115 replies to this topic

[Cluttermagnet]

Aw, Jeber-I think you really ought to tell them all the truth. You can call this place the Tiki Lounge but this is really The Restaurant at the Edge of the Universe. This surely is the outermost edge. They never come up into the hills. That's why we rarely catch sight of the aliens, and besides, they are really clever at hiding and blending in. Occasionally you can catch sight of them at alien conventions, but only out of the corner or your eye. If you try to look at them directly, they go all blurry and out of focus. "If you are beginning to doubt what I am saying, you are probably hallucinating. Listen carefully!" You can get some hint of it by just reading the entire menu. Have you ever seen such a diverse collection of expensive and obscure dishes? I thought not. You always order the chicken-fried steak and rootbeer float special, right? Like I always say, it's best to play safe. Either that or a classic cheeseburger and heavy syrup (drained from canned peaches) with Butter Pecan ice cream frappe goes a long way to give you that look of normalcy when you really need it, when you just want to 'blend in'. We had a local place around these parts for years called the Tiki Lounge. I understand they had real Hawaiian fire dancing with real torches and everything Saturday nights, but the fire marshall eventually put a stop to that, fer gosh sakes! I think most of the folks who hung out there were always too drunk to particularly notice the food anyway, so they got by somehow. If you went in there too early before the dinner hour, the place always smelled strongly of bug spray. I don't know what kind of bugs, but I have my suspicions. It finally reopened as some sort of off the wall country bar with line dancing (and geek dancing on Fridays), but it just wasn't the same any more.I still say that Bat Boy was striking in his first cover shot in over 5 years, and was looking every bit like a young Eddie Munster in his prime, before gramps went off the deep end and the family had to move here to 'get away from it all'. They did so love those cold tumblers they served at the old Tiki with their mysterious chilled contents and the little paper umbrellas stuck in the top (ten cents off on the refills if you let them reuse the same umbrella all evening). I say it's high time somebody put a little color in this distant outpost with its high rate of alien abductions and otherwise unappealing small town character.  We can become a hub and major financial center for the entire galactic cluster by just talking up the area as an ideal getaway for young lovers, fugitives, and major geeks looking for some of that chatroom action without all the inconveniences of computers. I say we call the chamber of horrors- er, commerce together this week and get this thing going before some little hick planet at the far edge of the galaxy beats us to the punch.Roadie Dirk Ristdagger says: "I recommend the Restaurant at the Edge of the Universe without reservation. Actually, you better get a reservation just to be safe. You never know when the aliens convention is going to be in town again."  

[Cluttermagnet]

Sticky. Sticky? That's it! By making the Tiki Lounge sticky, it takes on the qualities of a movie theatre floor at the end of the night, just before they hose it down- it takes on the qualities of the carpeting in the back seat of a New York City taxicab. Sticky? What an unfortunate association. Such tragic imagery! Better we should think of floral scents, fresh air, and breakfast. Somehow it had a more dramatic ring to it with space aliens and strange sounding trappings of rank, impressive titles and subtitles... "Ladies and Gentlemen: The Dude-ess of QOMOMI and her escort, the Dude of Dorkness". (A brief hush fell over the crowd- emergency workers hurried about desperately trying to remove it and free the survivors, and offering cups of hot soup or cappucinos or sad stories to all who would listen...)So, Professor- how long have you been conducting this 'dream study'? And which zone are we in? Here, look at the map. The zone, please? (Smack!) Snap out of it! We have ways of making you talk. Let me suggest a topic: The pervasiveness of the internet has led to a second wave of humorists and comodians, masquerading as reputable comedians. Talk among yourselves, discuss... Roadie Dirk Ristdagger awakened, and immediately he remembered the incredible account of that brave Republican Senator- an ex-roadie, no less- having the courage to take on the RIAA and hit 'em where it hurts. "My gosh, it wasn't a dream! No, this is real" he muttered. "I'm getting too old for this nonsense..." But there it was, posted right in the Forum- an account of this brave legislator and his taking a stand against- well, against those dreadful people for threatening and suing just everyone, that's all. There it was, in blue type, for all to see. "This is more like a Democrat publicity stunt", he mused- "what are these guys up to?"(To Be Continued...)

[Cluttermagnet]

Roadie Dirk Ristdagger absent-mindedly stroked the two day old stubble on his chin as he kicked at the confetti sprinkled liberally across the stage and the dancefloor. He picked up one of the banners that read "Happy Birthday Jeber- QOMOMI Memorial Tour and Alien Insurrection 2003" There was evidence everywhere, yet the legendary Jeber was nowhere to be found. It must have been quite a blast, judging from all the gaily colored debris and glitter. Now the old hall at the Tiki Lounge held nothing but happy memories. Deserted, echoy, forlorn, the empty hall spoke of an earlier grand era of internet wit and grandeur suddenly stilled as if a heart had ceased to beat.It was actually quite the topic of conversation in the local Lincoln Diner (the locals pronounce it "lin- colon"). Some swore there were aliens involved, but refused to be quoted on the record. After all, sleepy Sweltenham was just a hop, skip, and a jump up the road from the state mental facility, and everybody was highly invested in appearing 'normal' as much as humanly possible. Other rumors had it that he had taken a job as a 'moderator' somewhere. Nobody was quite sure what a moderator was, but some thought it was maybe something like a TV talk show host but more private somehow. At least they said they never saw him on any channel they could get in town. One local woman whispered to him that it might be connected with 'that internet thing', but she nervously darted away, spying her husband bringing in a case of frozen waffles. Somehow things didn't add up, but Ristdagger was sure there was a story here somewhere...(To Be Continued)

[Cluttermagnet]

Kicking the clutter of confetti that littered the stage, Roadie Dirk noticed a larger piece of paper with strange writings on it. Picking it up, he read

Quote

If it's on your mind...post it. If it's on the floor, sweep it up and throw it away.

