Laughing in Lubberland

Imaginary Beast

Sound minds have decided

You do not exist

An invention of other days

Other times

Fantasy of the simple minded

Method of control for children and religious people

Misunderstood

Your steps barely touch the ground

In a forest that is not supposed to be real

What would Bigfoot do?

I’ve been trying to find a couple of free moments to write about the end of time. Yep. It’s upon us, finally.

All year I’ve been looking at a bottle of beer that my friend Chuk Hell gave to me. I carried it back with me from Austin, Texas in the spring. It’s called Thee End of Time, Hell Brew #5. I think it’s a barley wine. Yes, that’s what it says on the bottle. He brewed it to be ready on the last day of the Mayan calendar, which is approaching later this month. 

You may hear some chatter about the end of the world, dramatic earth shattering events and cataclysmic this and that. Or maybe you’ll encounter a fluffy news piece. Despite what you may be worrying about, the world is not going to explode. The only thing that is going to happen is that time is going to end. This will be great, because I’ll be drinking Chuk’s delicious beer for eternity. There will be no hangover, because the next day will never arrive.

As I am writing this, we have 15 days, 5 hours and 11 minutes until the calendar ends. When this happens it will be Friday forever. 

We will most likely slip into another dimension. Instead of time, some other hideous imaginary device will be probably be invented to bum people out. I am hopeful, though. Being an optimist by nature, I’m eager to cast myself into timelessness. I’m looking forward to our new freedom from clocks and schedules. We will no longer be constrained to “act our age”. At long last, midnight madness will be liberated.

This is a poem, these are lyrics that my friend Jack wrote to/about me many years ago. I was feeling sorry for myself and making a bunch of excuses. I didn’t realize that I was being that way. I ended up singing the words in our band, Tom Gemp. We were a Detroit/Ann Arbor band in the 80’s.  

Constant Moan

Whining on the phone

Another problem

A constant moan

Why don’t you shut up?

I’ve heard enough

Why don’t you get off your ass

And change what you don’t like?

Everything is out to get you

Everyone is so against you

And so you sit and cry

But do you even try

To change

Why don’t you see, it’s all inside your head

It’s all inside your head

- Jack Soffel

Performed by the band Tom Gemp

Super Mega Maxi is a new larger size of cola that I saw the last time I was in Mexico. Every year a new word is added to make it bigger. Next year, it will be “Super Mega Maxi Extreme!” In ten years, I can hardly imagine what the 13 liter size will be called.

Super Mega Maxi Disaster is the name of a game that was invented years ago in a restaurant in Austin, Texas. It never had a name back then. It was just a concept game that a couple of us dreamed up when we should have been working.

It is a game that can be enjoyed by one or more people. All ages are welcome to try.

The object is to stumble, or wipe out in such a way as to cause maximum damage in an absurd way, while also extending the duration of the wipe out as long as possible.

Points are given for amount of damage (or disruption), length of disaster and creativity. If someone faints, or gets a cream pie in the face, you automatically win.

Points are deducted for laughing, saying “Just kidding” or falling out of character. If people discover that you have faked your accident, you lose.

The game can be played anywhere. Public places are usually the best. Awkward family events are also great.

Location is taken into consideration when accumulating points. Obviously, more damage can be done in a china shop than in a pillow factory.

A simple example would be:
You enter a coffee shop, trip over a carpet that is meant for wiping your feet, you grab onto the nearby frilly curtains, pulling them down as you crash into the edge of a table, causing it to flip over, spilling plates, etc…. you continue to roll forward, tripping someone and so on.

These are the basic rules.
Let the games begin!

There is no room for error in this place. Careful planning, focus groups, meetings and discussions have created a new reality. Intentionally haphazard, this reality can easily be found on Google maps. If I remember correctly, it has been rated 3 1/2 stars. Alot of work went into crafting that rating. It’s no mistake, intended to appeal to a specific demographic.
Yep.
A middle aged couple on a sailboat.
A young Asian woman sitting cross legged in front of her laptop.
A young “ethnic” man looking at his portable electronic device.
I hate it.
The marketing used to sell us things. Specifically, the stupid pictures of people who are supposed to be me.
I guess I’m supposed to say, “Wow! That guy’s like me! I’m gonna’ try online banking, wash my hair and take a pill for my condition!”
Yep.

