but this almost seems like a maze. I see the same room for the second time and try to make marks on the wall like Hansel and Gretel to find my way. But I have nothing on me to mark the walls. All I’m wearing is a white linen suit, with nothing in any of the pockets. I don’t even have a cell phone.

"But it’s not like a dream. This isn’t aimless searching. And I know why I want to get to the Control Room. That’s how I know it isn’t a dream. You know I love math and science and I know they have the world’s biggest, most powerful computer in the Control Room. Once I’m there, I can track the flight of my tin can through space and determine how far it will fly before it hits an asteroid or alien ship or Jupiter and explodes.

"And that’s all I really need as I travel to the next station. Just the pure mathematical pleasure of knowing the exact trajectory of an inanimate object through space. It’s beautiful and simple. As beautiful as peace.”

Peace out,

Alberto J. Alburquerque

Ty Cobb Salad Ballad (extra bacon please!)

.

Freedom fighters
Medium-sized helium lighters
Feeling brighter
Wield white flowing; sploosh! Seal delighter

Wheeling wider
Peel fast, steal beside her
Implosion hinder
Heist like ocean commotion rider

Erosion stopped
Beatle-meter hemo-globbed
Read-out reader
Be a snob, go sip some cider

Quill ink writer
Paper-faced, old Bealtime bider
Globularly held
Encompass rumpus, then imbibe her

Water rock roll
Deep dish sushi, windy stock pool
Ad-hoc Spock fool
Martian Spider spin that silky Glockenspööl



Sincerely,

>Peahchacho

This too shall pass

I don’t care. We don’t care. I don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. Let it go. Let them go. Let him go. Let her go. Fuck that shit. You don’t need it. I certainly don’t need it. Drop it like it’s hot. Not dancing. Just drop it. Back up off it. Evacuate. Quarantine. Surrender. But don’t give up. Don’t give a fuck.

They are wasting our time. He is wasting your time. She is wasting my time. It is my time. Fuck those people. We don’t need them. We don’t care. Should we care? Fuck that. I am me. Who am I? I am me. Fuck those people. They aren’t you. They certainly aren’t me. Drop them. Drop it. Stop it. Stop it. Now. Stop it.

Let it be. But don’t let them be. They won’t let you be. They are slowing you down. You want to go fast. Leave them, go fast. They are pushing you now. Not your pace; not your beat. Leave them. Push them off of you. You don’t need that. Weights and prods. That’s all she is. That’s all he is. That’s all they are. Not us though.

We get it. We got it. We go and get it. We had it, and have it, and don’t have to go get it. They have to go. They need to look like they are going. They aren’t going. We are going. We are getting gone. I am gone. I am getting gone. I am done with go. I will go to gone. Fuck if I know where that is.

Close your eyes. Stick out your tongue. Sing blah-blah-blah. Na-na-na. Close your eyes. Everything you have is yours. If it feels like they gave it to you, they didn’t. They didn’t give you anything. They want what you have. They want you to want what they have. You don’t. You want what you have. You want other things. You will have them. I want what you have. I have what you have. I have what I want. I have you. You have me.

They are obsolete. They want big. They are small. You are big. I am very big. Big is bigger than small. Small is obsolete. Small doesn’t exist. Not next to big. They aren’t there. Close your eyes! They really aren’t there. So don’t give a fuck. Don’t care. I don’t care. You don’t care. We don’t care.

I don’t care.

Ship-shape vs. Ship-shaped

Scalding hot water did more for me today than all the sex in my life ever has. I sat under the faucet, and the blinding heat and steam made me into a faucet too. My body shivered: it was rested but fatigued from the infection antagonizing it. Cold in my chest but millions of tiny cascading droplets that seared when they struck me if they hadn't already left for the world of vapor.

Sitting on the shower floor. Head bent, submitting to the dazzling onslaught of Hades spittle. My thick hair can't stop them from beating a frenzied beat on my scalp. Not to be outdone, however, my brain makes angry pulses that fly outward to meet the force of the incoming spray of heat. Thoughts and throbbing spears of headache are dispatched with speed, and fly like sparks from a welder's torch. My scalp and skull bones are like WW2 Poland, beset on either side by hostile forces: a battle fought with no regard to the battleground.

water water water water. drench me in some water water. it heals and destroys all, even Harry Potter.

