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Bacchanalia – David Adickes

Posted in art, band, blog, houston, performance, southmorehouse with tags , , , , , , , on October 28, 2012 by tymora42

I met David Adickes at the George R Brown Arts and Craft Faire. Adickes is a big deal in Houston as is the Craft Faire, I guess. Houston is known nationally in the art world for its collectors. Galleries an Brokers from around the US come to this thing bringing their A game of tipping point artisans because they know we have the money and want to spend it. We have the money because we have the oil. Alaska may have it too, but they lack the metropolis culture.

Adickes is a sculptor. His claim to fame is building the largest sculpture in North Amica, the Sam Houston Memorial in Huntsville. I wave at Sammy anytime I leave Houston going north on 45 and ask his protection while I am traveling abroad. Adickes has also done the bust of every American president in 20ft stone. Originally it was a commission for the Arlington Cemetary, but they pulled the funding before they were put on the trucks and shipped to DC. Now they sit in a lot across from his studio on Summer street, right across from the building we have reserved for the Bacchanalia Naked Tuesday.

So, I told him all about Naked Tuesday. I told him we were expecting about a hundred folks to participate but that our expectations generally tend to be too low. I told him about the ritualistic Church of Melkrath’s dark metal. I told him about the invocations in unknown languages of Serum Fantis. I told him about Ak’Chamel considering themselves puppet masters rather than musicians. I told him about southmorehouse and I told him he should come.

“You need a mask to get in. We don’t care whatever else you wear if anything at all.”

He laughed and asked if my beautiful partner would be there. I told him yes and he asks me, “How much of this is true?”

I said, “90%”

He thought for a second. “if this is true, I want you to dance naked around my president heads.”

Consider it done.

Bacchanalia – finding the space

Posted in art, blog, houston, performance, southmorehouse with tags , , , , , , , on October 23, 2012 by tymora42

Finding the right space for this event has been a challenge. Asking local establishments if we can get naked there during business hours is always a challenge. Originally we decided on the Silo, the place art cars go to die. It met many of our requirements. It was unusual. It housed art. It was outside. They would have let us burn things.

We had the music – Serum Fantis, Ak’Chamel, and Church of Melkarth. We had the venue. I could worry about logistics and the next event in the weeks to come. Until the ball dropped – and I mean that in the least naked way possible. Ken, a great guy and owner of the Silo, had a conflict of interest with a social partner. He decided that he could not continue with hosting this particular Naked Tuesday, but to contact him in the future with any other engagements. We hope to. We really liked working with Ken, but we understood and put the word out that we were looking.

This is when Gutterbrain Studios at Summer Street contacted us. They REALLY wanted to be the host. I was conflicted because they are an erotic photography studio. This violated two principles behind NT – 1) no photography and 2) this is not sexual in nature but more about purity of the body. After speaking with Craig Christie about our goals for this event he seemed on board. He would hide his camera and penis for the evening or at least take it into a private room.

We were sold, spoke to the right people and dove head first into the arrangements.

Go F Yourself – another Hash post

Posted in adventure, beer, blog, houston, rant, relationships with tags , , , , , , , , on January 30, 2012 by tymora42

Tonight I got to tell more deserving people to go fuck themselves. Yes, this is another Hash post.

We ran trail, a shiggy 5 miles through south Humble’s development. Only part of it was green belt sidewalk. The rest was marsh and twigs, my kind of terrain. Being a swamp born coonass those second wave marathon runners slowed me down through the brush. The first wave was long gone. The second could take me In a clear straightaway. This, however, was home. I ducked and weaves like willy the wabbit, bowing my sunglasses down when eye pokers threatened, letting my arms grow numb from the brambles and stickers, hopping over the wet bits by staying close to the trees and hobbling over downed logs. When there were not logs I made them with swift kicks to trees. I was determined to keep my feet dry. That was dad’s first rule of backcountry hiking: Always keep your shoes dry. Never get wet unless you have to.

Despite the three or four river crossings, I managed to have dry socks when I rolled into circle. Yes, I bragged. Yes, I knew I would have to drink for it. Yes, I threw a sock in the two faces of my accusers. Yes, they made me do a tea bag down down. This is where they laid me on the ground and poured beer through my sock and into my mouth. I knew it was coming so I saved my beer for it. With the two kegs sponsored by Karbach brewery floated in under an hour I knew the only alternative was pickle juice.

The walkers got lost. A game warden wrote a citation. A Galvez hasher exposed our identity. A crazy girl ran with pickles. Am I missing anything?

They spanked a twenty one year old birthday girl at the on after. Barbeque sauce was shuffleboarded down the row with a high score of 1 for team BBQ.

