in memory of McPaulus–a .new post on gingatao–and a toast!
Originally posted on gingatao:
Colons are about as useful as stuffed olives on a drinking binge: anchovy and garlic.
The path of The Sun through space is like that of a bath salt ball in a snack vending machine: a helical coil fixed to a one way motor doesn’t auger well for anyone trying to picture a planet to orbit around your selection before it drops out.
When you’re dealing with a machine, it’s not enough to get the bath salt ball you paid for: Edit Message >>> MessageX >>> Custom Text
Press TEST to watch it scroll across the display: Please enjoy your Bath Salt Ball.
This is a public service announcement (with guitars) to remind one and all during this holiday season that the Orchid Room is open for your every pleasure 24/7, nay 25/11, and certainly, and especially, open on and about and around New Year’s Eve and Day.
Close out 2011 or start off 2012 with a visit to the Orchid Room! It is always a special night in the Orchid Room when you join us! For New Year’s Eve, there may be some special guests and certainly room at the mic for those who would like to participate. Jump right in! Don’t be shy!
Also should you imbibe a bit too much, or if you simply get too drowsy during your stay, remember the Dew Drop Inn is located a mere hop, skip, and a jump away.
Sincerely, Art Predator
“The primary characteristic of machine-readability is extension;
without which the information contained within a file is impenetrable,
or incapable of occupying places extrinsic to the given storage space
at any given time,” pushing a foot through the backdoor.
“That the impenetrability of information is an intrinsic characterisitic
of an extensionless file is clearly implied, although we mustn’t necessarily
assume that the intrinsic characteristic of impenetribility is a primary one.mp3.”
“Yeah. Ok. That’s great mate, but if you’re looking for an audition use the front door.”
“Will do. You got a business card or something I can use? haha!”
“Oh! haha squared. I thought you looked familiar. Come in! Come in!”
“Oh nohs! I just wanted to extend this to you. Don’t let it out of your sight.
It’s due to go live any day now.mp3″
“What should I do with it when it does?”
“Just make sure it segues back out from the last one.”
Dust stilled over the memories
under echoes of laughter
their ghosts dancing
scribbles in the rafters
mind resting on a pile high of
what was and what will stay
and ghoul hunters pale
as pure love blinds their way.
Where the orchid grew into a room; where a scientist discovered the properties of rare neon specifically for the glow of its sign; where a “Eureka!” moment follows every prematurely-flowering sigh, there is a front yard where a mysterious lady, with her long hair coiled above her head under a bright cloth, wanders with a portable, fold-up seat.
First she will be seen at one end of the garden, by a Tree. Next time, should you see her, she’ll be talking to the Owl. The next moment she will whistle her Marshall-amplified tune, and enter the large sand dune on the swiftly-appearing beach. This, a place which can also appear as a bar, is the front porch of a house on which I left a gift. A card with glitter stuck on with glue. You coloured outside the lines too.
The yellow aeroplane which hung above the bar had little propellers which spun whenever the door opened. Simultaneously, there was a bell that prompted an anteater to fire a projectile peanut at a bongo drum, and the others to applaud the trick.
Soon came the tapping of rain onto seashells and piano keys, and the scent of coffee throughout day and night. A leak, or a hole, in the roof that we had decided to call the sky, provided the addition of stars to the already fine ensemble.
The kids were tearing up the seats at the picture house. The projectionist set the place alight. The young and rampaging teenage delinquents, in black leather jackets, floated three centimetres or so above the orange cellophane torching the plush patterned carpet, towards the smoking exit. They escaped, tin eyes gleaming, to the Orchid Riot, where everyone, it was generally agreed, had the time of their lives. The delinquents grew up – and Angus, in his wisdom, kept on his cap, tie and blazer.
The maids in the garden giggled at that curious phrase, “To plant a kiss”. Their faces were still fertile soil, their cheeks had seen no tears. They sang,
“How many songbirds fly to and fro?
We’ll tell you now of some that we know…
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, forget-me-nots,
Sulphur-crested Cockatoo, Kookaburra, Emu,
Rainbow Lorikeet, Bluebird, lark, and thrush,
Zebra Finch and cardinal, nightingale,
The song was harmonious.
It was like summer at Christmastime; something that a man at odds with England had always struggled to grasp at another side of the world. He fumbled with the red curtain of the Moroccan archway, into the Room. There he saw that even the chief catalysts of The Orchid Riot had been persuaded to wear purple platforms. Inevitably, everyone found them impossible to walk in, and instead walked bare-footed and innocent, on tip-toes. The jet-lagged Englishman asked for a whisky, took a sip of it and coughed. Embarrassed that the beverage of riches and experience was too strong for him, he nursed it while sharing the warm spirit of conversation with the others, in the idioglossia that is common to this exotic room.
One other thing – I heard a story about the baroque fountain; we remembered the hope and happiness that came of first drinking and filling our bottles there. They say, if you’ve cupped your hand in the clear stream once – that moved the ornate miniature steamboats on the water, that made each frog jump from each lily pad to play their didgeridoos in sandcastles and on marble bicycles – and the dragonflies circle around the drinker’s head where words flowed from golden mouths and he, of course, laughed his heart out with every laugh, they say that drink will be enough to sustain you for all time.