Wake up, yon sleepy-heads, yon Van Winkles of this ever-expanding Kreative multiverse. If you thought that yesterday's post would be all you'd hear from these parts for the week, you are quite mistaken. Kreation, as with time, waits for no man.
Now, with the perfunctory what-have-yous safely in the rear-view mirror, let's get down to cases. Undoubtedly you are aware of his long-standing collaborative efforts with fellow Korner stalwart, Chris Peebles, seminal outcroppings of which have taken place in the environs of Idaho and Southern California. We are pleased to say that, in this case, lightning strikes thrice, this time in BLENKO's current place of residence, San Francisco. Luckily, one or the other of them thought to document the damn thing, and what we have here is each Kreationist's take on the occasion. These pieces work as a conceptual whole, and we have found that viewing them simultaneously produces overwhelming results, the consequences of which we will not be held responsible for. Lick it up:
Greetings, Kreationists. Today we are delighted to bring you another treat from the archives, courtesy of Korner archivist, Gabe Gabriel. This piece, sourced from the private collection of an anonymous benefactor, may look familiar to you.
Recognize it? No doubt you do. Of course you'll recall our post a mere four years ago unveiling the discovery of a genuine Das Amakorp graphic print, which has since been dated to 1983. Note the stylistic affinity between the two pieces. In fact, top Das Amakorp designer, Ean Leib, was behind both. This piece, which we call "Damage Art," was apparently intended as a motivational poster, and it stands the test of time. Tuner Jazzman was sufficiently motivated to smash his Le Baron into a telephone pole after viewing this poster, an act which he proudly declared as "a defiant statement of intent." This is yet another exciting, perplexing, and motivating discovery in Kreation history.
Today's post comes from our pater saccharum Greg Purt. You may remember the bad business we had some years back with our erstwhile benefactor Chas Murdoch. Purt pulled through for us in a pinch, and apparently now it's time for us to return the favor. Though admittedly we're a little peeved as we were led to believe we'd entered a no-strings-attached sponsorship, Greg's request is modest--just a little plug for his company Buenos Dias Production's new health initiative. Let's get this over with:
At Buenos Dias Productions, pushing out quality family, teen and adult video entertainment isn't our only passion. We also care deeply about health. In fact it's one of the 19 core tenets in our mission statement! In order to promote a healthier world, we feel it starts with progressive companies like ours. That's why I'm so excited today to unveil our 20-33-49 plan. BDP's top executives have unanimously resolved to reduce sodium usage in our corporate office's cafeteria by 20% by 2018, cut refined sugar consumption by 33% by 2022 and increase our use of locally sourced, organic produce by 49% by 2029. 20-33-49. It's proactive. It's actionable. It's bold. Change comes from the top and Buenos Dias is proud to be on the cutting edge making this a healthier, happier and all around better planet to live on. I challenge other business leaders to adopt the 20-33-49 model and prove, as we have, that good business is about much more than just the bottom line!
I recently returned from a brief stay in the City Formerly Known as Yerba Buena. My mission was to spend some much needed face time with BLENKO, check in with Hattie Weyland and konduct an informal audition for aspiring Kreationist/juggler Kay Ingleside. In the midst of mixing this business and pleasure, BLENKO and I happened upon what can only be described as the answer to the questions that have racked the Korner these past few months. I speak of the dreaded Kloud. We've all been wondering, "what is the kloud? What baleful designs does it have in store for us??" or something to that effect. Turns out, as B and I observed, the Kloud is in fact a finite, tangible inflatable tunnel located on a one-block stretch of Howard Street in SoMa. All this time we thought the Kloud was an ever-present, post-physical malevolent entity, but in reality, as depicted below, it's little more than a bouncy castle that can easily succumb to the Safety Pin of Kreation. Not to debunk what some at the Korner have bunked, but, if you ask me, this whole Kloud threat has been vastly overstated. I hope we can put all this unease behind us and get back to enthusiastically karrying out our kreative mandate.