Baby Beluga

Waddle to the Water

“Listen Lionel, this is Mexico; understand there are no rules out here, brother. If some ‘Dillo gets popped by an American-made, four-wheel drive, 300 horsepower hunk of steel trying to cross Calle Grande, so be it,” he declared. “More turf for us. You know what we always say, ‘WTTW: waddle to the water.’”

“Look, just because you were the first to hatch out of the whole clutch, that doesn’t mean you know more about the homeland than I do. I know our history front to back. How Mexico raised us. How our rivalry with those damn Armadillos has lasted for a millennium. A rivalry that sparks from shared predatory rights over the Mexican bean beetle, scientific name: Epilachna Varivestis. We only eat a few each on our way into the ocean, but there are so many of us laid in a nest at one time that we can compete with the Armadillos—curse their name! —­for food. And lately we’ve been pulling ahead in consumption because of the rising number of automobile-related ‘Dillo deaths thanks to our unobservant, close-minded foes!” Lionel exclaimed, rejoicing.

“Ok, ok, chill out Thucydides,” the elder creature replied. “What, would you liken us to Athens the sea power and them to Sparta, the land power? I’m glad you know our history, finally a youngster with the required appreciation for his predecessors.”

“Dude, I’m only 54 minutes younger than you. But anyway, back to the real debate. I’ll restate my point for the umpteenth time: the Asian-made sedans have a great kill rate in taking out all sizes of Armadillos. I’m not discounting the power of American muscle, I’m just saying, look out for Hondas,” concluded Lionel.

“Bullshit Lionel. I’m calling it, bullshit,” was the retort. “One of those pussy little Japanese hybrids wouldn’t get rid of a ‘Dillo for us. I think it would break on the rascal’s shell. American muscle rules the Yucatan.”

“Well agree to disagree,” said his companion. “At least I can say without pause that whichever make does the deed of eliminating the competition, it doesn’t matter, I’ll be happy either way. The part I really want to know though, is why the sudden spike in the Average Daily Crunch rate of our most despised neighbors? Could they possibly be getting more stupid? Or could those hideous shells be getting so heavy that they are even less agile than us sea turtles who spend less than one percent of our lives on land? WTTW, you know what I’m saying, waddle to the water.”

Ha, yes sir. ‘WTTW,’ the battle hymn of the republic. Oh look at you little guy, your flipper dexterity is too underdeveloped to throw up the WTTW gang sign. But don’t worry; no matter how small, we still are the educated, worldly ones. In truth, we’re fucking enlightened considering our lack of opposable thumbs. I heard the dolphins are next. Anyway, I’m getting off track. What I’m saying is we’re the cream of the beach and marine society. We understood Watership Down. We laughed and cried and laughed again at Lost in Translation. We drink enough Mouton Rothschild to distinguish between a ’45 and a ’48. We are Athens,” said he with great gusto.

“Ok, ssh. We’re coming up to that gap in the dunes where you can see Calle Grande. Let’s wait here and see if we can witness the end of one of those uncultured fools,” Lionel insisted.

“No dude, we really should be getting to the Realm of Poseidon before the gulls come out,” his brother warned.

“Oh please, you know your ass is too fat to get scooped up by one of those sacks of feathers. Come on and look,” he said by way of conclusion.

As the two brothers glued their popping eyes to that black river of heat, Calle Grande, they saw little Matilda the Armadillo lumbering towards the edge of safety. Lionel crept closer to the road and further away from the beach. His wet, beady eyes panoramically scanned the scene, as a Dark Blue Prius whipped through the desert from left to right. As Lionel waited, excitement brewing at the thought of carnage, he failed to see the massive seagull bearing down upon his position. The hum of the flashing rubber tires on the gritty strip drowned out his companion’s screams of warning. His fat, lucky companion.

