RESURRECT DEAD ON PLANET JUPiTER

Because I’m too lazy to write anything new and because last night I cleared a path into the back room where I keep my old journals, here’s another snippet of an entry from days past. This was written in April of 2003. I was very big on absurdity in those days, as I am today. I like my 03 flair in this though:

You - so beautiful and godly - remind me of a dumpster. Overflowing with cordoned bags and leaking lusts. Opening involuntarily by circumstance. Waiting for some big strong truck to sweep you off your feet and assimilate all of your burdensome prizes. To drive away, leaving you empty and fresh.

Less than 100 years ago, Broad and Oregon looked like the photo below. For these and a million other great historic photos, browse the difficult and bug ridden database at PhillyHistory.org. Even if you don’t get what you were searching for, the results are still fascinating.

Five years ago tonight, July the 12th, 2001 - 2 months and 1 day before that WTC shit - I wrote in my personal journal the following sentence:

“Swollen baby fat seems unnecessary and not much a requirement for change.”

According to the rest of what I wrote, I was high.

Here’s what I wrote the next day:

“I saw a dead body. There were police and police tape stretched around a wide area. A frenzied suicide. A television came flying through the 20th floor. And an exercise machine. Followed by a human being. Spread out across a wide area along the sidewalk. My eyes are drawn 20 stories from the ground below. Three broken windows. Why did he break all three? A few minutes earlier. I would have seen it all.”

This is what I was talking about:

I tear up 6-pack rings of whole foods brand soda before I throw them away.  Half of it is the satisfaction of feeling the plastic stretch and give.  The other half is about as consequential as my electoral voice.  Save the birds.

In other news, it’s garbage day in zip code 19107.

Please clear your calendar for the following set of performances. Mascher Dance Group presents: Inhabitations: A Summer Series of Site-Specific Dance Explorations.

The summer series continues on the group’s longer history of site-specific improvisation. Founded by Liza Clark, Loren Groenendaal, Rebecca Patek and Jenny Roe Sawyer Mascher Dance explores the activity of public spaces, often literally dancing back and forth across the line between performance and routine. Interaction between performer and space, including the people in it, is bizarrely fascinating.

Like a few months ago at 30th street station, when a woman approached the group mid-performance and asked if they could watch her bags while she ran to the bathroom. She didn’t seem to notice the odd behavior of the people she was entrusting her luggage to. I’ve always been fascinated at what people notice and what passes right through their senses without stopping to make an impression. Look for this type interaction at City Hall on July 26th.

Performances on the Ben Franklin Bridge, at Valley Green in the Wissahickon Valley and at the John Heinz Nature Preserve in South Philadelphia offer unique spaces and vistas from which to find inspiration in the exploration of time, space and movement.

For more information, email mascherdance@gmail.com, or call Jennie Roe Sawyer at: (215) 840-5710. For a larger version of the flyer, click on the image below.

A group of heavily armed men enter a home. Once inside, they bring mother, father and young child into one room and execute them. They take a second daughter, who’s reported age has dropped from 20 to 18 to 16 to 15 and finally to 14 into another room and take turns raping her. When they’re done, they murder her too and set the body on fire.

A group of men find out what happened and decide to take revenge. They abduct 2 associates of the murderers and in the name of justice, torture, mutilate and decapitate them.

That’s all.

Many years ago, I wrote for epinions.com. Epinions was a site wherein consumers wrote reviews of the products that they consumed. It still exists, although it’s now a little different. Before the dot com bust, reviewers earned cash. The better the review, the more clicks and the more cash earned. There was a comment system, web of trust and pretty much all the other essential pieces of today’s popular blogs and networking sites. The only difference was that it was centered around product review, not  narcissism, gossip or semi-anonymous sexual encounters.

During my ‘career’ at epinions, I became associated with a small group of dissident reviewers. Largely ignoring actual product review, we’d use the platform for creative, satirical and darkly humorous writing. Eventually I lost interest and at some point after that, epinions decided to block all reviews penned by my handle, liberator76. Because these little gems have been lost to the world, I’ve decided to republish some of them here. The other day, after seeing Cirque du Soleil (free tickets) I remembered my review of the video “Be a Clown.” I went back and read it and then decided to share:

Everyone loves a Clown

Back from break and into my chair at work. I was in no mood for the boss. Alcohol makes me surly. Everyday I cap off my lunch with a couple of shots of vodka from the flask I hide in my right-hand desk drawer. Today I had three times as much. It was a bad day. The boss had been grilling me hard about some reports or something.

