Nine Figs in the Flapjack
Well, this is it. Ever since "Doodlenose" folded, I've been floundering around, trying to find the right format to do what I want to do. "Nine Figs in the Flapjack" is a graphic novel. This is what I've been groping for. From here on out, unless otherwise indicated, all posts will be pages (or panels, whichever you prefer) of this graphic novel. You can probably just read it like a comic strip.
The above image is the TITLE PAGE.
As a Medicinal Starter the Additional Metal
As a Medicinal Starter the Additional Metal
No traditional globe can accurately display Kigathega without distorting all of
the other land masses of the earth into horrible shapes like 1970’s Rock’n’Roll
revivalists packed into European mini-cars.
As a side note, I apologize to my wife for acting so rudely the day she
took me to the mini-car museum.
…
The waffle
talks to me. As a subset of the basement
breakfast batter, it and its pancake brethren are capable of interbreeding, yet
precluded from doing so by taboos of mutual apprehensions of the other’s
primitive nature.
“Both the
word taboo and word tattoo come from the Polynesian language group,” the waffle
tells me.
“If I could
afford a tattoo I’d get one,” I reply.
“But I’d have to come up with an image that I could live with the rest
of my life, something I could identify with without ambiguity or shame.
“Have you
thought about a pretzel?” the waffle suggested.
“One with human facial features?
I’ve always admired pretzels,” he added with a wistful tone, much as I
might sound if I was overheard talking about coyotes or something.
…
Her Favorite Color Was Lavender
Her Favorite Color Was Lavender
Even after
the newly built capital city of Prusk
had been officially declared open for business, hardly anyone came to
Kigathega. The climate was the main
reason given for the lack of either colonists or tourists. Except for a brief period in the summer, most
of the new continent was uncomfortably cold.
And even then it was only on the small peninsula on which Prusk had been
located that the temperature reached an average of 50º F.
“What’s
that in centigrade?” Elaine wondered as she stared up at the Prusk city hall
clock tower.
“I don’t
know,” Dirk replied. He glanced around
the empty central square. “Why did they
stop called it ‘Celsius?’”
…
After I
metaphorically close my eyes I see that I am in a room much like the back of a
small store in a strip mall, only the room isn’t full of balloons awaiting
inflation, each emblazoned with best wishes for a happy birthday, but cardboard
boxes stacked to the ceiling, approximately ten feet high. These boxes can be cut up into shapes for
gluing onto other pieces of cardboard for making artistically satisfying
prints. In order to reserve the boxes
for my own use, I write my name on them.
I always have a couple of markers with me for such purposes. The stylized tofu press drawn on the back of
my right hand was done with one of these.
One of the giraffemen standing guard asked me earlier if I was
ambidextrous; I told him that, technically speaking, I approach true
ambidexterity, but would never be fully accredited as such.
…
After I had
glued together a vague depiction of one of the lost temple complexes far to the
north, I left the piece in a safe place to dry.
I see that the chunks of tofu in my stomach are making me sick. They are stacked like boxes up to the
ceiling, each printed with best wishes for a satisfying bowel movement, but the
symbol stamped on their bottoms urges me to vomit.
I leave the
store (or shop, for those of you in
the UK ). My giraffemen follow me outside, where the
walking car awaits. Dr. Seuss called
these vehicles crunk cars, but, as
this term is quite possibly under copyright, I use the generic. I don’t want his greedy family suing me.
“Because
his family did money crave,” one of the giraffemen quotes, “Dr. Seuss is
spinning in his grave.”
I nod in
acknowledgement, but do not chuckle; it is not good to become too familiar with
one’s employees. They will only take
advantage of such familiarity in the long run.
Standing on
the manuscript, which is huge, like something a village elder would read from
while standing at a lectern in the renaissance, I climb into the cockpit of the
walking car. The giraffemen cannot join
me, big as they are. I can barely fit
inside myself. In these cold, cramped
conditions, my knees will soon begin to hurt.
We must reach our destination soon.
I signal to the giraffemen to climb aboard their lizard-camels.
…
“Where are
they going?” Elaine asked Dirk. Standing
in their heavy winter garments in the depopulated square they looked like
Russians waiting for the next strongman to come along and bring them
much-needed guidance.