"The Kloud," Howard Street, San Francisco, CA. It can't stay inflated forever!
He wore the better part of velour and poured me a tall glass of hummus. Runny, transparent hummus composed of hydrogen and oxygen save for some tiny impurities. No filter accomplishes its final cause one hundred percent. The soft man trumpeted, “Where is the dog my aunt threw? Threw down the stairs in a cruel manner—an incident which encouraged me to disown her as aunt. I did not do this. I believe all people deserve to be treated with compassion. They deserve redemption. Plus she is family. Blood is thicker than a dog with a broken neck on the landing.”
As a longtime krusader for the Kreation Kause, I find it incumbent upon myself to offer some remarks on the recent uncertainty and tumult besetting the Korner. When I first read of your strange encounter with the Kloud, I was frightened at first. But my trepidation soon ceded to fascination and exhilaration at the non-finite implications this episode presented for the kreative experiment. What I have witnessed, unfortunately, in the ensuing weeks has given me the feeling that there is an acute level of unease around the HQ and perhaps even some kreator-on-kreator animosity. Frankly, I think y'all are in a rut, and I can't help but to further think this may very well be the Kloud testing y'all's resolve. If you ask me, it is in these troubling times that Practitioners of Kreation must stick together more than ever! Thus, I write to y'all to provide a katalyst of sorts to spur some much-needed kohesion. I challenge y'all to rise above the fearfulness and dismay and galvanize your efforts around the positive. And let me tell you, there is plenty to be positive about! For instance, I discovered recently whilst dicking around on my web browser that your blog is ranked 13,906,480th in the United States according to URLmetrics! Now, supposing there are around 644 million websites out there, that puts www.thekreationkorner.com in the top 3%! The Korner is among the elite ranks of the internet's upper echelon. This is something to celebrate! In closing, let us not get bogged down in negativity. I hope the aforementioned will act as a klarion kall for your temporarily haggard souls. It's the least I can do for all the innumerable megabytes of free kontent y'all have given me over the years.
Snappy Tom here. I know what yer thinkin, my it's been a while since we heard from that old coot, and ain't he dead yet? Well no I ain't. And in the interim since my last post, I ascertained many learnings. Like, what is a blog, and, how to use a computer, and what does "ascertain" mean. So it's my turn to talk. All this book-smart jaw-flappin' about the so-called history of kreationism is making me sick. Just as man didn't come from a monkey, neither did our beautiful tradition come from the minds of some mutter-hinterland ninnies. Now maybe my mind's fucked up from "too much whiskey," as the doctor says, but I have consulted my family kreation-trees dating back to the 1860s, and hate to spoil your party there Gabe, but this thing been around longer than you think. And it comes straight from the US of A. Where else could it begin? Some of our greatest Kreationists were in fact the westward-bound freaks of the 19th century, that soul-sickness of America coursin' their veins and driving them toward waters no one in respectable society cared to see. So don't go jabberin' to me about no sorry-ass German poets -- this here kreation thing, it's as American as Twinkies. I'm out.
As promised, we'd keep you apprised of any new developments in the unfolding story of our recent joint cyber mind voyage. Today's clue comes in the form of the following inscription, which turned out to be a web address:
This URL was discovered tattooed to the left inner thigh of our own Huey Dood. Huey claims to have no knowledge of this "tat" prior to our kloud kuest. Why Huey discovered this only just today is cause for even more alarm, I mean, who goes for a month without taking off his or her pants?* Anyways, after transcribing the characters from Huey's funky gam into our web browser and striking the return key, we were simply shocked by what appeared on the screen several fractions of a second later. What we saw was a free internet encyclopedia article about a German poet-cum-soldier named Theodor Körner. As we read through the article, we quickly realized that Körner is a clear forebear to kontemporary kreationism. We also noted many striking similarities between Körner and our movement's founder, Gustav Kreationssen. The two men were in roughly the same age group, were kreative wunderkinds and stood as ardent opponents to Napoleon's tyranny in Prussia. Is it not possible, then, that Kreationssen and Körner may have encountered each other at some point between the former's arrival in Germany in 1806 and the latter's untimely death in 1813? We here at The Kreation Korner don't tend to believe in koincidences. We figure there's more to the story of our origins, more that will be revealed to us in the coming days, months and fiscal years. We also have the sneaking suspicion that this new knowledge will likely decimate many long-held assumptions and values. For the time being, all we can do is remain vigilant and bone up on this Theodor Körner guy. To that end, here's an excerpt we happened upon of his 1932 biopic:
*We have a theory that Huey is a "never-nude"--that's a reference to this kult TV show called Arrested Development we're just nuts for around the HQ. Give it a watch--it's probably on Netflix.