I hid in the bathroom stall huddled by the toilet drinking. I was damn tired of pushing paper for “the man,” my boss, Howard Elsner. Hands shaking, I crushed two tablets of my prescription valium on the back of the toilet, scooped it up with a fingernail and snorted it straight. Some of the powder stuck to my sweaty hands. I wiped it off on my stomach hair and left the bathroom.

So, there I was back in my chair. Over my shoulder, I heard the boss.

“Liberator!” He yelled. “Where the hell are those reports?”

“I’ll have them ready tomorrow.” I mumbled. The pencil I held snapped for some reason. Bits of wood flew all over my desk. I must have continued squeezing the jagged shard of pencil, because when I looked down, blood was dripping from my hand and all over my desk. I took a few deep breaths and wiped my hand with a towel from my left-hand desk drawer.

“Are you all right?” Asked one of my co-workers. She wasn’t really concerned. I could tell by the tone of her voice. She didn’t really care. They were all phonies. Damn phonies.

“Fine.”

Life Change

That night at the shooting range I decided to quit my job. After leaving, I stuffed my handgun in my jeans, threw my larger guns in my plain black duffel-bag and went straight to happy hour. After a few drinks I continued on to my neighborhood video store. If I was going to quit, I was going to rent movies and watch them all night. Life was going to be good. And there, at the video store I saw it. The movie that changed my life. The Ringley Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus production: Be A Clown

Nobody Hate’s a Clown

I rented the movie and never returned it. The beast wasn’t getting this little gem back. Be a Clown taught me all the basics of clowning. What to wear, what to say, what gags to pull, how to act, how to react and how to entertain.

I’ve always loved clowns and I’ve always loved children. So small, so innocent, uncorrupted and pure, children are God’s gift to the earth. From his hands to our own, God lays into each child an untainted soul. As a clown, I hoped to recapture some of that innocence. To use it to entertain. To convert my anger to innocent joviality. To capture my breath in a long cylinder of rubber and reshape it into a funny animal. It would be my art, my life. What joy I would bring. What hope. What innocence I would seize hold of, never to let it escape. Never.

The next day I bought my clowning gear. Making up my face was very important. Would I be a smiling clown or a frowning clown? I decided to be a dual personality clown. I painted on my face a wide and happy smile. It stretched from ear to ear. Above my eyes though, I painted my eyebrows at an angle downwards in a scowl. The face most captured my own personality. From then on I wore the clown suit everywhere. At home and in the supermarket. At the bar and on the street, I spread joy everywhere. Nobody hates a clown.

A Joyless World

I found little employment as a clown. No one would hire me. I ended up spending most of my time in the bar. From morning to night, I would drink in that place, my clown-suit sagging, my smile hiding my true emotion. Eventually I was evicted from my apartment. Being unemployed, I couldn’t afford my old life.

With nothing but my clown-suit and my duffel-bag full of guns, I found myself on the street. Wandering alone, a desperate drunken clown, I was lost. When I would see a child I would follow them, sometimes for hours. Eventually I would run to them, dancing and singing picking them up and throwing them into the air. I would spray them with water from my plastic flower and pretend to fall down. Usually the children would cry and scream like nothing I’ve ever heard. How could I scare them? Everybody loves a clown.

One day while hanging around the local playground, I was arrested for loitering. It seems that in this joyless world, there’s no place for a clown.

Now I roam the streets at night, under the cover of darkness. I am taunted and spit on by drunken men. I’ve been beaten by mobs of drug-crazed teenagers. I’ve gotten foot-rot under my giant shoes. Clowns are shunned at the free-clinic. Taunted on the mean streets. Robbed by the heartless masses. I feel that my own heart, once full of the hope and joy of being a clown is clouding over with darkness. My heart is now black as the caverns of h*ll. I’ve learned that there’s no room in this bitter world for a happy clown. I am no longer a happy clown.

With the problems of a soaring murder rate, an overworked police force and witness intimidation/murder, this city is in dire need of answers. Fortunately I have the answer. This city needs Batman.