Someplace around there I started talking shit. Nah, the shit talking had begun long ago for me. Tonight I just kept them rolling. Some old guy I have met at every function played the not remembering me game. Guess what? You can go fuck yourself you old English prick. He was only interested in my persona because I got to spank the hot birthday girl and he didn’t. There were a few others. They got theirs. Most of those that got it last time either remembered or avoided which suited me just fine. Thats one way to remember someone. The hash casher girl asked me again who I was, which can be a bit upsetting because she actually has to write my name down to record runs or whatever. You remember 30 percent of what you write.

Chuggers asked about my broken legged friend. G did not. He probably has Alzheimer’s anyway. I respected my elders and told him, “Not that you remember but…” Blah. I also drank in circle for a titty twist and comment about someone’s dead grandma. Life is good. The trail was great. The on after had awesome food by an unappreciated Assgrabber. I jerked off and went to sleep.

Go fuck yourself.

Pondering My Workd

Posted in bar, beer, blog, houston, life, rant, relationships on January 21, 2012 by tymora42

I lay here half drunk, the designated driver just got homemkimdamhalfmdrunk, drinking a beer in bed, beautiful woman passed out next to me, the its my birthday I can drink if I want to kinda drunk, and the whole world beckoned me to ponder it. So I did. Never do that. Or do it often. One of the two. Tonight we talked about limbs and conservationists and museum and art and running as oopposed to biking. Then the random shit started with people that claimed to throw up blood when faced with extreme emotion, a girl on a date with a cat psychic (like he knows,you have cats but doesn’t know the names variety), monkeys who won’t climb trees no matter how vast their dungeon, someone whose name may or not be James but prefers now to be called Jizz Hands for mysterious reasons and other of the like. I’ll have to tell her she snores in the am. Not every night. On her pre birthday birthday? Yes!

Here I am pondering the world – mostly harmless. Wikipedia shut down for a day. You could still get into a back door. I never saw it. I turned off the Internet. I typed “google” into Google and it broke. Instead I went door to door selling stock in myself. A couple of takers. They called me today to set up appointments.

One of the most ponder able moments was the dialogue about the Beatles lyric, “Oh, that magic feeling. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to go.” Each of us had a time when it applied. It always fit. Some were right outta college. Some were en media res. Each was a journey the other could never know. Nowhere to go. Magic!

We cursed people with cuss words in good fun. I would curse without cussing some other people in less fun later. Whatever. They are just jocks. They angered and frustrated me because I thought they did not like me, when, as it turns out, after I pissed all over the bed about it I realized that it was probably more that I did not really like them. We had no relation. They talked about running and beer and marathons and racing and winning shit like a Bostonian talking about baseball or a Boulderite and their diet. One dimensionals bother me. I want to know what they thought about politics or technology or the last movie they saw or a TV show they watch or even (gods forbid) how they feel about their job. I want a connection with people beyond the immediate easy road. If we met on the plane we can get the small talk stuff out of the way – this is a really big plane, do you fly often, is that your final destination, are you from there, where were you originally coming from, business or pleasure. Done. Now we can get into the really interesting stuff. I have had more connection with people on a city bus.

And my ponderance gives way to sleep as the final thoughts of teacher versus student accountability, Perry dropping out, whether “Food Stamp President” is truly racist or not, and the million stupid puns I can make about one eyed one horned flying SOPA / PIPA eaters.

Stay-At-Home Wife

Posted in blog, family, life, love, relationships with tags , , , , , , , on January 14, 2012 by tymora42

Here is a quick story. I will remain as unbiased as I can (try to that is) in the telling of it because the important part (for me) is your reaction to the characters involved. When you are done reading, please give a brief (or lengthy if it moves you) comment telling me what you thought about them. After enough comments I will offer my own response. Thanks. Here it goes:

          A man and a woman are dating. The woman tells the man she would like to be a stay-at-home wife until she becomes a stay-at-home mom. She makes it a condition for marriage. He agrees. They marry.

They both have jobs. He makes “alright” money. She makes a decent salary also. Together they are doing well. She loses her job. She tells him it is time to fulfill her marriage condition. She would like to be the stay-at-home wife now.

He tells her they cannot afford it yet. His salary alone will leave a married couple in meager circumstances. She tells him plainly that if he cannot provide for her, then she will leave him. He cannot. She divorces him.

What do you think?

Houston Hash gets a Humpty Dumbass

Posted in adventure, beer, blog, houston, travel with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 9, 2012 by tymora42

My buddy broke his leg. I broke a vow. He considered this an even trade.