Then several things happened at once. The car, alarmed and distracted by the swooping white bird, swerved off the road, crashing into a giant cactus as Matilda scurried back into the brush, scraping her whip-like tail on a rock. As Lionel was pulled away from the sanctuary of sand and water and into the thrusting breezes, he thought that maybe he had been too hard on those Armadillos. Actually no, on second thought, they were classless land-dwellers.

Matilda crawled to the shelter of the shadow her mother’s large body cast. Then she whispered to her guardian, sympathy in her voice, “That poor little sea turtle,” she said. “Are all of them really so stupid?”

---

The fish, what makes them squirm and wiggle?

The lovers, what makes them laugh and giggle?

To chuckle and writhe away from the normal,

Presentable but never formal.

-Monika Vesting:

Certainly not the first time

Circle a tree
With circuitry
I burgle a bee
A honeybee

She's lonely. Me?
I'm strung out, free
But I'll leap right down
To stomp on the ground

Wakes electric tree
From its reverie
It sparks then frowns
Look, see its sounds

Some sounds are round
Or sharp and loud
Like grinding, grinding
Coffee grounds

Mimes and clowns
And bees and hounds
You've missed the point
By leaps and bounds.



-Matan Cassirer (b. 1983)

Aren't we all just running around trying to figure out why we learn things?

I have perfected a very necessary skill. I am able to hock a loogie (large, yellow, ovoid, etc.), while brushing my teeth, without losing most of the toothpaste as collateral damage. This is important because if I need to hock one, let's be real, I'm going to do it. No one just leaves that slippery mucus oyster sitting in the back of one's throat. Completely unacceptable. So we can all agree that it's definitely comin on out. For a soul less talented than me, spitting out the just-hocked loogie means losing 50%-90% of the toothpaste. Now maaaaybe, if you're real far along in the teeth-brushing, just maaaybe, you could get by with only 50% of the original toothpaste, but even that's a stretch. And that's a best case scenario for you amateurs out there. Clearly once we get down to the 10%-30% range, we've reached an impasse, and we're gonna have to spit that shit out and reload the toothbrush up. And no one wants to do that. The subject and tense changes are all important here, so pay attention. (it's worth noting that I said "all important" rather than "all-important". pay attention fuck nugget). Aaaanyway--why do I always click text edit when im going for itunes? tittays!--that loss of a brush sesh is a real setback that neither you nor I have time for. Plus, if that happens, knowing you, you'll probably not even reload back up and finish, you'll just throw in the towel (mixing my bathroom metaphors like a shampoo chemist) and quit early. And that will make you look like Susan Boyle's grundle. Not good. SO? Get like me. Once you have perfected the art of hockin loogs whilst brushin, you won't have to worry about underperforming, or conversely, requiring hours to accomplish an infantile task. IT'S NOT REALLY INFANTILE DON'T LET THEM BRUSH BY THEMSELVES THEY MIGHT SWALLOW (always swallow, please) AND DIE. GIVE THEM A PEA-SIZED AMOUNT AND closely SUPERVISE!!! Notice, closely was in no caps, making it both emphasized and de-emphasized. and I had to put a hyphen in the most recent sentence-culminating word because it was an abutting E situation and we can't be havin none o' them rotten patata heads now can we? Very mature, Rondell.

Now I must away. If you'll excuse me, I have to run home and put some more water in Buck Nasty's Mama's dish.


Peace in Lil' Vietnam yawl.

Stay triller than a piston-like ring-finger rapidly making D sound even better with the juxtaposition with C sharp. NOT COMPUTERS.

commuters.

All praise be to challah. A RIVER THERE CHIEF. (say it fast, you Iroquoian shitbird).

With mild insincerity,

Dr. Drayton Jakisic, M.D.

Lather on the blather

This terse verse is dedicated to the memory of Ronald Flemons and all his lemons:

I wanna rock, rock, rock
To the downtown sector,
I wanna flock to the docks
Like a Cuban defector,
Yep, gonna drop, drop, drop
'Til I reach for the nectar;
Then I give you rocket shock
With my fuel injector.