Now before you call me a tasteless asshole for even bringing up such a stupid idea, let me tell you that I’m fairly serious about this. Philadelphia needs a mentally questionable, incredibly wealthy, trained killer to dress up like a giant bat and dish out vigilante justice. Next time a witness is too scared to testify, take them to Batman. He’ll do what the police can’t. If you think about it for just a just a minute, you’ll realize what an amazing idea it is. 

Unfortunately, Batman is a fictional character.  That means Philly will need someone to make him real. Here’s my personal shortlist.

Pat Croce: He’s almost perfect. He’s got the money, he’s got the training and he’s batshit crazy… but does he have the seething homicidal rage? For a man who at one time wanted to run Comcast, I’d say there’s a distinct possibility.

AI: Why shouldn’t The Answer be the answer? With the Sixers ditching him and with his professed love for the city, a career change may be the best thing to keep Allen Iverson in town. Frequently spotted driving around ‘the ghetto’ in his Bentley, AI already knows the mean streets. His disrespect for authority makes him the vigilante type as it is. His athleticism may make him more of a Spiderman, but he could definitely pull off Batman. He’s got the capital and he’s got the street cred. This all combines to make AI a top contender.

That Ben Franklin Impersonator: Actually this guy fits more in to an evil villain role. Nevermind on that one.

Last and least, I was thinking that maybe Sylvester Stallone could do it in his spare time. Sure he’s a little old and he’d probably get his gray ass killed in a sixth borough minute, but what better superhero material than an aging Philly action star? Anyway, it couldn’t hurt while it lasted.

I’ve been busting my brain for a while now and I can’t think of any other Philly characters worthy or capable of becoming Batman. O’well, if anything else comes, I’ll be sure to let you all know.

In rank order, 1 being the most likely and 4 being the least likely, here’s what paranoid people everywhere believe happened to Ken Lay.

1. Killed by parties unknown before August 1st disclosure of all previously undisclosed $.
2. Hanging out with Tupac and living it up with said undisclosed $.
3. Suicide, covered up by family members in a feeble attempt to retain last pathetic vestiges of Lay family honor.
4. heart attack.

That’s really all I have to say right now.

I just saw a girl walk by in jeans, shirt and sweatshirt. I’m sitting here at my desk, in front of a fan, shorts, sandals and uncomfortably hot.

In other news, I’ve been inspired. On Sunday, Liza and I drove across Jersey to Island Beach State Park. The bathing beach was crowded and pleasantly diverse, but when I say crowded, I mean crowded. We stayed, waded (water is still cold, even on a blistering day) and read for a few hours before seeking new ground. Heading down the road to the unguarded beaches, we found an almost empty stretch of sand. This second beach was recessed from the shore trail by a ridge of about 10 feet. When you stepped over the arc and down onto the beach, the temperature dropped from the mid-90’s, to a breezy and cool 80-85 degrees. Trail and seaside existed in entirely different meteorological realms. It was much more pleasant. There was even a brown pelican.

But the inspiring part was dinner. On our way out of the park, I had a sudden craving for a taco. Liza remembered seeing a California style tacqueria in town, so we decided to stop. Not expecting much, we pulled up to “Surf Taco.” As we walked in, a song that I meant to burn for the car ride was playing on the stereo. The next thing I saw was the salsa bar. A salsa bar! What a fucking great idea! Why I’d never encountered one before in the world of east coast mexi-cali eateries was instantly baffling. You buy chips for a nominal fee and pick out 1 of 4 types of salsa. They provide little cups and you can try a little of each. If you run out, you just go get some more. The concept is genius. Why days later, this still excites me, I can’t explain. But it does.

Beyond the music and the salsa bar, the food was fast, fresh and very good. I tried 1 classic fish taco, one mahi, mahi grilled fish taco, beans, rice and 3 of the 4 varieties of salsa. All were top notch and reasonably priced. When I got home, I was excited to see that the Surf Taco empire is steadily growing, expanding from 1 to 3 locations in just 5 years, with 3 more set to open soon. Maybe I’ll buy their first Philly franchise someday.

In closing, here is a heavily stylized photo of an osprey landing in its nest.

So I’ve been browsing the KKK’s website (I’ll let you google that link) and what I’ve found has been pretty interesting. It seems that the klan has been tempering its message of hate with a half ass proclamation of diversity. Confusing? Basically they say, “we love all people and lets keep it that way by not associating with Negroes. (yes they still use the word “Negroes”) By avoiding human on human sex, except in cases wherein the partners “appear” to be existing kin, we are able to keep god’s beautiful rainbow of diversity unmuddied.

