JeffR Archives

February 13, 2007

Jeff R.:Precious Moments

Randy Morris keeps the seventh of November, 1954, in a jar, hidden at the bottom of a trunk underneath his bed. He's had it since he was twelve, when he found it where his father had hidden it, in a cigar box in the crawl-space under the porch. His father bought it at a flea market for five dollars, which was a lot of money back then. The merchant paid a dime for it, from a man desparate to get rid of the worst day of his life.

I need that day. Get it for me. I don't care how.

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February 14, 2007

Jeff R.: Not Just the Erasers...

Mr. Carter (5th grade homeroom, History) and Mrs. Tanner (4th grade homeroom, Mathematics, Music), both trapped in profoundly unhappy marriages, began a particularly torrid affair after discovering that the school was virtually abandoned after hours, during detention. The kids could simply be locked into a classroom and forgotten for two hours.

This left the logistical problem of finding a suitable surface on which to do the deed. The floors were unspeakbly vile already; the desks uncomfortably small. This left the blackboard, flipped halfway around. And with stacks of books underneath, but not quite touching, making them work at staying balanced.

Word: blackboard
Book: Email to the Universe, Robert Anton Wilson

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February 15, 2007

Jeff R.: I Buried Paul

Clarie Newbury started with reel-to-reels. That was easy. The same with cassette tapes. Just pop, flip, and re-seal.

She re-wired a record player, requiring hours buried in the library's electronics books. And that was good.

Then CDs came. She resisted for a while, but when the millineum hand ticked she decided to bite the bullet, learn computers, master sound editing software. MP3s didn't slow her down a bit.

She can tell you exactly what perverse sex act each pop star is secretly talking about in the backmasked subliminals on their discs. These days, it's rarely worse that what plays forwards.

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February 16, 2007

Jeff R.:Love and Dust Were in the Air

It was an odd match. Rosalita was a prostitute who generally didn't give two damns about the men who contracted her services and diseases. Jeb was an old soldier who had fought at Shiloh, where he lost the battle and his genitals. Since the war, he'd stayed on as a cavalryman, killing time and Indians.

He went to her, not knowing why. He shyly explained about his war wound. She told him to relax. She drew him a bath and a picture. He was skeptical, but acquiesced. And so, for the next five years, she tickled his fancy and prostate.

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February 20, 2007

Jeff R.: The Low Road from Houston

She was tall, thin, flat-chested with wild blonde hair. She smelled like fruit and had a strange accent and was bound for 'Arkady'. I was going the right direction.

She told strange tales of her childhood, and listened to mine, as I drove, heading home for summer. After dark, I stopped at a hotel.

I had them bring a cot, but after midnight she climbed, naked, into my bed and "taught me all a man need know of pillow-tricks". Her words.

That afternoon, as I crossed the Georgia-Tennessee border, she vanished from her seat, leaving only the scent of apples.

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February 21, 2007

Jeff R.:There Was a Girl...

She was young, attractive enough, and still breathing. All plusses. On the minus side, his arm was pinned underneath her and he couldn't remember her name.

She looked familiar; not a complete stranger. Someone from work? No, she didn't have the soul-deadness that that place brings on. Someone else that he sees frequently. Not coffee-shop girl; she's a redhead. Too short to be the downstairs neighbor. Yes! That's it: the record shop brunette. He imagined her uniform, with nametag: Crystal. He breathed a sign of relief.

It was only then that he realized that he'd also forgotten his own name.

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February 28, 2007

Jeff R.: Genesis

She was alone, on an infinte, featureless, gray plane.

She began to dance, and her dance divided the light from the darkness.

Later, there would be days and nights and suns and stars and continents and oceans. For now, there was only rhythm and beat.

Later, there would be grass and trees and seed and fruit and fish and foul and beast and snake and insect. For now, there was only step and time.

Later, there would be man and woman and sin and grace and gardens and towers and wars and peace. For now, there was only the dance.

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March 1, 2007

Jeff R.:VII: The Chariot

"If you think you can, you can. And if you think you can't, you're right." -Henry Ford.

Before Ford created the American automobile culture, he built and drove race cars, with a major victory in 1901. The same year, oil first gushed in Texas and Czolgosz made Teddy Roosevelt president. This is no coincidence.

The impact of cars (ideally sleek, large, fast, loud) on the collective psyche is impossible to understate, from penis-substitute to aphrodesiac, from the tanks that win wars to the oil-thirst that starts them. Nobody says "He almost hit my car"; they say "He almost hit me."

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March 2, 2007

Jeff R.: Evangelism

So I says to the guy "What're you looking at?" and he says "A lost soul," and then he says "You'd better change your ways before the judgement comes," but who the hell is he anyway?

I mean, I know I'm not what you'd call an innocent. Sure, I dug me a few shallow graves, but the guys in 'em ain't none of them deserved to go on living. And it's not like I ever hit a woman what didn't take a swing at me first.

'Lost soul.' Shows what he knows: I didn't even punch him in the face.

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March 7, 2007

Jeff R.:We Prefer to Call it 'Recycling'

It's amazing what some people will just throw away.

I mean, after the Victory Alliance reunited to destroy the Uberwheel, they left loads of stuff lying around, including more than enough Stellarite alloy to set this business up.

Just the other week, the Young Olympians beat back an attempted trans-temporal invasion from 2844's NeoTexan Empire. Let me tell you, those guys carried all kinds of neat guns.

We just outfitted the Crimson Terror. Slap a bit of red spraypaint on a Jovian mindhelmet and a couple of Lemurian vibro-flails, and she's good to go, ready to take on Juror #13.

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