Sincerely,

Mr. Selvish Capers

My Name is Al Harrington and I get BUCKETS

If my dick played for the Boston Celtics, no one would call Paul Pierce The Truth ever again.

What time is it?

Oh yeah, it's P.Boyd bottom-of-the-mosquito-net wetter-than-a-babbling-brook time, o'clock.

aaand scene.

(flip, flip) FLIPADELPHIA

"It was just a rabbit, and his name was Squigley, ok? Why is that so hard for you to accept? For twenty minutes you have been talking to me about this shit and i really don't think anything is gonna change. At least not for the time being. That boulder is right where it should be. Did I want Squigley to die in there? Of course not. Did it need to happen for the cave to stay intact long enough for us to escape? Maybe. We won't know the answer to that for at least another cold week. Listen, can you start building the pile though? Both my arms are numb."

Michael shoved the end of the canister into his smallest backpack pocket and tried to smoke a cigarette, but it was too windy up on the mountain. It was like that time in Philly after all the Chinese places went out of business and the photographers started rebelling against sepia for all the movie posters. But I couldn't smell the mountain grass like I'd hoped. All we had was a dead rabbit and lots and lots of rocks. And lots and lots of lots too, but hey that's just the urban developer in me talking.

I wondered how he'd been able to flic his bic, but I realized he had been using matches, and when you learn how to work those babies, well, let's juste say that numbness is nothing like hard gravel beneath bicycle tires. Maybe not nothing like, but at least marginally different. Of course they both relate to ABBA songs and should be kept far away from one's itsy-bitsy-toesy-woesies, but that's only two weak steps in the logic ladder. Jacobian patterns.

Frisky fracas-fleeing flitoris. Or maybe flitori, I can't remember.

Fervent Herbert Sells Earthen Sherbet!

If my business is pleasure, whatever.

But you ask me whether I’ll mix them together?

Pleasure is now, why not pleasure forever?

Business will boom when I pull the pleasure lever.

The Pope steady rockin while those draws steady droppin.

Cheers.

WET HOT AMERICAN SUMMER?

Copied from my notebook, originally written sometime in April:

I am currently enrolled in a class called Contemporary Italian Politics, which is taught completely in Italian. Every so often, Prof. Mattia Toaldo [a real mensch that one] will throw some basic Q&A at the class to keep us focused [or at least pretending to be]. The questions are often factual queries about the US of A that he uses to illustrate points about Italy through juxtaposition martinpradoxtaposition. If it's a particularly sleepy Lunedi or the class is simply very tuned out, Toaldo will ask the question in English, really praying for some sort of response.

This particular day, he was using the BMI (Big Mac Index) to explain differences in purchasing power between Italians and Americans. So he asked, "Who knows the price of a Big Mac in the USA?"

Silence befell classroom 3A and many heads were lowered in avoidance of professorial eye contact. Maybe they didn't know the answer and were afraid to guess, or perhaps they all knew but were embarrassed to admit it. We sat for about 20 minutes (adjusted for Awkward Standard Time) in silence while Toaldo looked on expectantly.

Finally a voice was raised, that, once it began, continued with unwavering confidence. This was the voice of a singular character, a near-Snooki clone, who had the look of an expert on the subject of the golden arches, and whose entire existence provided justification for mandatory sun-screening (**Tangent after story**). Her declaration left nothing to be questioned about her expertise: "The price of a Big Mac in the USA? Four thirty-seven...ish."



[**Hippopotami**]

Just watched this Nash G-graph spesh on Hippopotami. The long and short of it is hippos are the most dangerous animals in the world, but they excrete a super-sweat that is both a natural sunblock and frighteningly effective antibiotic cream, which our host, Brady Barr must remove from the back of a wild beast. His plan is to invade the Hippo colony in a 200 lb. teflon hippo disguise. Madness ensues. Find this shit and watch it.