In what will surely, or maybe not, be an ongoing process of revelation, more has recently come to light with regard to a certain collective sojourn into the digital consciousness mothership, as it were. Just today, here at KKHQ, Percy Stankowski found in his own jacket pocket three transfers inexplicably belonging to the venerable MUNI public transportation system of San Francisco (CA). The transfer tickets were dated September 14, 24, and 25 of 2013. "I've never even been there!" exclaimed Stankowski upon inquiry as to how the transfers made their way into his pocket. Naturally, only one explanation suffices -- that time travel and interlocational transmutation were among the events which transpired on that fateful Friday. Connections abound within this seemingly random event. For one, San Francisco has emerged as the focal point of all things Cloud, such that in our journey there was a natural drift toward the physical locus of all this latter-day nebulosity. For two, and this is no trifling matter, the MUNI logo prominently emblazoned on said transfers was in fact an original design from the accomplished but little-known Kreationist, Kremer Melblüng (photo unavailable). How exactly this all connects is beyond us, but we are fortified in the faith that more will be revealed, and that we will not be able to make much sense of that, either. More confused, ass-over-teakettle updates as events warrant.
Has it really been 11 days? I guess time flies when you're a disembodied consciousness. Allow us to explain...The day was September 13. We were holding a little soiree at the HQ to kommemorate six years of The Kreation Korner. Things were going smoothly, until Huey Dood, the bumbling buffoon he is, spilled a tankard of mudslide onto APEKS, our hitherto dormant sentient supercomputer. Something about the collision of the syrupy beverage and beige plastic outer casing sprung the infernal machine back to life, saturating the room in a burst of blinding light and energy. What happened at this point can only be described as indescribable. Our best guess is that APEKS' electromagnetic field somehow unmoored our minds from their corporeal fetters and transmitted them into The Cloud--that mysterious cyber omnipresence we've heard discussed lately in hushed tones. For what felt like only 94 seconds, our beings were as one, unencumbered by the crude flesh. We were instantaneously aware of all that has been, is and will be known. With this boundless knowledge came boundless language for boundless opportunities to imagine existence, we think. Unfortunately, any specific recollections of our shared non-physical digital odyssey slipped away as soon as we awoke achey, odorous and strewn about the floor. We can't explain how we were granted access to The Cloud or how our bodies were sustained for a week and half. We can say, however, that we have gained a renewed acceptance that the plane we inhabit is but a speck of lobster in the vast and creamy cosmic bisque. But as small as it is, it's succulent none the less and we're damn proud to live and kreate in it.
What's the word, Kreationists? Well, today, it's several, all of which you are reading at this moment. In the second of a series of posts done on the seminal but in its time largely unknown music label, Kreative Destruction Records, we unearth a punk classic lost to the ages -- until now. Little is known about early '80s hardcore Boiseans, Red Scare, other than that they did not appear in this documentary. It is likely, or at least a plausible conjecture, that by the time that story was shot, Red Scare (as so many young visionaries do) had already burned out. Lucky for us, Kreation archivist Gabe Gabriel has worked diligently to bring such material to the fore, ensuring that as we move forward on whatever kreative path we so choose, we are ever aware of the lineage from which we were spawned. So let your ears have an auditory gander at this piece of history, as I go and microwave myself some lunch. Look-see:
"Bigotry in the Breakout Sessions: A Play for the 140-character Age"
Scene: conference center breakfast buffet, mid-sized state university, Pacific Northwest. Ben and Ellen are conference attendees awaiting custom omelets assembled by a student employee.