There were strange hieroglyphs and numerous sketches of an upright-walking, small-winged creature that looked like it would never fly but would fit in well at formal occasions of all sorts. And there! The telltale QOMOMI signature near the bottom and the words Eyes Only. "Hmmmm," mused Ristdagger. "Well, he _was_ a minister of misinformation- does that mean you simply invert his every comment to get at the real truth? Or is this some negative psychology scam meant to snare the unworthy? Hmmm, keep it or throw it? Keep it or throw it?..." Then it hit him like a ton of herring: QOMOMI had renamed this space to throw off pursuers and emulators. How was anyone to find their way back to this echoy hall? "Tiki my foot!" glowered Ristdagger. "QOMOMI has escaped to a parallel dimension and he has taken all the bats with him! How very diabolical." Suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, a frog dropped onto the stage. "What the...?" exclaimed Roadie Dirk. He gazed at the frog for a while in the gathering twilight. The frog said nothing, having no lines. Only then did his eyes return to the crumpled paper he held and he noticed the tiny, handwritten note scrawled up in the corner, where it had almost escaped detection:

Quote

You may think I'm gone...you may think you've taken control of the cooler...you may think you've won.....................

A chill came over the old roadie. "Is this it? The aliens _have_ landed?" :oRistdagger knew he had already won, and had numerous mailings to prove it. Although no actual prizes had been received so far, he was still cautiously optomistic... (To Be Continued)Thanks to the Firesign Theatre for the "..no lines..." line.Next Week: Louise says "Don't ignore him- it will only encourage him."

[Cluttermagnet]

Louise Hatrick served up a still steaming stack of multiberry waffles to Roadie Dirk, who looked up long enough to give her a little grin of appreciation before attacking them with gusto. He quickly switched over to using a fork, which always cut through them more effectively than just tearing them apart with bare hands. Several other startled patrons at the Lincoln Diner quickly ducked back behind their newspapers when Ristdagger caught their eyes. He grinned inwardly at his own antics. Returning his attention to the crumpled piece of paper found at the old Tiki, his mind wandered off to that science humor article he had read years ago. A team of archeologists had excitedly unearthed a rare 20th century motel room completely intact with near- perfectly preserved contents, although no human specimens were ever discovered at the dig. After several years of haggling over the details, the consensus among the scientists was that this must have been a ceremonial chamber of some sort. It was widely believed that the head priest would enter the smaller, tiled chamber in the back and kneel before the porcelain urn. Then he would place the ceremonial wood and  plastic halter from atop the urn around his neck sort of like a horse collar, after stripping off the ceremonial paper wrapper and intoning the sacred words inscribed thereon: "Sanitized For Your Protection". This ceremony the scientists dubbed "Chanting at the Urn". What was that article called? "Motel of the Ages"? No, maybe "Mysteries of the..." No, that wasn't it either. Ahh, yes, it was called "Motel of the Mysteries" Roadie Dirk grimaced as he recalled submitting a marked up version of that spoof to his History prof who, unfortunately for him, recognized the source of the article and made him write an extra term paper over Easter weekend to redeem himself. Yes, those were the idylic days of youth. "And what have I come to in my old age, washed up as an archaeologist, a roadie, and even as a veterinarian's assistant, and I'm grubbing around on the stage of a worn out lounge and sometimes restaurant that smells strongly of bug spray, covered head to toes in confetti as I try to tease out archeological documents in my probably obsessive search for a mythical figure who may or may not even have existed! How the mighty have fallen." Roadie Dirk allowed himself a brief moment of self-pity and a tear came to his eye. He quickly wiped it away as if it were radioactive.At the far end of the counter, Louise was catching up with one of the most prolific gossips in town, Faye Esther Hopkins Smith-Turpington, who goes by simply "Miss Faye", effecting a most pleasant and sunny demeanor but having a memory like a steel trap. She performs feats of recall unparalleled in the entire southwest, and is said to have perfect memories of each and every tidbit ever spoken in her presence about another human being since the age of 2 years, 8-1/2 months.  "Yes, he came to town in late April, so it's been about four months already" she was saying to Louise. "They say he came from up north, but no one seems to know where exactly. He really doesn't say much, though you can get him to talking at times." "Oh, it's easy to get him to talk" said Louise. "Just stand within earshot of him but pretend you're ignoring him. He can't stand that for long. He often begins talking to himself or to no one in particular. It works like a charm almost every time. " "How very remarkable!" said Miss Faye. "But what if I took the risk of inviting him to our block barbecue and he starts talking to himself? It could make such a spectacle! Dare I chance it? He does seem like he might have some interesting tales to tell."Louise thought for a moment, knowing fully well that what she said next would be as faithfully recorded as if there were an entire studio of the latest high tech audio equipment in the room. Ristdagger seemed basically OK, and Louise trusted her feelings about people. Still, he had a mysterious and retiring side to him, and he did seem to spend an inordinate amount of time down at the old Tiki, even though it had been closed for several months and she was surprised it had not been boarded up by now. He seemed to be on some sort of quest. Always rumaging through his small, carefully saved piles of  crumpled paper, grinning, grimacing, and sometimes rolling his eyes. Yes, he was OK. Polite to everyone, kind to children and pets, helpful when asked. He would probably straighten right up if the townsfolk got him hooked up with the right girl and he got married and settled down. "Well, Miss Faye," said Louise "If he seems to be talking to himself, just go on over and join in the conversation. If you don't like the subject, change it. But don't ignore him- it will only encourage him." Ristdagger caught her eye from the far end of the counter. Playfully motioning to his now empty plate with his fork, he gave her that slightly overdone look of entreaty with the raised eyebrows. Not missing a beat, Louise gave him that little smile, nod,  and down- up wave of the index finger that showed him she was on the case, excused herself for a moment with Miss Faye, and walked back to the kitchen to fetch that second serving of multiberry waffles she knew he would always order. In at least some ways, he was entirely predictable."QOMOMI schmomomi!" muttered Roadie Dirk to himself. The whole thing was probably a hoax perpetrated by some bored teenagers on the internet. Why had he become so caught up in the mystique? He stroked his now 8-day old stubble, remembered he could not grow anything that even vaguely resembled a distinguished looking beard, and resolved that he would get around to shaving at the next possible opportunity.(To Be Continued) Next Week: A Surprise Visitor at the old Tiki Lounge

