It was time to Meet the Paper. But I had to meet under the pants. That was a Butt Crack. And Bed Sheet. The left Marks. Those Marks!
Oh Brothers!
But can’t you figure it? Look out for that Fig Newton. He really was a Big Neutron. I’d say he was Issac Newton. And that Atom Ant sure Acts Like You Can’t! Was he Atomic or Adam, Ick!? I’ll just let you Picknick or be a Sick
Stick. Snicker now or Snicker ever. I just won’t Snicker Never! Just remember this, that when you go to the
yellow solar star, Don’t fly that, Universe!
Think about it! Is this The Planet of The Apes? Or is
it The Ape of the Planets?
Wait for A Slap
in the face or that Solar Lapsed into Space.
So Far, So Good! How far will
atoms send their neutrons in order to normalize the protonic disfuming of waves
with their own width of electronmobile wall focuses?
A
long time ago, at least thirty minutes, there strode a man who was just like
anu other: in his state of mind, his health,
and the appearance of dance when taking a stance, is outside of the fact that he was twisted,
wrinkled, tuberculoid, minus one lung and kidney, and downright ready to give
up and die, halfway down the street going, mowing, Moheekoning until he stopped
by a foreboding body. Stepped on by a
formulating buddy.
This darkened Spectra told Ralph
(the wanderer): “Stop!”
Ralph, with such elegance and all
that other literary style of prose and so forth asked: “Why?”
Bells rang, lights flashed, the
world was destroyed and raised again within the time it took to rip up this
page and throw it out for the useless piece that it is. Out of the dawn of a new day, from the rays
of the sun shining behind that cloud we heard this voice boom out: “I am the
world knowledge of all and every. Past
and Present join in their never-ending search for that which won’t be within
me. I am, in short, The Public. I am the worm you must follow…”
And Ralph most graciously explained:
“Well, look man, I find all this interesting and exciting, but I got to go to
the john.”
Searching, crawling, fighting,
biting through this world of ours Ralph goes forward. Turned bad at every bound, he moves and is
sent back. He is. And thus, he asks an insult to every menial
creature that deserves desserts in the deserts of their waves the same as it
with that constant creation and uncreation of the Cosmos. Unicorn Hear, Umbrella Foam there. Then it happened. The pillars cracked. The ceiling fell.
That Bob’s Office is a
good Bohemian bar. It is a small, humble
place, not quite what you would first expect from the coat of arms on the sign
outside. The same sign is usually read
as a good natured saying such as “Hurry Back, We Miss Your Dough.” It is humble like I said yet with an air of
class to it, or at least not an air of cheapness. The floor space in the lounge is about the
size of the Candlelight Bar in Dekalb, in a rectangular shape. The bar itself is a concentric rectangle to
the lounge. The floor is covered with a
dark red brown carpet. The bar has a
counter top of dark mahogany like wood, real polished wood. The walls have wood paneling and are adorned
with actual football helmets from the American and National divisions, each
helmet individually framed.
The atmosphere is dark, with a small
amount of light diffusing from the jukebox in the far left-hand corner (as you
face the bar when coming in). Light also
barely makes its way across the place from a revolving gold painted clock hung
from the ceiling which if you watch its four sides turn around, you can either
see what time it is or a good-looking mature blonde telling you with her smile
that Schlitz will bring you two together.
As you walk in, Gene Svoboda, the
man behind the bar (this is a good Bohemian Bar), will greet you in his calm
and somewhat friendly Eastern European accent.
He looks like an aged Bela Lugosi with his wrinkled brow and thick black
hair.
The music you can hear will range
from “That Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy From Company B” (The original, not the Beth
Midler version) to “The Sound Of Music” with an occasional Beatle’s tune thrown
in to satisfy the younger patrons.
Many people gather here after
working at night, as did myself, since I worked from 4pm to midnight. The Office would stay open until three in the
morning. I would go with some people
from work and meet people I had worked with in summers previous (I worked the
evening shifts for a few summers) and occasionally I would meet someone I had
not seen in five or six years. It’s that
kind of place.
The prices are, to put it mildly,
reasonable. You can get a beer for 30
cents and a mixed drink for a dollar.
After you have frequented the place a few times, Gene will get to know
you (which seems amazing since most nights there is standing room only—if
you’re lucky) and you can almost drink yourself into a stupor and find later
that Gene only charged you for the first drink.
And you keep coming back to the only
place open after work where you can sit and talk about what you would do in
South East Asia, and how, if only you had your break in the arts… and other idyllic aspirations (anything but
how work is). You bring your friends
with you. They like it there and keep
coming back, bringing their friends. And
you realize why the bar is surrounded, three people thick in an aisle space
meant for one person while you cannot hear the jukebox singing “To Dream The
Impossible Dream,” because Sue, who you just met sitting next to you, is
telling you that she once was in a Broadway production before she started
working on a punch press at Amphenol Borg, twenty-three years ago. ‘
And there he was, Smoking a
cigarette—playing cards, glasses—long wiry stiff dark brown hair. Glasses (wire rim), bodily build is thin and
fairly short. He seems helpful to his
friends; he is teaching them a card game.
He is wearing a tan short sleeved shirt and dark brown Levies. A black fu man chu on his face which fits his
serious expression as fits his wire rims which help hide his eyes—the
impression of the serious pro ready to lend a helpful but unemotionally tied
hand. The fu man chu aides his dry but
still slightly existing half smile.
Folds his hands and rests his chin on them as his head is supported by
his elbows on the table. Bushy eyebrows
giving more support to the experienced unattached aide. Hardly touches his cigarette. Lights it.
Takes a light puff and puts it down and fidgets his hand of cards while
giving suggestions to the group. The
appearance of autumn dryness in the midst of a patch of young sprouting spring
bushes. He scratches his head now and
then and holds his head up with first his right and then his left hand. He stares intently, or at least gives the
impression of it, already knowing his full game, its outcome, and answers to
questions yet to be asked. Bodily
movement is near nil, yet his hands keep fidgeting and so do his words.
He’s been around here a lot and he
tried hard at his games when he played them.
He always learned how to do what ever came in front of him, and looked
for games to learn that were not obvious.
“Learn it and learn it well” is important to him. We must be exacting to the point where we
apparently do it with ease. Things did
not come easy to him, so he observed with intensity from all angles—now he
knows how to teach because he knows what things are important for learning.
His fidgeting seems like an outlet
for his apparent cool knowledge of what he is doing—he doesn’t faulter in his
work, but outside of the actual playing field, his hands can manifest many
extraneous movements. He knows his games
so well that they lose their importance because of his ease from his vast
knowledge of them. He does not need to
try anymore. His knowledge of everything
causes everything to lose challenge and importance to him. He is to be pitied because it has now forced
him into just teaching others senseless card games during which he may find an
excitable hard working pupil who will follow in his footsteps only to, one day,
find himself looking for pupils of his own to set on that path.