***There's More! Dopalicious tidbit about Pablo Escobars pet Hippos



Guilelessly,

Alexander

Buckets (Stronzino)

There are many traditions upheld by citizens of every city, but these traditions become even more entrenched and gain a mysterious quality when a city has been around for hundreds or even thousands of years. The ghosts of a place never leave and their legacy serves as a placeholder for those who can't see them. The little rock piles that gather all over Istanbul at the hottest time of summer surely aren't the work of wraiths and dead emperors but the tradition of placing these stones is a relic of history. Same with the fish carcasses that are discarded on the outskirts of London when the first flowers of spring bloom, which always face southeast, defiant to the channel and Europe beyond.

Well I discovered perhaps the oddest practice of all. Where else should it be but the Immortal City? Devious popes and magnificent barbarians, shackled fathers of world domination and galloping defenders of home and beauty; they all lived here. And they all drank wine. Lots and lots and lots of wine. The barbarians would drink to a mad rage and battle their bonfires with unseen fury. The fathers cast spells of infatuation and vile cannibalism on their wine and let it course through their shaking bodies.

The alcohol would grip them and change them. And then it subsided. But it wasn't pretty. It made men into demons. It conquered giants. [It killed Alexander of Macedonia] And sometimes it found its escape, forcing the men of old to expel it with force. It happens today--it's called vomit. Usually this means one has drank too much, but in the days of old it was a sign, not of physiological reactions but of the juice's desire to leave the host, whether out of fear or disapproval. The occasion of the vomit was well-observed and marked with gravity.

The places of these occurrences became significant. So a list was made. And if a man was to conquer the demons of the spirits, he had to achieve the vomiting ritual at each of the places in question. The list encompasses dozens of locations around Rome, some that still remain as they were long ago, and some that have been built upon. But even the ones that have changed remain the (un)holy sites of evacuation that must be had as well. I gained access to the list and have embarked on the quest to elevate my soul and eradicate the source of the tragic flaw. Below are the places that I have checked off my list so far. Understand it is just a beginning of a lifelong journey, one that I undertake with every ounce of reverence.

>The Institute of International Affairs

>The United States Consulate

>The corner of Viale Trastevere, in clear view of G.G. Belli and the river

>34 Via dei Genovesi, just behind a 12-century synagogue

>In a basement, several hundred yards west of the Spanish Steps

I have achieved only about 5% of what I set out to do a few months ago. I will draw on the might of the pagan hero, Heracles, in the coming months and drink wine like only a god could.

Join me.

Updates to follow.

Regards,

Starlin Kubarius Castro

"The stars shine without the sun because the night calls to them."

Rome snitches

Lungotevere is the road that runs along the Tiber River in Rome. If you know Italian, everything following the predicate in that first sentence is superfluous. It is a very busy road. There are certain places where I cross it in dire peril. I feel that living here in Italy with all its sensory pleasures has made me appreciate life more, but then again, it might just be the knowledge that I am constantly escaping death-by-smartcar that has given my life that extra golden dusting.

Lungotevere is a busy fucking road. Did I mention that? It is hectic and loud. It is chaos. This is Italy (Africa, Sparta, etc.). Mopeds weave rapidly through red light traffic in order to get up to the light in expectancy of the starter’s gun of red-becoming-green. Traffic laws are suggestions at best. Six, eight, ten cars gun it through yellow and then red lights, ending up stuck in the intersection, sticking their tiny car asses out and blocking the perpendicular flow of traffic.

And then come the horns. The beeps and boops and comically un-intimidating (when compared with their American counterparts) Carabinieri sirens. The deep honk of buses provides a bass line for this symphony of impatience and discord.

And the Italians honk like they damn well mean it. I mean they really let you hear it. The equation for honking is as follows.

(Seconds you made them wait)(minutes since their last cigarette smoked x 2)=HT

where HT=honk time.

That’s about the extent of my math.