“North,”
Dirk decided. He shielded his eyes with
his gloved hand and watched my entourage and me gallop away.
…
“Jesus,”
Elaine swore with the freedom of the newly transplanted. “In this weather? Who’d go north?”
I see them
having sex in their palatial quarters in the Kumquat Building
…
The movie
is called Barely Enunciated Summons for
Help. Humphrey Bogart is a
wonderland of Christmastime savings. His
best friend, played by Frank Sinatra, is a clown with a drinking problem. Depressed about Sinatra’s upcoming trial for
murder, the two decide to jam their olive forks into an electrical socket
simultaneously. The socket, being
necessarily schizoid, debates aloud with itself over the merits of
suicide. Albert Camus, in muppet form,
holds up a mirror so that the two equally muppet-crafted faces of the socket
can see each other. Later, during a
musical interlude in which the singer for Eyehategod and Page Hamilton try to
kill each other, Lauren Bacall rummages through Camus’ pants looking for his
muppet penis. Robin Williams’ corpse,
hanging by a pair of rainbow suspenders, swings in time to the music.
“I think
this song was written by James Taylor,” I tell Elaine and Dirk, “But this isn’t
him performing it.”
“No, it’s
the Fox News Nativity Choir,” Dirk explains.
“I thought
you left town,” Elaine exclaims, gathering up a couple of cushions to cover her
nakedness. She glances around wildly,
trying to discover how I got in.
“Town,” I repeat in a sarcastic bark.
…
The Gullet, pt.4
“The key is to not worry so much about proper sequence or
the officially recognized framework,” I tried to explain.
“We know
that,” Schama laughed. He nodded as the
guitarist, a medium-sized paper sack of cleaning products with forgotten brand
names like Mr. Scourer and Expunge, played the opening chords to “Gore Vidal’s
Ignorance.”
“What key
is that?” I asked.
“The key of
Trower,” the guitarist answered. Only
his grim mustachios could be seen under the drooping eaves of his hat. I liked him immediately, and resolved to show
him up on the guitar at the first opportunity.
…
The Gullet, pt. 3
“We think Peter Gabriel is right,” Schama admitted.
If only I
wasn’t so sleepy all the time.
He worked
at a grocery store. A small grocery
store in a strange town. At night. You could smell the refrigeration units. Men’s adventure series paperbacks, numbered
dubiously into the upper reaches of a lifetime, sometimes it took so long to
get the brain working, even in such herky-jerky fashion (and willy-nilly), that
it was time to put away the paper just as the first good words came to him.
…
The Gullet, pt.2
The band had chosen as their symbol a powdered
mini-donut. Unknown to them, I had been
the artist responsible for the depiction of this donut, although some hack at
the record company had sanitized my vision, removing the donut-creature’s
blatant genitalia and non-humanoid facial features. Scamdam Schama, the singer, assured me that
he preferred my original drawing, but that, as my brain didn’t always function
properly, having been trained to see the absurdity in everything, the Enfeebler
bore us up the mountain.
…
The Gullet’s Tenebrous Backwash, as Impatient as the Tongue Itself
The Gullet’s Tenebrous Backwash, as Impatient as the
Tongue Itself
Riding
along with the Vegescriptions in their private compartment in the side of
Enfeebler’s tongue, I found myself thinking that I, too, could have been in a
band, a real rock back, if only I had been either more sociable or more willing
to compromise.
“Or both,”
I added in a voice of reprimand.
Reprimand and regret, sewn to my back like the murdered corpse of my
enemy. That’s the reason for my weight
gain, not prosaic overindulgence.
“Who are
you anyway?” one of the Vegescriptions asked, as if suddenly realizing I wasn’t
a guitar case.
…
Tepid, pt.4 (conclusion)
It saddens me that, as I sit here listening to Caspar
Brötzmann and feel a bellyful of corn chips dragging me inexorably down to
stark staring stupidity, I couldn’t come up with anything better to write than
this dreck. Perhaps the accompanying
drawings will provide this piece with the aesthetic context which I so
desperately crave for my own satisfaction.
Perhaps a greater depth of meaning will be brought forward by the
unforeseen interaction of the two aspects of the overall work.