[Cluttermagnet]

Roadie Dirk entered the old Tiki Lounge to find Barney, the town drunk, gathering empties to take down to Dusty's market for their deposits. It kept him in beers and the town a bit tidier, and nobody ever seemed to complain about it. "It must be pretty slim pickings this week to bring him in here", thought Ristdagger. Barney set down the garbage bag and turned to the old roadie. "Roadie Dirk! You just missed Jeber and Bambi! They were right here not five minutes ago! And he left this!" Barney pointed to a folded-up page from "The Register". It was one of those internet rags, with a mean-looking vulture for the logo and a slogan that read "Biting the hand that feeds IT" The cover story seemed to be something about stupid criminals stumbling over high tech gadgets, just like poachers in a garden stepping on the tines of a rake and getting whacked in the forehead by the handle."Aw, gee!" said Roadie Dirk. "This place has been dead as a doornail for weeks, and right while I'm in town having breakfast, someone decides to show up. Just my dang luck!" He wondered if there was any real chance that the out of the way former nightspot would ever again reverberate from the laughter, the excitement, the intrigue of it all. This place needed not only a good cleaning, it needed to have a really good band booked, and tons of publicity posters plastered on every telephone pole in the tri-county area weeks ahead of the big event. Roadie Dirk would do sound and lights, of course, and the lead singer would get the crowd to give him a big round of applause for his stagecraft and of course would also joke about the brief craze of loudspeaker surfing made possible by that famous 18 second gap in the band's master lipsync tape inadvertantly put in by an inexperienced roadie's one little mistake..."Testing. Test. Sibilance, sibilance..."  No, wait a minute! That must never be mentioned! If that were ever mentioned, or Roadie Dirk's brief, disasterous stint as a veterinarian's assistant, he would have to leave town in abject embarrassment."Focus, Roadie Dirk. Follow the sound of my voice". Barney's weathered but friendly old face came back into focus. "Gee, I thought I'd lost you for a minute there, Chief. You OK? Lot on your mind?" Roadie Dirk shot him a weak grin. The old guy was actually pretty nice when he was sober. "Aw heck, Barney- I'm just disappointed that I missed those two. They are among the few that would understand, that might possibly know anything about QO..." Ristdagger caught himself. "...about line dancing." "Well, Chief, I'm going to head over to Dusty's. Cheerio! Nice job you've been doing with the old Tiki. You know, the cleaning and all. Keep up the good work. Oh, and remember to save all your empties for me..." Barney wandered off, pulling his amply-filled plastic bag up and over the weatherstrip in the doorway, and disappeared into the late morning light. Ristdagger frowned inwardly, remembering that the only results returned for his internet search for "QOMOMI" provided links for European porn sites. No, the internet might not be the answer. Networking might be the answer. If he could ever manage to casually run into Jeber and then spring it on him- ask him point blank. He would have to talk! He must know at least _something_. That's the ticket! Just embarrass him into spilling it all. Well, one thing was sure- sleepy Sweltenham was hiding secrets, and Roadie Dirk was not buying into the whole image-management thing. (To Be Continued) Next Week: Aliens arrive in town posing as out-of-work Buddhist script writers but Roadie Dirk isn't buying- and the wheel of life turns ever onward...

[BoardFlak]

Strangely, for it's that kind of tale, I am enjoying this series. More!

[Cluttermagnet]

Jeber, on Sep 23 2003, 05:59 PM, said:

Wait, wait, wait...stop with the wailing and gnashing of teeth.  I'm not abandoning the lounge.  I just felt we've got too many topics "stickied" in here, and it was time to thin it out a little.  Cluttermagnet's story will go on, perhaps in a new home, but only if he wishes to continue it.  It will be up to you to, like BoardFlak, let Cluttermagnet know you want more installments.Meanwhile, the lounge will either sink or swim on it's own merits.  And more weirdness is sure to be on the way.  Stay tuned. 