I have been running with this group called the Hash Hound Harriers. If you are not in the know, their concept is simple: follow the rabbit and drink along the way. They are a multinational organization with independently operated cells across the globe, like terrorists except for the drinking part. I mentioned that. Drinking. It almost needs to be mentioned again. And I am sure it will be.

The “hare” lays flour along his tracks. The rest of the group chases him. Every once in a while (1.5 miles give or take) they “beer check” you. That means you drink. At the end of the route is a keg and a circle and songs and dancing and shit talking and cuttin up. That means you drink more. It’s fun.

Right before that, the more drinking and singing and circle stuff, is when my buddy took a dive off a 12 foot wall.

This was not the normal hash run. It was actually a bike ride. They have all of these different variations in the 40 plus years the Houston Chapter has been active. They call the bike version the “Cychohash.” We rode 12 miles (really 15 because we lost trail for a bit and wandered in circles) ending at these abandoned grain silos along the bayou. You could climb up inside of them through this hole and a rope on the back side. I won’t say it takes too much of an adventurer to explore this, but evidently it does take enough of one since most of these hashers chose to stay on the ground.

And these people chase other people through the woods and back alleys of the city and the more “shiggy” a trail means more water and weeds and mud and forest obstacles. When a 12 year looked up the pipe, grabbed the rope and started his ascent with nobody following behind, I had a sudden revelation: There is a difference between an athlete and an adventurer.

I joined H4 because I thought it would be adventurous. Sometimes it is, but for the most part these guys are all athlete. I am not an athlete. Athletes were the guys who kicked my ass in highschool. I had a rude reminder of this at their New Years party. I felt like the social outcast nerd that crashed the jock frat party except they had grown up a little. They served better beer, they played terrible music on a soundsystem that could not handle it and instead of pushing me around they just ignored me and forgot that they knew who I was. Happy twenty twelve!

A few Hashers cross over into the adventurer athlete realm of the Vann Diagram. So, what’s the difference? An athlete is trying to win. An adventurer does it because it is there. Athletes avoid danger. Adventure seekers dive headlong into it. Athletes want speed. They want to hurry and get there. Adventurers crave the journey.

This pipe and silo was not at all the leg breaker of my buddy. Humpy Dumpty climbed a wall. He did not so much as fall as he did drop a couple feet from a hanging position and land awkward. He heard it snap. He saw it dangling. He shouted the only name he knew. Some of the crew heard him. It was a couple of women I met earlier. We had shaken hands and introduced ourselves. I remembered both of their crazy nicknames given to veteran Hashers who have done stupid things in the past to get those names. As my friend shouted my name they asked him, “Whose that?” Go figure. Nerd in the frat house.

Oh, they know my name now. They yelled for a medic. Nobody officially stepped up while everyone wanted to do their part in helping, which mostly included snapping pics of him on the ground with their cell phone cameras. I observed for a second to see if anyone was more qualified than my meager Eagle Scout wilderness survival skills. They weren’t.

“Step back,” I said. “Don’t move him. I need two sticks and some rope.”

Nobody moved. I was still not important enough. I found the sticks myself and used my scarf belt to stabilize the wood on either side of his leg. I normally wear a faerie scarf belt. This time was no different. You never know when you may need to tie something up. I used the scarf to brace the wood on either side of the fracture. This ex-navy dude whips out a cord of manilla from the trunk of his car. Together we bound him up with bowlines and half hitches and a square knot for good measure.

“No ambulance,” my buddy cried, “No insurance.” It looked like we were doing this ourselves.

Once his leg was immobilized so as not to exacerbate the break, three tough guys fireman carried him to the back of the hare’s car while I called his girlfriend. She followed us to the Methodist Hospital. We checked him into the emergency room.

Nurses and Doctors from other floors gathered round to look at my handiwork. I was proud. They even left the splint on to take the x rays. As proud as I was showing everyone pictures and retelling the story, that pride was missing one persons validation. I called my dad. Part of me did it to tell him about the experience (read: adventure). The other part, the part I did not realize until I was actually talking to him, was that I wanted to thank him for providing me with the skills to take control of a situation like this with adequate knowledge and calmness to handle it correctly.

How did I break a vow? I said I was not going to go to Ruddyards, a dive bar my broken ankles friend frequents, the biggest reason he is always broke, and just as big a reason he has enough weight sensitivity issues to not want to be called Humpty

Dumbass. Of course he went there that night. He needed some comfort food in the vein of 151 and coke. Yeah, I went inside to clink glasses with his stupid ass and break my vow.

He told me, “Alright. We’re even now, but I guess that ski trip is off, huh?”