Ben: I don't know about you, but I keep seeing more and more résumés come across my desk from millennials.
Ellen: I know! We have a millennial in our office. He gives me the creeps! But somebody's got to do the social media.
B: That's about all they're good for. My wife said the millennial in her office set up Facebook accounts for three men at the same time and liked it! Can you believe that? I mean, have some self respect!
E: That's the problem, I plum don't know what their values are.
B: Or if they have any at all!
E: Just this past month, five millennials, FIVE of them, moved in across the street. I know they're in there tweeting and snapchatting at all hours of the night. It makes me sick!
B: That used to be such a good street. What a tragedy.
E: We've already called a realtor. A BOOMER realtor.
B: That's about all you can do. Too late for us, unfortunately. My eight-year-old is already asking about Tumblr. Such a loss of innocence. It breaks my heart.
E: Those millennials have no qualms about corrupting our youth. But I'll be damned before one of my kids updates a status or posts content on a computer or mobile device screen!
B: It's a dirty job for dirty people. BTDubs, did you add me on LinkedIn yet?
When Rasmus Wright’s debut album plummeted earlier this summer, the chanteur quickly became the talk of the Bench. Naturally, every Kreationist from Boise to the Bay wanted a crack at kollaboration. After a kumbersome bidding process, Wright selected none other than Chris Peebles as the Ashford to his Simpson. In one Sunday (or “Funday,” if you like) afternoon, the duo cranked out the following video. “It’s not so much a video. Unless you consider moving digital images accompanied by sound to be a video. Then yeah, it’s a video, if you wanna get in the weeds about it,” Peebles reported, adding, “Working with Rasmus Wright was really a thrill. I remind him of an older me.” When asked if ‘You’re Late’ is just a taste of redoubtable things to come, Peebles replied, “Nah, this is just a one-off deal. Rasmus and I have since severed ties irrevocably.” What a shame. Subsume:
When The Kreation Korner made its daring foray into the print publications racket last August, we were convinced our inaugural release Parallel Stills would unfiguratively sell itself. But with nearly a full solar year elapsed and not one copy sold, we accept the inevitability that we must assert some effort--even if it means lowering ourselves to petty hucksterism. To that end, here's a cri de coeur from our own Chris Peebles:
A guy is obsessed with this woman. He starts going through her mail, following her, and so forth. One day he breaks into her home. Inside, he discovers numerous curios which intrigue him. Being a specialty importer-exporter, and being that he has in his possession a small number of items roughly equivalent in value, the man gets the overwhelming urge to barter with her.The woman comes home, startled to find him there. Brandishing a conveniently handy tire iron, the woman demands to know what he wants with her. He replies, "Stalk and trade."