The popular uprising of the peoples' proletariat seems to never have materialized. Maybe it was the sudden name change. Just try to find Progress Street on any area map currently in print that includes greater Sweltenham. Go ahead, I dare you. It's as if the Tiki doesn't even exist. It's like a time warp or something.  I think Roadie Dirk has been squatting there because he found the place empty and the rent was reasonable. His small disability stipend from the province of Manitoba certainly does not make ends meet.  And he is still an amateur archaeologist, after all.   I'm part of his advance team. My job is to bore people to death and otherwise clear a room for him. Then he sets up shop and trys to get an interactive amateur story writing session going by spreading all sorts of unfounded rumors crying out for correction. So far, no takers, but we did get get one positive comment from the peanut gallery (t'anks, BoardFlak!)  I think Roadie Dirk is really trying to emulate that misinfo guy, but he'd never admit it. (Don't tell him I said that!)    The rumor about the mother of all wombats was received with great excitement and anticipation. T'anks, Jeeber. He's an ugly cuss, eh? Wouldn't want to get him angry. Looks like he beats up large Rhinoceri in bar fights just for practice.     Y-y-y-you don't plan on turning him loose in the Tiki, do you?  

[Jeber]

Good thing you said something...a large (I mean really large) box arrived yesterday via FedEx from somewhere in the middle east, and I was going to open it here behind the bar.  But now that you've shown some reluctance to sharing my new pet, perhaps I'll just take him (her?) out into the parking lot and let him (her?) out there.  There.  "Come on out...it's OK."  "Yup, check out your new home."  "Oooo, you shouldn't have sat on that...man, I hope that wasn't Cluttermagnet's car...well, it'll clean off."  "Let's fix up your crate as a house."  "OK, you rest...I'm going back into the Lounge and see what's up."

[Cluttermagnet]

Roadie Dirk recalled the words of his greatest meditation instructor: "If someone presents you with a troubling image, counterbalance it with a loving image of greater power." First he tried getting the wombat a date with one of the dancing hippos of Disney fame, but the wombat was apparently not in a romantic mood. He also tried a visiting committee of neighborhood hippopotomi (who are _very_ territorial about their riverfront real estate), but the wombat was less than gracious and they left hastily. He even arranged a flyover by Disney's Dumbo, thinking to charm and impress the deranged super-marsupial, but all ideas failed in execution."Hmmm, it's got to be a positive image to counteract it, it can't be negative." Roadie Dirk leaned against the handle of the rake he was using to finish the cleanup of the back parking lot and his mind drifted off, back to the brief time of his service as a veterinarian's assistant. Old Doc Moody had a sign up on the wall that gave the simple imperatives for assistants in the field:(1.) Keep your head up(2.) Duck!(3.) Not necessarily in that orderAlas, the unfortunate Ristdagger had chosen just the wrong moment not to duck, and there was at the time a terrible epidemic of equine encephalitis making the rounds, and one of its major symptoms was something the vets euphamistically called "projectile diarrhea". The force of the blast caught him completely unawares, knocking him clean across the barn and into the opposite stall. Of course Mrs. Moody wouldn't let him come in, and he had to stand out back while they brought bucket after bucket of water and dumped them over his head. They eventually put him into a big water trough at the edge of the pasture and finished scrubbing him off there. Roadie Dirk had to sleep in the barn instead of the bunkhouse that night. Still, it took one even worse incident to put an end to Ristdagger's veterinary career, but we shall leave that for another time.Then it hit the old roadie like a ton of herring- wasn't Adventure Heritage Animal Park and Amusement Center accepting older critters from zoos and other places? He shuffled through one of his several inches thick stacks of papers and there it was. A full page announcement about the Park never turning away an animal in need of a home. Roadie Dirk was thankful that he had caught the wombat sleeping and hastily nailed back the side of the shipping crate. It had taken hours to get the back lot in some semblance of order, and he had had to borrow garden tools including a pitchfork from some neighbors of Miss Faye, so word was no doubt making its way around the tri-county area at a rapid pace. Ristdagger filled out the shipping label with big, bold strokes of his black felt tip pen, which fortunately held out to the very end of the last line, only to immediately go bone dry and refuse to write a single letter more. He grunted incoherently and flung the marker into the dumpster. Slapping the label on the crate, he stapled it viciously all around. When the crate's contents began to stir, he quietly backed off and continued to watch from a safe distance. Right on time, the shipping company van showed up, and the guy fork-lifted the big crate into the back of the truck effortlessly. Ristdagger signed the shipper's form and the driver asked him what was in the box. "Oh, its a rhino for Heritage Park. Guess it got sent here by mistake. It will have a lot more room there." This seemed to satisfy the driver, who sped off with the usual haste of all shippers. "Please, whatever you do, don't roll that thing on the way to the warehouse!" thought Roadie Dirk.Next week: The buddhist writers finally show up and immediately demand a raise.Also: Rate of alien sightings increases!And: Roadie Dirk finds cache of documents with penguin heiroglyphs- possibilities are mind-boggling!

[ibe98765]

Damm Clutter, we're going to have to give you your own forum or something.  You've made 7 out of 9 posts here already with about 2 gazillion words!  

[Cluttermagnet]

ibe98765, on Sep 29 2003, 04:25 AM, said:

Damm Clutter, we're going to have to give you your own forum or something.  You've made 7 out of 9 posts here already with about 2 gazillion words! 

I get paid by the page, not by the word. Besides, I can hear everyone keeping quiet out there. Few will admit to actually reading it, however. (end demo low word count post)

[Jeber]

Excuse me, but has anyone seen a rather largeish wombat wander by here?  I left him behind the lounge yesterday, and today when I came to, he's gone and wandered off.  I suppose I should check his house/box.  Can't believe I've misplaced the wombat.  This could get ugly.  