(A short tangent before this story climaxes all over your face and runs down your sweaty chest/breast: As previously alluded to, crossing streets in Rome is dangerous. A tried and true method is a little skill I like to call “Drafting behind middle-aged women.” Not to get into this too much, but the trick is to cross the street while an at least somewhat-attractive middle-aged Italian woman is also crossing. As it turns out, the horribly obnoxious flirty tendencies of Italian men mean that if a woman actually survives to middle age, it is understood that she has endured so many catcalls and so many demeaning advances that at this point in her life she deserves utmost respect. Thus, when these women cross the street, the cars pause without honking at all, in a show of respect to her, aka putting the Figa on a Pedestal. So I run behind these women to preserve my life and not get honked at. It is a failsafe method that I would recommend to anyone.)

ALLORA

So now that you know that extent of Italian honking, you might be like, “ew that shit’s gross and loud and I’m not tryna hear it.” I feel ya girl. But honestly, you get used to it, just like Jews in the ghetto of Rome got used to wearing yellow hats whenever they were allowed out into the real world. It becomes part of the day-to-day. ALLORA, anyone who has lived in Rome for more than a month is used to this incessant honking and it becomes white noise, the Immortal City’s take on chirping birds or crickets. (Quick sidenote: Living in Rome you see many nuns/priests/professional undercover child molestors/popes dressed in their religious garb walking around. And I feel it’s not a stretch to assume these people aren’t just tourists; they’re probably here for a while).

ALLORA

While walking to school the other day, I encountered quite an amusing scene. I was walking along Lungotevere (remember it?) and saw ahead of me 2 things: 1. A traffic scene similar to what had been described above, with cars that had run the red light but had nowhere to go encroaching on the ability of the other cars to move, and thusly honkyville (not to be confused with Crossroads, Georgia (sorry Mr. Gill)) and 2. A very young northern-European looking priest all priested up. He seemed to be perturbed at the lack of lion/lamb reclining indicated by the honking and yelling (MA DAI!) and was condemning these poor souls with the best of his ability.

As I removed my earbuds and paused No Ceilings for just a few fleeting seconds I heard a line of much hilarity. Now it will be difficult to illustrate for you just how hilarious this was, as you must imagine the voice with which it was intoned. This young (I suspect) German priest had the EXACT voice of none other than our beloved Bruno. I don’t know how to do umlauts on the computer but I wish I did. Like very very very Bruno and very very very fabulous. What he said next will remain with me until the day I forget it.

“Dat is soooooo helpful you guys. Vhen you beep everyone goes fahstar. Totally.”

That’s the punchline. Enjoy.

And now the first in a new series on the academic interpretation of rap songs and validation of their lyrics.

1. SKY PAGER -- A Tribe Called Quest

[real lyrics]
[listen to song]

Q-Tip & Phife Dawg illuminate the importance of sky pagers.

Prompt: Do you know the importance of a sky pager?

Q-Tip:
To the uninformed public (esp. other rappers): You are already below my level because you fail to appreciate how helpful a sky pager can be. I keep mine on all the time; it gets great reception at concert venues. And now, a completely unrelated anecdote to finish out my first point.

If you happen to be enjoying a nice dinner of cacciatore con límon with wine and you only have 30 minutes to meet up with your bitch, you should smoke a joint of marijuana at your house (homies optional).

Occasionally my pager acts up when I am pursuing women, which is irritating. I am a sex fiend so I have no qualms about caressing my erect penis in public (through the pants). It's often awkward when I'm doing this, and my business manager pages me. I actually sent 2000 pages this month so they are cutting the service off this thing. Oh well, I'm a rich rapper!


Phife:
I would agree with my esteemed colleague, but add that I, too, will be smoking marijuana with you. (Non sequitur, Skypager is an acronym, and the S stands for Sex). After smoking, I'll probably receive several sextual advances on my pager from the rotation of bitches I keep available. Sometimes withdrawal from use of my sky pager gives me acute depression, as diagnosed by my psychiatrist, Dr. Ayre Rubenstein. Maybe that's the reason pagers seem so complex to me, when really, it's just a small device that receives numbers.

As a valuer of the importance of a sky pager, I only use the best Duracell batteries, which usually last me up to three weeks, even though I keep the pager on every second of every day. Further, my coverage covers all of North America and even the Caribbean. If you are within 500 miles of me and text the number 69, I will come have sex with you.