The Kreation Korner rarely hesitates to enthusiastically promote those whom we perceive as partners in our Kause. Rasmus Wright is one such honorary kreationist. We had the privilege of featuring several of his tracks on The Korner during the waning months of 2011. It would appear R.W. has been busy in the time that has elapsed! Just this month, he let slip his debut album upon that dynamic system of global networks that connects us all (internet). It's entitled "2&2"and initial reviews are astonishingly mixed. Although an early champion of the young prophet of Psychoamericana, venerable rock critic Rapaport Graves opined in a pithy capsule review of the album: "Quantity vs. quality? Wright's diaphanous debut disc lacks both." We gave Rasmus an opportunity for rebuttal during an exclusive impromptu hibachi-side interview at the "2&2" release party at the HQ last night: "The age of the Stadium Arcadium-length release is over. We're in the era of the Myspacebook and Microtweeting. The mercurial listening public's pendulum has swung toward the brief and I'm their humble servant...at least until I get bored." Only time will tell how history will or will not remember Rasmus Wright, but what we can say today with certainty is that we expended our weekly bandwidth allotment to post his album so please take a listen:
Greetings all and sundry, once in a blue moon we here at the Korner like to get a fresh take on our humble little we-blog. And being that we've been roped into keeping the drab floral pattern which is our backdrop (a binding contract with Les Bois United Virtual Wall Coverings, Inc., precludes us from discussing this matter further), we are given short shrift with regard to redecoration. Yet we have made the most of our limitations, ever striving to confront the Korner viewer with stunning, contemplative, offensive, reflexive, strident visual uncompromise from the get-go. And so it is that we present to you the latest Kreation Korner banner, itself rendered in an evocative kollage style. And, in an unprecedented move, the artist, one Boo Merengue, has presented a companion poem to be ingested likewise. Viddy:
Apocalypse in installment plans
Why pray now when you can pay on AAA credit
The death-cults will ride on digital wing
Belying their pretended ancient heritage
spam is king
the only food that will survive the fall-out
Salutations. My name is Napier St. Anselm. I am not nor have ever been a "Kreationist" or an adherent to the "Kreationism" movement. In fact, I have had no prior association of any kind with "The Kreation Korner." But for reasons that are far too grave and terrifying to disclose to the garden variety blog consumer, I felt it incumbent on myself to infiltrate this web interface in order to disseminate a videographical warning of vast import. I assure you, I take this action with the purest and best-intentioned of motives. This will be my only incursion into "The Korner." In fact, before any one of you reads this, I will have already undergone an experimental procedure to expunge all memory of this strange incident. Although there's a good chance I'll come out of it more asparagus than human, it's a risk I'm willing to take to deliver this critical admonition. Do not take lightly:
"Graduation Speech, #GS001406"
Today we celebrate. We're the inaugural graduates of a new program. The trail blazers, if you will. We're the vanguard up the beach at Iwo. Many of us won't make it. But as subsequent waves of our siblings in arms tread through our remains, our viscera caking to their standard issues, we can take solace knowing they'll one day stake Old Glory at the summit of Suribachi thanks to our initial sacrifice. Picture, if you will, a home sausage extruder. We're those first irregular links squeezed through the nozzle. Some of us are packed unevenly and improperly tied off. Others of us have split casings or have fallen unceremoniously to the garage floor, only to be devoured by Fido. None of us have yet achieved the ideal ratio of ground pork shoulder to fennel seed. But in time, practice and tenacity will yield an efficient, streamlined technique. In the not too distant future, this program will produce a steady, uniform stream of tumescent crescents of customer service acumen. So let us take up our anti-grav units--our kiosks await! In conclusion, there's a blue 2027 Ford Explorer with its headlights on in the auxiliary lot. Thank you.
Greetings, Kornies! Hadley Daughterson here, and I'm writing today to tell yinz of a spectacular experience I had the other day at BTS (Boise Towne Square mall). I use "spectacular" to mean "of or resembling a spectacle" as furnished by thefreedictionary.com. I observed a preponderance of shop windows prominently displaying apparel emblazoned with what can only be described as commodified street art. As I gazed upon mannequin after mannequin adorned with wryly sardonic send-ups of older-sibling propaganda, it okkurred to me that the ultimate kommentary on coercive authoritarian power structures is to participate in the uniformity they foist upon mall-goers the world over. Seeing these products rekindled in me the antiestablishment zeal I felt in my salad days as a guerilla posterhanger in Latrobe. In light of this nostalgia, I have elected to throw my headwear into the kommercial ring. Rather than the distressed surfaces of urban America, the distressed fashion tee will be my kanvas. For my first prototype, I dug up one of my old designs from the late 80s and dusted off the screen printer. Chris Peebles agreed to model the inaugural garment, but only under the kondition I obskure his face in any publicity stills:
"I never thought I'd be implicated in a melancholy closing of the west"
I see 'em, from Main Street,
in their fancy saloon
back their heads
and the latest
of the new barman
in from Saint Lewis
It's their scene and
they revel with un-
draped in spun
fruits from the Flowery
Things had been
going downhill ever
since Doc Traebis
hung up his bone saw and
by the glamour of the
the mud accumulated
on my boot heels
my duster, she's fixin'
to come by dry
goods by nightfall
I could've sworn the
at her but one
day too their spines
will curl like armadillos and
their eyes will cloud over
like the disinterested sky
The saloon was a
from space-time or
whatever those college
boys back east posit
Me, I like to think
of it as a
mis-called pocket in
the cosmic billiards
The almighty is
an unseen hustler
We make for
the mercantile and
I pity them in a way
their interactions devoid
of a larger context
my chances with Tante
and forge my own
narrative in a sod
the urban-rural interface.