[ibe98765]

Check here:The fabulous adventures of Mr. Wombat

[Cluttermagnet]

Item found in the back lot at the old Tiki Lounge:A paperback copy of Brautigan's "Trout Fishing in America".  Well-preserved. It is bookmarked at the beginning of the chapter entitled "The shipping of Trout Fishing in America Shorty to Nelsen Algren. There are also several sketches of what appears to be a hippopotomus on the bookmark. The owner may contact Miss Faye Smith- Turpington at 555-0123.

[BoardFlak]

You wanted contributions? Don't say you weren't warned...Roadie Dirk walked back into the Tiki Lounge, and immediately felt a difference in the place. After a long moment, it came to him: there was a customer sitting at the bar. He watched him a moment, before doing anything else, for the man's back was to him. From Roadie Dirk's vantage point, however, he could see that the stranger was sipping on a Cherry Sunset.That bothered him. On some level, Ristdagger thought that should mean something to him, but he couldn't quite peg it. Oh well, nothing like finding out. Roadie Dirk walked toward the man at the bar. A moment later, the man heard Ristdagger's footsteps and turned. And smiled. Ristdagger froze. He was looking into a face that was very familiar to him. It was his own face. Well, his own face IF he had made all the safe choices - good job, wife, kids, settled down and with responsibilities, and perhaps just a bit too well fed - his own face if he had led another life entirely. A face that never would have ended up in the background of a cover on Rolling Stone, because its owner would never have been in the Right Place at the Right Time. It was a face that had never known the raw edge of hunger while "between jobs." It was a face that Roadie Dirk nevertheless knew very well, and it made the connection to the Cherry Sunset.It was the face of his twin brother. "Hello, Dirk." "...Hello Shiv." Roadie Dirk managed to get the words out. "I dropped that nickname a long time ago. Call me Willard, will you?""Sure, sure, Sh...Willard." Roadie Dirk winced out the hated name. Why didn't he stay Shiv? Next, he'd want to call Dirk by his so-called "real" name. If he does, Ristdagger thought, I might just have to hurt him.Suddenly, those and other thoughts were driven out of his mind by a sound lilting in through the open door. Roadie Dirk and Willard turned as one, mindless fear mirrored on their faces. From their much-wished-dead past past came the one sound that could reduce their souls to mush. It was the unmistakable rhythms of a Buddhist chant. "The Buddhist Writers..." Roadie Dirk breathed."No," moaned Willard, "oh dear Heaven, no."The chanting grew closer to the open door.

[Cluttermagnet]

BoardFlak, on Sep 30 2003, 04:03 PM, said:

Roadie Dirk and Willard turned as one, mindless fear mirrored on their faces. From their much-wished-dead past past came the one sound that could reduce their souls to mush. It was the unmistakable rhythms of a Buddhist chant. "The Buddhist Writers..." Roadie Dirk breathed."No," moaned Willard, "oh dear Heaven, no."The chanting grew closer to the open door.

I'm going to take off the weekend, Boardflak. Why don't you hold down the fort. Go ahead and try to be a good host for the buddhist writers. After all, their presence was requested. Remember, they don't like being offered meat. Indian food is good. And remember, those guys don't realize they are aliens. Treat 'em nice and you may net some very attractive new storylines, or at least a modicum of inner peace...Clutter

[Cluttermagnet]

Roadie Dirk woke up in a cold sweat and sat up suddenly. The sense of terror was overwhelming. One stub of a candle still flickered fitfully, throwing ghostly moving images on the ceiling. "That was stupid- I'm lucky I didn't burn the place down around me", he muttered. It had been so real! Once again, the ghost of his brother Shiv, the brother that was never to be, had invaded his dreams as his nemesis, insisting as usual on calling himself Willard. And always so powerful a visitation it was. Roadie Dirk had often talked about this with his younger brother Duke. Separated by nearly three years in age, the two of them had always had a bond between them that also encircled and contained all those unknown possibilities, those unlived dreams, those unspoken things that attach to the tragic loss of a child by accident, many months before the proper time for their birth. As is often the case, it was a loss that was never talked about openly in his family, a loss that went largely ungrieved, but not entirely. It had cemented the two brothers' relationship, especially in the latter years as they came to slowly understand the ways of the world and the elusiveness of wisdom. What was it? Something like the unfulfilled Shiv, frustrated in his desire to enter and experience the world, grasped at whatever vapororous anchors to it were nearby, and that happened to be Dirk. Little Dirk, so frightened by the overwhelming grief he sensed in his mother, he had long since repressed the memory of it, but there was this deep and abiding sense of guilt within him...Well, of course Willard should be negative. He always chose what would make him the opposite of Dirk, just to heighten the tension. Roadie Dirk had not had a drink for years, and that was a decision he had never regretted making. So of course Shiv should appear to him at the bar, enjoying a Cherry Sunset. He almost wanted to throw up, just thinking about it. That should have tipped him off right there, he realized. The old Tiki had been closed for many months, and that bar didn't serve anything that hadn't first been bought at the local convenience mart from smiling Amal or his eagle-eyed brother Habib. There wasn't a place in town with a license, either, in fact. If you wanted a few cold ones, that was a seven mile hike over the pass to Slinksville, that was the nearest place. A few of the locals made the pilgrimage regularly. Heck, Barney's various gambits to get a ride over to the next valley were the stuff of legend by now. This dream had been so realistic, though!Then there was the matter of the buddhist writers. Well, he had had a fling with the buddhist religion years ago, and though he didn't stay around long enough to get in deeply himself, the experience had been positive for him. Nowhere else had he ever run across writers with such a unique, otherworldly perspective, and he was constantly drawn back to it, or to authors influenced by that way of mind. Practically every Tibetan he ever had met had always reminded him at least a little bit of the Dali Lama, who he had been fortunate to meet one very special day. It happened so fast and he had no idea who this man was, in his eastern-looking, colorful monk's robes with his humble, understated way of passing fellow travelers on the road of life and leaving a few words of encouragement in his wake. On that day, he had simply paused before the younger man, gave him a quick, friendly glance, and said "we shall pass each other on the road again, and no longer will you be the novice on pilgrimage." When he learned later who this man had been, he was beside himself with disappointment, thinking of all the things he might have said, questions he might have asked, but in time he came to be philosophical about it all and just savor the memory. Imagine that- the Dali Lama right there in America and he stopped for a few seconds to talk to Roadie Dirk personally. So again, the morbid dread of himself and his antagonistic brother, quaking before the imaginary chants of buddhist monks on pilgrimage, was the antithesis of everything he believed in and stood for. That alone should also have tipped him off that it was just a dream. Yet it had felt- so real.Roadie Dirk blew out the nub of a candle, flickering fitfully in the eerie and cavernous space of the Tiki Lounge dance floor. The strong smell of the candle drifted past his face, and visions of buddhist monks drifted by him on the path of his dreams, interspersed with little knots of costumed trick-or-treaters scampering by with pillow cases and shopping bags heavily laden with candy. "Yes, must remember to have a little candy with me the end of the month, just in case some of the neighborhood kids come into the Lincoln Diner while I'm there" he thought, as he drifted off again...          "Writer responsible for all problems he create!""Wait a minute- you're not pinning this one on me! Take that! And That!""Next week this show have a new name: 'Rotomoto, Atomic Gumshoe'. And no buddhist writers, either!"(Thanks Firesign Theatre)