…
Tepid, pt.3
But these are commonplaces.
You didn’t come to me to hear such things. You came to hear and see silly absurdity (or
absurd silliness, depending on which direction the wind was blowing when your
fashionable kite took to the sky). That
is not to say that my work is necessarily humorous; one day I’ll create
something that is directly, sequentially autobiographical. Then you’ll get not only straightforward
narrative, but the biggest joke of all.
Tepid, pt. 2
I wanted to get a tattoo for a long time, but then everybody
started getting them. Now it is a
statement not to have one. I’m
not a follower of Anton LaVey, but he did say a couple of wise things, among
them, “Avoid mass amusements.” If
everybody else is doing something, do the opposite. You might wind up a Christ-like figure
yourself one day, but at least you won’t have wasted big money on a permanent
image that may not reflect your mindset twenty years down the road.
…
The Tepid Aspects of His Technical Hunching,pt.1
The Tepid Aspects of His Technical Hunching
We begin
with male nipples and their uselessness; they are an obvious proof, not only of
evolution, but of the non-existence of any cosmic intelligence working behind
the scenes to guide the universe and the design of its multiform
structures. Understand, I hate religion
in general and Christianity in specific.
I hate Jesus and everything he stood for. He wasn’t just a misunderstood teacher of
peace and love; he was a madman who said, “I am god—obey and venerate me.” The fact that so many have killed in his name
only gives me more reason to abhor him and disassociate myself from his
cult. I would have my nipples removed,
but for the weird fantasy that some Christian familiar with science and yet fearful
of its ramifications might misinterpret my actions.
…
Parrots, pt.4, (conclusion)
Here’s another question: how many times has Metal been
declared dead? I remember in the late
1980’s when critics were talking about the “resurgence of Metal” as if it had ever went away! Then Nirvana came along and all the Metal
bands were swept aside by some bean counter in an office somewhere. All these “Rock journalists” breathed a
collective sigh of relief and said, “Well, now that that’s over…” But it didn’t go away, did it? No, Metal keeps growing, expanding its empire
and the diversity of its expression.
Lemmy says he doesn’t like the multiplicity of genres, decrying
this-metal and that-metal, but, as blasphemous as this is to say, I don’t give
a shit what Lemmy has to say about Metal.
Or Henry Rollins or Chuck Klosterman or Sam Dunn or any of the other
usual commentators.
…
Parrots, pt.3
How many times have you heard some pundit say that the
guitar solo in a song should only be long enough to open another beer? I say guitar solos should not only be as long
as necessary, but they should be paid attention to. Wouldn’t it be great if audiences heeded
Hendrix’s words and sat down with their eyes closed and actually listened to
the music? Unfortunately, Metal concerts
seem to be exercises in screaming and violence. One more reason I don’t go see many bands.
…
Parrots, pt. 2
Metal has always been misunderstood, sometimes by its own
proponents. Chuck Klosterman, who has
dubiously been anointed as some kind of expert on Metal, doesn’t see the value
of guitar solos. Yet appreciation of
instrumental virtuosity has always been one of the primary elements of the
metal scene. People who think that the
defining characteristic of Metal is the celebration of gore and perversion are
dead wrong. Metal has a great deal in
common with Jazz. Maybe that’s why
Springsteen-loving critics of the Rock-will-save-the-world school can’t stand
it. As John Lennon once said of Jazz:
“I’ve been trying to avoid it all my life.”
…
Hello Parrots of the New Age Sophistry, pt. 1
Hello Parrots of the
New Age Sophistry
Many of
today’s top sludge metal bands have cited Black Flag’s 1983 album My War as a primary influence on their
work. Isn’t it strange, then, how many
mainstream music critics have described that album as totally without merit? Don’t worry: as Sludge and its sisters Stoner
and Doom metal continue to rise in popularity and proliferation, the day is
fast approaching when new critics will appear who praise this music and its
antecedents. Just look at what happened
to Black Sabbath. I remember when Tony
Iommi was dismissed as “inept.” I
remember when Ozzy went to Russia
with Bon Jovi and some other lightweights and the Rolling Stone people were stunned to discover that all the Russian
kids cared about was Ozzy and his connection to Black Sabbath. Punk is much more closely related to Metal
than “Garage rock.” One day Black Flag
will be categorized with the metalheads far more than with the punks.