Lots of the time, I'd say, mmmmm, once an hour, it's 4:20 somewhere. Like somewhere in the world. Because of time changes? Yeah, time changes, you know. Time is weird, you know? But uhhhh fuck, you wanna pack a bowl?
Buy sheep, sell deer. (Disclaimer: KREATION KORNER assumes no responsibility for any consequence relating directly or indirectly to any action or inaction you take based on the information, services or other material on this site. This stock tip was overheard spoken by a human man in a suit, April 15, 2013, at Boise Greyhound Station, 1212 W. Bannock St., Boise, ID 83702.)
Part III. of III. The blood comes in dribbles at first. As the bus moves, the blood is inclined to trail through the air on a parabolic trajectory which spatters his feet, torso, and occasionally his face. Before long, there is a thud, dropped like an extra-large workboot onto the roof of the bus. Angry starlings career through the emergency exit and into the cabin of the bus, he feels their sharp beaks and oily, beating wings on his face. He smells their feverish animalism. They are after the larvae which have appeared, he knows not where from, on the bus floor. What little light now enters the bus has become by turns decayed greens, burning reds. The thudding object is rolling in some imperfect manner from the front of the bus toward the overhead exit. Some exit, he thinks. And he knows the world is purging itself. And how quaint, he thinks, that a municipal transit authority would install such a strange metaphysical apparatus and call it by the mundane name of "emergency exit."
This has been "The Transit Authority Has a Sick Sense of Humor," by Tum Cruz. Look for his other works in the romance aisle of a Krim Kram's Bargain Mart near you!
"A kreative act or work is as much what it is not as what it is. So when I tell you a tedious, hackneyed, uninteresting joke, I'm simultaneously telling you the most inventive, sidesplitting and thought-provoking joke you've ever heard. You're welcome."
Last September, an anonymous filmmaker insinuated a mysterious video into our midst. At the time, we wondered if and when this guerilla kreationist would strike again. Our wonder was assuaged the other day when one of our technicians noticed some unfamiliar frames strewn on the editing bay floor. After several sleepless nights, we have managed to painstakingly cut together a coherent short we believe is true to our unknown kontributor's intent (the frames were numbered). What remains unsettling is how this elusive weaver of moving images was able to infiltrate his work right under our noses. Granted, we have a literal open-door policy, but still, you'd think somebody would have noticed a stranger coming or going. Peep game:
Today we unveil, or rather uncap, a new feature on The Kreation Korner. It's a paean to the finer things in life that delight the palate, both hard and soft. Although the daily life of a Kreationist is a spartan one marked by restraint and simple sustenance, we'd be unbalanced as human experiencers if we didn't indulge in the exquisite every now and then. For our first stab at this brave new genre, we present to you a promising young food and beverage writer named Harvey Betschbenghar. His delectable prose conjures imagery so vivid it's as if you're enjoying an intimate yet casual dining experience right there in the privacy of your own e-reader. Perhaps you'll envision ragged, under-paid servers milling about below dim rafters, delivering polenta fries and hoppy libations to a caste of Patagonia-clad patrons. Harvey's objective today is to bring us his three top local beer picks for the month of March. Turns out, craft lagers and ales are a pretty big deal here in the West. Sip:
Leopold's Revenge Belgian Ale Severed Hand Brewpub & Community Still - Bellevue, ID - 9.9% ABV
When I rode a penny-farthing across Belgium and crashed in farmhouses after college, I fell in love with the yeasty nectar that is Belgian witbier. Once I returned stateside, however, its been one disappoint after another sampling the not-so-délicieux wannabe white ales of yankee brewers. That is, until my tongue touched the fermented revelation that is Leopold's Revenge. Brewed in open vats in a central Idaho barn, this ale is authentic right down to the wild yeast and bits of owl shit. A Tedious Urbanite Bacon Arugula Porter Pompous Motherfucker Ales - Washougal, WA - 7.1% ABV