[BoardFlak]

Whoa! The "Patrick Duffy Maneuver!"

[Cluttermagnet]

BoardFlak, on Oct 22 2003, 03:01 PM, said:

Whoa! The "Patrick Duffy Maneuver!"

Back when it was "who shot JR?" my attitude was "who cares?". Our home still has a television machine, but we get little joy from anything much beyond PBS or old Rocky and Bullwinkle reruns. So apparently Patrick Duffy is an actor who got reanimated as a plot convenience in "Dallas"?5-10 years ago, a relative of mine used to be a soap opera addict so I got a fair amount of unwanted exposure to the daily soaps. There used to be this deliciously wicked character named Carlo. He was on, what? "General Hospital", maybe? Or perhaps "As the World Regurgitates"? Anyway, they killed him off but later wanted to bring him back for a little excitement. They found a plot device to do it. It was an impostor, but boy did he ever look like Carlo. Jeez. It's embarrassing to admit to that, but my excuse is that I was a captive audience at the time. Drive my characters or plot into a ditch, and you have to expect I'm going to come by with my wrecker and winch them out, straighten thier fenders, and send them on their way down the road. You just left them there, BTW. That's hit and run. Your characters, I would try to adapt to. My characters, I would fix. Old ex-hippies generally have no aversion to buddhism, but generally do have an aversion to having large, agressive animals released in their plotlines. We generally send the latter to Misadventure Village and Theme Park, where they actually have paying customers who will fork over five dollars to be chased around and generally terrorized by these beasties.Well, I guess the cat is out of the bag. We were thinking of outsourcing all the writing, sending it to northern India where it could be ably performed by buddhist monk refugees from the Himalayan country of Tibet. They work cheap, there are no unions, and we don't have to provide medical insurance or any of the other perks. Where in the US are you going to find good writers who will work for 2.34 an hour? And that's what their bosses take in per worker, BTW. They only get a percentage of that. American workers are obsolete and will eventually all be replaced.

[LilBambi]

I sure hope you are wrong Cluttermagnet, but it sure seems like it not out of the realm of possibility if things don't soon get fixed in this country.  

[Cluttermagnet]

"That's it!", thought Roadie Dirk. Doggone it, that would put a lot of talented, unemployed people hanging out on the internet to work as non-paid writers, and they could have a contest winner every month. The winner would be sent on an all expenses paid vacation to India, plus they would be paid something by the Indian employers to go give pep talks to the workers and tell them about American lifestyles and values and there would be the side benefit of having the Indian telemarketers hear American- accented english spoken on a more or less regular basis in their workplace. Just maybe they would slowly move in the general direction of intelligibility and have a prayer of actually being understood by the exasperated Americans who still take telemarketing calls during the dinner hour. Or call for tech service.If Ristdagger were clever, one month he could even run a contest to write the best- researched and most creative article about the QOMOMI phenomenon on the internet in mid-2003 in North America, just after the penguin wars had quieted down and people were still nervous and giddy about the more humoresque possibilities of war intermarried with media artists familiar with the bob and weave tactics of non-silent media pantomine artists and of more agressive performance artists in general. He had seen a few generals during the coverage who he could have sworn he saw as extras on a film lot during a recent Hollywood Today show. At least, the resemblance had been remarkable. With so much talent working in parallel on the same project, someone might stumble on the truth and the story about QOMOMI might finally come out. Yeah, that's the ticket! Sort of like massively parallel computing as used in SETI research and such. He would have a veritable breeder reactor of writing talent all intent on solving his little archaeological problem at the same time.Then there was the Indian/ Tibetan connection. The Indians at least realized that they were aliens and had little interest in settling in the US anyway. After all, Americans are terrible cooks and don't have the slightest clue how to prepare and spice food properly, so there is no need to worry about some vast alien invasion originating in India. The Tibetans, though, that is entirely another matter. That's right, they don't even realize they are aliens. You could bring literally hundreds of them into the country and have yourself quite an alien uprising, and the doggone Tibetans wouldn't even have a clue what anybody was talking about. There could be worried knots of Americans on the street corners with folks whispering about alien uprisings and pointing up in the sky saying "...blue flames! blue flames!..." and the Tibetans wouldn't even miss a beat, as they worked at their geneology, searching for the next Dali Lama, or just chanting in unison to the Simpsons with the sound turned down ("D'ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. D'ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...") So they would not make very good telephone solicitors but they might make remarkably good researchers if someone could get them interested in the QOMOMI thing, by hook or by crook.But this was turning out to be way too complicated. Roadie Dirk was definitely starting to think about waffles again, so he gathered together his various stacks of research papers, stuffed them inside his shirt, and headed over to the Lincoln Diner...Next week: Roadie Dirk stops by the convenience store to pick up halloween candy and runs into some aliens