And let me further point out, that like many scoundrels, the klan buttresses their hate with declarations of God’s true intentions. Now I’m not saying that I know God’s true intentions, just that if someone says that they do, they’re probably full of self-serving shit.

In closing, the klan still hates Jews. How did I pick out this nearly imperceptible nugget of information from a site full of rainbows and calls for multicultural segregationist pluralism? Just like Nixon and Reagan used “Law & Order” as code words for “scary Negroes” the klan uses the following code words:

Most have this idea about the Klan because of the entertainment industry. The entertainment industry which includes movie makers, TV producers, publishing houses, national news agencies, etc. are very liberal in their beliefs and agenda.

Translation:

Most have this idea about the klan because of Jews. The entertainment industry, which includes Movie Jews, TV Jews, publishing Jews, national news Jews, etc. are a bunch of Jews with a sinister non-christian agenda.

I know it’s easy to take pot shots at the klan, but shit, why not? Tomorrow is July 4th and I’m writing on a blog. Furthermore, it’s nice to point out these 2 things:

1. The kkk is fairly well aligned with the Republican party.
2. Fox News isn’t quite as bad as the klan channel, which advertises:

Negroes slashing tires at Republican campaign HQ - court case is over ……Mexican and Muslim protesters of Minutemen meeting in Chicago turn on police - court case review …..Physicians group makes powerful argument for why millions of so-called legal Mexicans in U.S. should not be citizens even though they were born here…..Good stewardship - is it too much for some to understand?….and much more!….. Watch Now!

And back to point 1.

I check my site stats every day.  Every once in a while, I’ll get a hit from some mysterious person searching for my name.  Since I am the only Steve Weinik on the planet, I know it’s someone searching specifically for me.  Today, along with my regular search hits, like: “toynbee” & “eheu fugaces labuntur anni slaughterhouse” a hit came in from someone searching for “steve weinik.”  Who is it?  A co-worker?  An ex?  An enemy?  The CIA?  The possibilities are endless… and frankly a little perturbing. O’well.

Not long ago, a group of mad scientists gathered in a laboratory near Philadelphia and constructed a device that they claimed achieved 2-way communication with the dead. They asked for no money from these experiments and gave away all information on the construction of their communicators. One of these scientists, Hans Heckmann, is still alive and well. Because of his odd hobby and his day job as a Conrail engineer, he attracted the attention of the Toynbee tile documentary team. From what we have been able to tell, Heckmann stood firmly by his research. To him, it was not a fraud, it was very real and very serious.

Here is a recording that Heckmann and company made with their device. Following is a transcript and a link, but first a brief explanation of the quality of the recording:

…We have been told by our spirit colleagues that it is not an easy thing for them to speak into our world loudly and clearly in a voice that sounds natural and normal to us. When they come through our equipment, they somehow have to transduce the subtle energies of their world into electrical and acoustic energies of our world. They say they employ techniques and apparatuses in their world that are currently beyond our understanding.

Read the text below as you listen from this link.

“Finally, last but not least, Mark Macy. My dear friend, we bring our greeting to Colleague Meek and the Uphoffs. Also to Hans Heckmann with whom he realizes a beautiful job to spread ITC information. You know by experience, Mark, how dangerous drugs of all kinds can be. Try to warn humanity that they not only alter their present lives on your side, but also influence in a negative way their future lives. Go on with your experiences and you will see that the bridge to the States will soon be strengthened. Regina, as your twin soul, can help you a lot. Listen to her inner voice, and you will be in the right way.” “Thank you,” I said.

So this was:

A. A total fraud, or
B. Real.

That’s all for now.

With news of U.S. soldiers raping an Iraqi woman and murdering her family, the war has hit a new symbolic low. I guess if I were Bill O’Reilly I’d say something like, “at least Saddam controlled massacres and rape rooms.” It seems that the U.S. can’t even manage to decide when and where ordinary Iraqi’s are massacred and raped. It happens seemingly at random.

Already the days of Abu Ghraib, when these wartime unpleasantries were carried out under strict (albeit yes un-officially acknowledged) code of fucked up guidelines are but a distant memory.

For these reasons, I now say it’s time to reinstate the draft, begin daily carpet bombings and watch the United States slowly tear itself apart from the inside until we quietly disengage around 2010.