Bricko, pt. 4 (conclusion)
That
evening at the camp, Dirk, who was Bricko’s brother-in-law, took his tin plate
of beans to where Elaine was eating and sat down beside her on a disused
dynamite crate.
“Don’t take
it so hard,” he advised, shoveling beans directly into his mouth from the lip
of the plate. “Once we get back home all
the world will be talking about lizard-camels and giraffe-men. Old Burnstein thinks he found a picture of Lyndon
Johnson.”
Elaine,
sitting on her own dynamite crate, waited until she had taken a swig from her
bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon (provided by the Pabst Brewing Company in the
interests of furthering Man’s intellectual development) before replying.
“I’m not
really upset about that,” she insisted.
“It’s just that I, foolishly perhaps, thought that I’d have more of an
opportunity to utilize my creative side on this expedition.”
Dirk
nodded.
“You should
have joined Dr. Abchu’s team,” he told Elaine.
“They’re designing the capital city.”
…
Bricko, pt. 3
“They do look like ‘lizard-camels,’” Bricko laughed,
squatting before a stack of Elaine’s rubbings.
“However, I think we’d better call them B1-type images until we
determine whether or not any such creatures inhabit the region, or indeed, any
part of the continent.” He patted Elaine
on the shoulder as he stood up.
“But,”
Elaine demurred, “Just as a slang term—for fun…”
“There’s no
room for slang in semantics,” Bricko
returned. “Nor is semantics for ‘fun.’”
“I
suppose…” Elaine sighed.
“Look,”
Bricko tried to mollify his assistant.
“Dirk’s found something that looks very much like a giraffe-man.” He pointed to a boulder roughly a quarter
mile away. “I’m not letting him label it
as such on the rubbings. It’s C2 and
3-types until further notice.”
…
Bricko, pt. 2
“Elaine,” Rollins Bricko addressed one of his assistants,
“Start by making a rubbing of this section here.” The bearded researcher indicated a cluster of
petroglyphs on the immense boulder before them.
Elaine, a talented artist selected from among thousands of applicants by
the Smithsonian to accompany Bricko on his exploration of the area around
Mounts McCartney, Snoopy, and Roddenberry, watched as dozens of animal-like
figures appeared on the paper beneath her even strokes of charcoal. She saw them as lizard-camels, but knew she
should wait for Bricko’s expert interpretation.
…
Rollins Bricko Examines Some Mysterious Petroglyphs, pt.1
Rollins Bricko
Examines Some Mysterious Petroglyphs
Among the
first people to explore the continent of Kigathega following its sudden
appearance was the quasi-Polish-American semantics expert Rollins Bricko. It was he that found the so-called
“Macadamian” petroglyphs on the boulders scattered over the grassy slopes
leading up to Mount
McCartney
“The
possibility that these images could have been carved by humans is remote,
obviously,” Bricko later explained.
“Why
‘obviously?’” asked the fat man charged with interviewing Bricko.
“Because,”
laughed Bricko contemptuously, “No humans had ever set foot on Kigathega before
Captain Roolard and his crew three years ago.”
Of course,
this remark was met with anger and derision by the conspiracy theorists and the
enthusiasts of extraterrestrial meddling, but it is not within the purview of
this article to deal with the merits of such people’s arguments and beliefs. Rather, I shall attempt to summarize the
story of Rollins Bricko’s discovery and examination of the mysterious carvings
and highlight some of the more interesting events and ramifications of that
discovery.
…
Just a Question
Does anybody know why Blogger automatically inserts an empty line between the last and the next-to-last sentences of my text? Not that I actually expect anyone to answer: in seven years of doing this blog I have not received ONE e-mail from anyone who has read it.
Anyway, I've just gotten tired of editing the paragraphs back together and left them with the spaces, as you can see.
By the way, if you're wondering why, if I want feedback, I haven't enabled comments to be posted on this site, let me explain: comments not only strongly tend towards the highly tangential, but often degenerate into abuse. One can see this on just about any website that offers readers a chance to comment. If someone really wants to tell me (not the rest of the world) how he feels about my content, then he can send me a personal message via e-mail. The address is toadsgoboad@gmail.com
Anyway, I've just gotten tired of editing the paragraphs back together and left them with the spaces, as you can see.