[Cluttermagnet]

Roadie Dirk was thinking to himself "Boy! This has definitely not been my month!". The writers competition had produced a surprising amount of heat and light, what with so many talented folks being downsized and therefore having a lot of online hours to kill, but the judging committee had deadlocked 3-3 in awarding the prize. "Why oh why did I ever appoint Barney a judge? What was I thinking?" Barney's brief but glorious week of 'self reform' hadn't taken in many of the townspeople, but Ristdagger, being a relative newcomer, misread Barney's miraculous 'recovery' and, in a moment of compassion and poor judgement, decided to give him a little responsibility. "Yeah, sure, it really helped keep his mind off of drinking" muttered the old roadie. Little did he know, but in the coming years, old Barney would come to be known to the locals as the "seventh juror", words always spoken with a little grin as they conjured up the image of the tipsy jurist trying to make it to his seat in the courtroom without visibly stumbling. Just one day later, while doing some yard work for Miss Faye, Barney saw her neighbor Woodrow Beeglerhepter making his weekly run up over the pass to sleepy little Slinksville the next valley over. He would drop off home grown produce and pick up canned goods for his wife Martha and some expensive hardwood stock for his latest cabinet- making project. Barney flagged him down and caught a ride. Of course Barney left Sam's Lawnmower Repair as soon as Woody was out of sight, and made a beeline for the notorious Dew Drop Inn, where he quickly made up for his week of abstinence. Six hours later, Sherrif Jones and a couple of helpers poured Barney into the squad car for his yearly ride to the Slinksville City Building to sober up. Sherrif Jones figured Barney would need to work for two to three weeks to cover the damages at the Dew Drop this time, but that would be up to Judge Harper. It seemed to get more expensive every time, and he really could not understand why Barney had not long since become 'persona non grata' there. Something about drunks hanging together, he figured...Roadie Dirk's thoughts turned to happier times. He had been a big hit at the Lincoln Diner with the local kids who came in on Halloween eve because he had had the presence of mind to stop by the convenience mart and had splurged on the large bag of miniature chocolate bars. This went over well with the kids, who always appreciated getting real candy instead of 'healthy' things like apples and lectures from the grownups. One of them even asked Roadie Dirk what he was dressed as. Rising to the occasion, he told them he was dressed as a forensic archaeologist working a deep cover investigation, and to please not mention it or he might get taken off the case. This apparently also went over well with the kids, who whispered and giggled amongst themselves. One of the littlest trick- or- treaters, five year old Rebecca, looked very pleased at the windfall of chocolate which almost overflowed her little hands. She started to move off with the others, then stopped and came back over and shyly presented the old roadie with a single peanut butter kiss in a bright orange wrapper, smiled sweetly, and darted off to join the others. Ristdagger was touched. It was several minutes before his mind once again strayed to the unsettling feeling he had, meeting the aliens at the convenience mart.It had been most curious. There was no sign of Amal or Habib. The convenience mart looked the same in every other regard, but the counterman and his assistant looked distinctly Tibetan and not the least middle- eastern. "Good evening Mister Dirk. So happy to see you, sir" said the counterman with a hint of a smile and a slight bow, palms clasped together flat and upright in the traditional 'prayerful' greeting seen widely in the Indian sub-continent and about the Himalayas. Roadie Dirk was certain he had never laid eyes on these men before, yet the entire moment had an eerie deja vous sort of feeling to it. His jaw dropped, and for once he was almost speechless. He grabbed the biggest bag of chocolate bars he could see on the rack and fumbled in his pants pocket for a five as he muttered "Th- thank you." "You are most welcome, sir," said the counterman, making change so quickly and effortlessly it seemed he had been doing that task his entire life in preparation for this one moment. "Please do come back and visit us again." The assistant gave a slight nod and smile that appeared deferential and turned back to his work. "Thanks, I will" muttered Ristdagger in a voice that felt soft and faint to him. It was like a dream sequence playing out in slow motion. As he turned and walked out, he felt a little chill running up his spine, and a strong feeling of being well known to these two, yet completely safe.He remembered little else until he seemed to find himself suddenly snap back into the here and now over a cup of coffee and a plate of his favorite multiberry waffles as he sat at the counter in the familiar Lincoln Diner. The coffee and the waffles both smelled exceptionally good. He took a sip of his coffee. It was perfect. "Do you want me to put your waffles in the microwave for a few seconds? They must be getting cold by now" It was Louise, ever kind and cheerful to all. "Thanks, Louise, that would be good." Roadie Dirk smiled at her and pushed his plate slightly towards her. She returned in what seemed like only seconds and set his plate back down in front of him. He took a bite of his waffles. They were exquisite. Louise looked at him with mild, friendly concern. "You look as if your thoughts are far away tonight. Everything OK?" Before Ristdagger could think of how to answer, she added "Oh, yes, by the way, Habib and Amal stopped off before leaving and told me to let you know that the writing contest deadlock does not matter. Arrangements will be made for both finalists to take the tour of India. And Amal said to tell you that some guy named QO..." she looked at a note in her apron pocket "some guy named QOMOMI- they said you would know who they were talking about- anyway they left you a note at the Tiki." Ristdagger was electrified, but he tried to keep his cool. "Well thanks, Louise. That's kind of you to pass that on. Do you know anything about why they left town so hurriedly?"The rest of the conversation drifted by like a dream, leaving only faint impressions. Making a supreme effort to appear nonchalant, he finished off his meal, left Louise a good tip, paid his check at the register and stepped outside into the crisp evening air. He hoped the shivers he was feeling weren't visible. Hoping nobody was out and about to see him, he found his 'nonchalant' walk turn to a brisk pace and then break into a full run, as he made his way up Sweltenham's main street to the old Tiki Lounge at the edge of town. Fumbling for the flashlight on the bar and then the candles, he brought light into the empty room. And then he saw it. A white envelope sitting on the bar. On the envelope was written "Situation Report: QOMOMI" and on the next line below "Confidential- Dirk Ristdagger- Eyes Only". Roadie Dirk's hands shook as he grabbed the envelope and quickly tore it open...(To Be Continued)Next week: QOMOMI turns up running a "Bad Advice" column in a local Forum under an assumed name. And further revelations about aliens.  