Given the popularity of both micro-brewing and charcuterie in the Pacific Northwest, it's astonishing the two are only now joining in malty matrimony. Let's run through the logic, shall we: I like bacon. I like beer. Therefore, I must like bacon-beer. Also, the arugula lends a pleasant crispness and deep, verdant complexion. B+ Hop for Red Hoptober Quadruple-Hopped IPA Starring Hop Connery and Alec Hopwin Busted Antler Brewing Co. - Juntura, OR - 13.7% ABV
Busted Antler has only been open for business four days and already they're cranking out some truly rock 'n' roll concoctions. Hoptober is the favorite pour at the company's tasting room and it overwhelms the senses. Unremitting and unrelenting, calling it an India Pale Ale is a rather liberal definition--it's really just a big glass of Cascade hops. So yeah, pretty epic. A-
Part II. of III.
He finds his seat, carefully orienting his body to fall into the seat with minimal fanfare. Then he checks to see that all his essentials are secured in their appropriate places -- phone, miniature Japanese day-planner, the mechanical pencil that still has lead in it, wallet, keys. Assuaged of any fear of loss, he now sits, waiting for the determinate length of time it will likely take him to reach his destination. As our bodies are in subconscious communion with the tides, he is similarly privy to the private machinations of this public transportation service, so that he knows within five minutes when he will arrive at any given point in the city. As he sits, his gaze is drawn toward the hatch marked "Emergency Exit," almost directly overhead. It has been opened for ventilation, and the hatch now appears as a disembodied plastic rectangle, its four edges bordered by the things which pass overhead as the bus continues its halting progress. Azure blue, followed by rushing and amorphous black shapes (likely the foliage of large trees), pass through this strange reverse-frame to which he has found access. Then he notices the blood.
Part I. of III.
He enters the bus through its front door. Looking around at the passengers, he sees nothing out of the ordinary, yet is simultaneously aware of feelings of foreboding. To say there is a greenish light would be to misapprehend the situation. The air itself appears green, as if clouded by a sickly, verdant pollen. He orients his mass to walk to the back of the bus, while it pushes off from its stop. A series of minute calculations, the end result being an awkward but effective lurch toward his ultimate goal, feet leading perspicaciously while the fragile brain bucket follows behind.
Salutations, wandering web wayfarer. Huey Dood here. I decided to take a break from my busy life the other day. I sat back in my Eames chair and kicked up my feet on the Noguchi table for some much deserved laptop time. I transmitted a radar wave into the rarified wild blue yonder of the blogosphere and shortly thereafter happened upon a kurious little site. It appeared to be devoted solely to the depiction and discussion of loading docks--a compelling concept to be sure! I was further intrigued, but admittedly a bit perturbed, when I discovered the blogger responsible was none other than our own Chris Peebles. While we here at the Korner have no kwalms about our kontrubibutors engaging in side projects, the exclusivity kontracts they have all signed say we're entitled to a percentage of any spin-off earnings--financial or otherwise. In spite of the mostly unambiguous conditions Peebles agreed to, it would seem that he forwent the appropriate channels for this extracurricular escapade. Now, we want to give Chris the benefit of the doubt. We've always known him to conduct himself as a konsummate professional. All we ask for is an explanation of why he went behind our backs. Please Chris, tell us something good--and give us our kut.