By the way, if you're wondering why, if I want feedback, I haven't enabled comments to be posted on this site, let me explain: comments not only strongly tend towards the highly tangential, but often degenerate into abuse. One can see this on just about any website that offers readers a chance to comment. If someone really wants to tell me (not the rest of the world) how he feels about my content, then he can send me a personal message via e-mail. The address is toadsgoboad@gmail.com
Green Frozen Eyes pt. 10 (conclusion)
Cash-Strapped in the Gradient of Bald
After
experimenting with a number of emollients, Fristo, the quantonium mechanism,
eventually followed his mother’s advice and bought a bottle of Endemicus.
“This is
getting expensive,” he complained to a friend.
The latter,
a nocturnal black penny from the Ginflood district, asked around the old
neighborhood for information on this obscure brand.
Green Frozen Eyes pt. 9
This package not labeled for individual retail sale.
In
commenting on these events I have refrained from passing judgment on the
participants. However, it must be said
that Elaine’s attitude often angered people.
June is a Stalwart Vessel, Possessed of Steam
“Will you
never get it right?” Malarko demanded sourly.
I knew he was referring to the nocturnal black pennies which I had
promised to explain once the moon had been filled with long, lingering guitar
notes.
“It’s a
matter of duration,” I tried to make him understand.
Green Frozen Eyes pt. 8
Johnson interrupted.
“Mr.
Scientist, we actually came to take a look at the lemon processor and its
attendant arposcomm.”
Mr.
Scientist put both his thumbs between his teeth and looked at each man in
turn. Despite his many years he yet
maintained a British Invasion mop of hair and wore t-shirts with pictures of
skulls, motorcycles, hungry beasts, and naked women on them. The one he wore now bore an image by
Commensurion’s sister Elaine on it, though Commensurion himself was not
familiar enough with her work to recognize it as such. The image referred not to any specific band,
but was a tribute to the sludge metal genre as a whole. Words to that effect floated above and were
intertwined with the pneumatic tresses of some maternal überschwein pregnant
with cosmic dread.
“Oh
really?” Scientist’s face went slack.
Green Frozen Eyes pt. 7
“Where’s the lab?” asked Commensurion.
High above,
set amid a series of platforms and walkways that connected most of the trees on
the property, was Mr. Scientist’s compound, containing his laboratory, living
quarters, and the nocturnal black pennies.
“The most
important question of all is whether or not God exists,” Mr. Scientist declared
not long after meeting with the two men.
“It is not,”
Commensurion snapped.
“Ah,”
Scientist’s eyes grew wide behind his young Michael Caine glasses. “You disagree. And most vehemently. Tell me,” he urged, taking a seat on a furry,
mushroom-shaped stool and with a gesture inviting his guests to do the same on
equally interesting furniture opposite him.
“Do you not abhor the thought of non-existence?”
“No,”
Commensurion answered scornfully. “And
besides which, I don’t see that the two topics are necessarily related.”
“My dear
fellow,” Scientist smiled thinly, “Once mankind’s digital offspring has
completely incorporated this planet into its all-encompassing mind—“
Green Frozen Eyes pt. 6
“OK, first road on the left,” Johnson reiterated. He handled the big car easily; he had driven
a crippled boy around in a custom van for nearly two years. The car’s sound system was excellent. Johnson’s sludge metal albums sounded
particularly crushing, even though the volume wasn’t so loud that the two men
had to yell to be heard. Johnson had
allowed Commensurion to select the album they listened to. He had done so based on the cover art. Hyena Matriarch’s Curse-Smitten Earth was his choice.
Its cover was an obscure Max Ernst collage of farts in the shape of
elderly snakes emerging from Emile Zola’s telescopic backside. Commensurion was digging a song apparently
titled “Cup After Cup of Your Photoelectric Sweat” when Johnson announced their
arrival.
“This is
it?” Commensurion wondered, peering through the windshield.
“This is
it.” Johnson pulled the car beneath a tree the width of a filling station
bathroom and shut off the engine.
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