[BoardFlak]

Hmmm...I don't know how I did it, but I managed to miss all those posts in October after mine. I was busy for a while, there, but I didn't think I was THAT busy. Okay, Patrick Duffy: his character was killed off on Dallas, and stayed that way for an entire season. Somewhere along the line, the writers apparently decided they'd painted themselves into a corner. They remedied the situation by having his wife on the show (I never watched the show, so I don't remember character names) wake up and find him in the shower - his death and the the whole season following had been her dream.And, apparently our definitions of interactive run at right angles. In the forms of interactive writing to which I am accustomed, leaving cliffhangers for the next person to pick up is not uncommon. It was not intended as a hit-and-run, but just as an open plot point. Anyhow, sorry about that.

[Cluttermagnet]

BoardFlak, on Nov 25 2003, 08:24 AM, said:

Hmmm...I don't know how I did it, but I managed to miss all those posts in October after mine. I was busy for a while, there, but I didn't think I was THAT busy. apparently our definitions of interactive run at right angles. In the forms of interactive writing to which I am accustomed, leaving cliffhangers for the next person to pick up is not uncommon. It was not intended as a hit-and-run

This thread seems to only come around every hundred hours or so (or is that hundred days?) Sort of like Brigadoon, which disappears into the mists once the film crew clocks out and goes home. Or "Survivor", which should disappear.  

BoardFlak, on Oct 1 2003, 10:54 AM, said:

E#? Well...no wonder...wrong tuning fork.That's better.I think I was causing harmonic amplification.Now, if ClutterMagnet doesn't kill me when he sees the addition I made in Further Tales Of The Tiki Lounge, life will be just peachy.

Ah, but you mentioned to QO- er, Jeber that you thought CM might kill you after reading it. We writers get all too used to those rejection letters, eh?     Yep, I just handled your cliffhanger by rewriting it as a dream sequence so Ristdagger could continue to pursue the buddhism/ aliens/ Indian tech service guys thread without getting scared to death every time a bunch of bald- headed guys in bright orange and red robes pass by. Remember, Roadie Dirk is a reformed ex- hippie type and is still a sucker for that whole zen buddhism aliens thing. Although he isn't into body building or the martial arts (that we know of), he is one of those 'pony tail guys' you see a lot of, albeit a little graying around the temples. :lol:Yeah, you didn't miss a whole lot of pages after October because all the good writers got sucked into that "Jail for mp3 Pirates?" thing, and other such threads, little realizing that the mp3 thing was going to get shut down for going 'over the top' and becoming a bit circular and a tad personal as well. And that thread wasn't even offering an all expenses paid trip to India to do the 'call center' telemarketers tour like this one does.    Actually, I think that some more characters from Sweltenham or Slinksville would add a lot more local color, as all of those are written a bit thin at the moment. Hopefully they would behave consistent with what the two towns have evolved into so far, and what those characters have said and done so far (hint: back up and read the entire thread). Context, context. There are plenty of existing characters to flesh out, or of course new ones could be created. Or entire casts of characters (and I do mean 'characters'- everyone in this plot is terminally unique and memorable).   You know, funny PTA meetings where the citizenry stages a rebellion and throws all the board members out of office and snuffs out their citronella patio torches- or heck, a whole mob of angry townspeople marching on City Hall murmering "Kill the writers, kill the writers..."   Why the possibilities are staggering- er, sure- footed.       "Yung Guy! Which motor we about to be riding in?""Stop torturing me! In Radio Prison they washa you brain of this unfortunate.Hang it up to dry in stiff seagull wind.But a maiden, upon taking it into her warm kitchen, find owner- not there!""Pretty words, beloved, but come to conclusion...""In obvious pun lies subtle conclusion- writer responsible for all problems he create!" (Thanks Firesign Theatre)