I would like to recreate generic stock marketing photos using real people and animals.
Ugly.
Slightly distorted.
Walleyed.
I would love to receive your distorted interpretations.

For a limited time only, download my app and get a 5% discount!
And that’s not all!
I will constantly bombard your portable electronic device with loads of useless junk!
Seriously, though, it occurred to me that I need my own app. If the grocery store, gas station and bank have one, I want one too. Instead of exchanging email address, phone number or business card, I could give you my app. It’s the future of social networking.
Eventually I will become my app. This will be the only way to interact with me. If you want to hang out, or grab a bite to eat, you’ll have to download my app.

Occasionally, I’ll send you a coupon for a free glass of orange juice.

There’s a buzz in town. A new hot chef has come onto the Chicago culinary scene. His creations defy the way we have ever thought about food. Mind blowing fare literally flies off of the plate by way of edible, imitation hummingbird wings, landing gently on your tongue. The flavor massages your taste buds in ways you never could have imagined. He’s radical, throwing out all of the rules as he casts his spells. He’s a hip wizard in a white chef’s jacket. His hair is messy in a really expensive way. Have you heard of him? He has a show on cable tv. I think it’s called Wizard Chef or something like that. They use a hand held camera for a lot of the kitchen scenes so that you feel like you’re right in the action. Sometimes Wizard Chef has a fit. He throws pans at the assistant chefs. Everybody likes that.

His show comes on right after Cave Kitchen. That’s the one where the chef is also a caver. He goes deep into the earth to forage for extremely rare cave fungus. I think it sells for about a thousand dollars an ounce now. It’s really fancy. Sometimes he also serves blind cave spiders. He covers them with a glaze, then takes a blowtorch to them. The end result looks like a red rose. People love eating his glazed spiders because he’s a rad, hip chef with a cable show.

 OK, so now I’m going to come clean.

I’ve never watched Wizard Chef or Cave Kitchen. I could really care less. To me, it’s like watching a show about fishing. Sometimes, though, when I’m sitting at the bar around the corner from my house I see these stupid shows. I also see write ups in the local arts and entertainment weekly. I can’t help thinking about all of the guys who are really doing the cooking. To me, they are the story. I’d like to do either a photo essay or short documentary called We Work in Kitchens. We would walk up to the back door of different restaurants and wait for different cooks, prep cooks and dishwashers to come outside. We would interview them on the spot, getting a quick version of their story. We would take a picture of them.

I bet their stories would be more interesting than a show about a hot chef.

If anyone would like to submit a We Work in Kitchens Interview or photograph, I’d love to post it here.  

I woke up one sunny morning last week and tried unsuccessfully to wash the fog out of my eyes. As usual, I didn’t leave enough time for breakfast. I didn’t leave enough time for anything. At 7:35 I quickly climbed the steps from our garden apartment and began to unlock my bike. I fumbled with the lock while trying not to get tangled up in my shoulder bag. Looking up, I noticed that a sign had been posted on a nearby tree. Words, handwritten on a piece of cardboard, “Please pick up your dog’s shit! We play in this area! So please pick up your dog’s shit?!!! This goes for the whole block!!!
Wow.
The whole block.
It takes a lot of balls to take on these poop miscreants.
…but what an asshole.
Immediately, I began to wonder which neighbor put up this sign. I didn’t have much time, though. So, I hopped on my bike and headed for the train.
Work filled up some uneventful hours. Then I returned home. As I lazily pedaled up my block, I saw at least 3 more of these signs. They all had similar words on them. One of them had, “Thanks” at the bottom. A filthy curse followed by “thanks”.
Then it struck me. This was the work of Superdick.
Good ole’ Superdick, champion of the little guy. I suppose he feels pretty good about himself, sitting in his lazyboy chair, probably wearing a turtleneck. He envisions himself to be a champion of the humble citizens of South Oakley Street.
Save us Superdick!
I was embarrassed and annoyed by this rude placard. I hoped that the neighbors would not think that I put it there.
I started watching everyone in the neighborhood a little bit closer, trying to figure out who this masked jerk might be. Normal superheroes are usually the most unexpected.
The more I tried to figure it out, the more confused I became.
At least the people of South Oakley Street could rest easily knowing that the children would not be stepping in poop for awhile.