ugly rotating head on top

our architect firm pitched the idea of mounting a rotating head atop SCC HQ, proportionate to the size of the building so as to be “life-size.”

metropolis goddess

Makes your head spin just thinking about it. So, don’t.

Now this is the kind of off-the-grid-fifty-universes-over-from-the-next-parking-lot-from-the-warehouse-where-the-box-usually-is thinking we like to encourage around here. Following our company’s founding tenets of non-critical criticizing, we congratulated the firm and thanked them for their hard work and visionary insight.  We especially liked the part about the giant head on top making the building a spitting image, at a distance, of a PEZ dispenser. Our legal team pointed out all kinds of potential legal problems. We were disappointed that our company did not at the time of this writing produce something that would come out of the dispenser’s mouth periodically. But that would be a horribly awkward delivery system owing to the highly trafficked streets below. No one mentioned anything about how PEZ heads don’t rotate. Still, big fat kudos for the thoughtfulness. The real problem is that we facade over the high-speed, hyper RPM sub-quantum warning system antenna. But we’ll get there.

meet Rapunzel my new assistant

Okay. Seriously, I don’t know what you think I do all days long here atop this this ivory tower made of ACME Brick, pressure-treated wood, gypsum and other stuff. These are cramped quarters with little or no redeeming qualities other than a supposedly high-speed Internet connection, most of my books and an adequate stereo hosting a far less-than-adequate turntable with which I can listen to some of the best music recorded and mass-distributed on vinyl, conceived and performed at tremendous abandon and funk significantly pre-dating the artist formerly known as prince’s high-heeled blister infection, foil-lined bedroom, pantie-lined tight-jeaned nonexistent buttocks, back when, even before he was known as “Skippy,” alienating high-school peers as though such behavior were brainstem activity, youthfully clueless to what we now know as truth: that such actions occur out of sense of fashion, the desire to be different that makes one so much like everyone else. But forget him. He’s overrated. He does not concern me other than his introduction into popular culture serves as a smudge mark on the linear time ruler. Far more interesting is Rapunzel. Beautiful, magnificent Rapunzel. Absent. I hired her on the spot. She liked the terms. Seemed pleased with the arrangements, haggled a bit on the salary, but I would have been disappointed had she not. Perhaps she had second thoughts about the modest but highly-flexible benefit package. I don’t have time to train her now. And I don’t have time to replace her. Until I hired her, I never understood how glaringly inadequate my organizational and time-management skills. Nearing the end of this workday, I ignore the messages. Surely they do not include one from her. Today’s mail remains on the hallway floor, a study in entropy to which her absence pays tribute. She does not accompany me, tie me up or down or spin me yarns with her flaxen locks coiled into labyrinthine pin curls. She does not nuzzle my side, lovingly, affectionately, unaware that she derives far less comfort from her casual and innocent embrace than the balmy encouragement it provides her timid companion who wants nothing more than to create a life with her, lives with her, many lives. She is not here to throw down her hair should someone want to come visit, as if I would allow such a thing. No. I would not allow any such thing. Please understand that this does not in anyway conflict with my long-standing yet rarely availed open invitation to drop by the studio at anytime. I’ve got an opened-door policy. You don’t even have to knock. However, all I ask is that you first call Rapunzel and arrange an appointment. Oh, Rapunzel. I am not your hair. But you have let me down.

Klaatu called, he wants his shiny metallic object back


Klaatu says howdy as Gort looks for weapons to melt.

Klaatu says howdy as Gort scans for potential weapons to melt.

Professor Barnhart, the smartest man in the world, contacted the offices of Sacred Clone Chronicles with news of a communication he received from Klaatu.

“Moriblaz kliphm noopro lantupulo psyrintlib maraclin,”said Klaatu, according to Barnhart.

“It goes on like this for about eight hundred pages or so,” said Barnhart. “Here, I’ll read it to you: Moncli nadoplictonrinca sphlectisto marapulo victu marinngane….  And then on page 477 the whole tone of the message changes after the word ‘Boyonce.’ Turns out that’s how the pronounce Beyonce in their language.”

Translation: You know, you guys haven’t changed a bit since we left. All those people joining together for a moment of unity, right where we landed back in 1951 of y0ur Earth years, and the biggest news of the event is that Beyonce lip synced. All societies on this end of the galaxy are amazed you still haven’t destroyed your planet. 

gargoyle not from pottery barn

It wasn’t a squirrel. It was a gargoyle, I could tell the difference easily. I fell in love with it immediately. What a concept. Who would have thought of placing a gargoyle at the edge of a roof about thirty feet above a suburban lawn? Perhaps a gargoyle would think to do so. More likely the gargoyle would do so without thinking. What thought was required? Just do it. It’s the natural thing. Which is probably why our gargoyle looked so naturally positioned.

Source: Flickr Creative Commons

He is not of clay or plaster, we have learned. And we have named him Vesparo, not knowing his real name or if even he has one. He answers to Vesparo and he eats the handbills, circulars and advertisements left on our porch and lawn. To our knowledge he does not eat those who leave the handbills, circulars and advertisements left on our lawn. Vesparo is close to the family of geckos who congregate on our porch ceiling. They get on well, joking and playing games into the early morning.
So, when I tell everyone we have a gargoyle on the roof of our house in our quiet suburban neighborhood, how nice, they must think, for this time of year, all hallows and all that. But, no. This is the real thing. I don’t think he’s going anywhere. We love him, Vesparo. He is real. He is very much alive, as are, as far as we know, all of the children who live on our street and in our neighborhood.