Past, Present, and Speculation of the Future of Writing Technologies

Posted in blog, books, essay, technology, work, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 27, 2011 by tymora42

Writers Block by miss pupik

Standing outside for a breath before testing a writing program I am not familiar with recalls those writers who have come before with their limited technologies. I take a moment to daydream on the process of constructing novels, plays, screenplays, and even short stories in the time previous to the word processor. How easy it is for us in this new century? How easy will it become? It is no wonder why the once elite market has exploded in a variety of those dedicating their life to the craft of being a writer.

My first retrospective goes to the typewriter, the tapping out of solid words onto the page. The immediate editing process of Microsoft Word, simply hitting the delete key over the highlighted section and reconstructing the previous thought to closer perfection as the writer intends it, could not even be considered to such technology. Even when the liquid papering function was installed in the machine, it could only perform menially, a letter at a time, a punctuation mark, at most a whole word at a time, never a full sentence. Only years before this they would have to spool up the page, apply the whitener, and let it dry before they could continue the thought. Before this they would have to key the whole page over and over. Once the first draft of those thoughts were finally smashed onto paper, the real editing began. Sentences and sometimes whole paragraphs, cut and pasted into different locations of the document, are circled and arrowed with pen knowing that the entire piece must be retyped again and again until it is correct. Obsessive Compulsive editors like myself would never have made it without superior discipline. This is where the admiration of greats like Thomas Pynchon, where every word and placement has significance, must be recognized. And those like Stephen King creating volumes of work with such immensity. It is no wonder he hates the abridgment of them when every revision of a thousand page volume needs retyping after each editing. I can see the dry portion of those novels being the result of the editor self proclaiming pages as worthy for the sole reason of decreasing the workload. Did Steinbeck own a typewriter in the early years? Could he afford new ribbons and paper? This must be why Of Mice and Men is so short. What of Mellville? Jane Austen? Did they pen their works initially before consigning them to typed manuscripts? Were the walls of their rooms covered in index cards with brief character biographies, plot devices, scenery descriptions pinned into the drywall with threads of yarn connecting them to black and white photographs and illustrations like a detective movie?

Shakespeare did not have a typewriter. He jumps further backward in time to the days of quills on parchment. Notes of scratches and older versions of Midsummer Night Dream have yet to be recovered by English archaeologists. Like the zen quote about the river, one can never see the same play twice. It is constantly being rewritten as it is being performed. Lines drop. Actors ad lib. Blocking and scenery is constantly in flux to the whim of the players on stage. Surely their was a stable copy at the start and a final after the run. And I have to picture them learning their lines. Did Willie stand before them in the empty Globe Theatre running through his mix and garble of word from memory expecting them to regurgitate it after a single once over? I would like to have seen his one man show describing the first act with all of the characters and blocking and details of the scenery and pit it against the closing night for consistency. No, to construct a single line with a quill would take considerable thought before the ink every touched the surface. Taking in the scenario of a poet lingering over the page for hours on end before scribbling out a word or two gives credence to the thought that writers were lazy.

Before Email by vas0707

Now, the future is here and their will be more future tomorrow. We print one copy and xerox the rest of our novels in multiples for out writing groups to peruse. We edit. We print more. Ink is cheap and paper grows on trees. We post them on Trigger Street and The Red Room and Smashwords for user to (hopefully) read and comment. We post blogs. We podcast. We delete whole sentences at a time. We reorder paragraphs. The tacks have been removed from the walls of our study. The index cards are filed away in drawers where we can wonder what they were ever used for in the first place. Final Draft and Scrivener and Celtx organize the bodies onto virtual corkboards and sticky notes. Characters have tabs for their biographies with images and research encompassed in quick click of a button reference. We hardly even have to type anymore if we do not want. We can tell the story into a microphone and DragonNaturallySpeaking (dragonspeak) will convert the dialogue into text. Windows Journal and similar programs type out scanned handwritten documents for you.

The next great leap in writer evolution that will flood the market over the walls of the dam will be the invention of thought to text. From there it will be a short stroll into the conversion of dreams into movies. Pioneers will consume hallucinogenic drugs to record their experiences. A new Hunter Thompson will arise. Loving or being hated by a writer, if we can still call them writers, will have further consequences than they already have when they are hooked up to these experiential machines transcribing their emotions into novels.

Whole stories will be constructed in the blink of an eye, as fast as one can think them up. Is this what they thought about the video camera? We have come so far from the day when the Guttenberg Press made the scribe monk obsolete. From the days when the ancients chiseled letters into stones. Imagine the editing process of that form. We stepped over the home typesetting invention of the QWERTY keyboard, designed to be less functional than the Dvorak because the speedy keys kept sticking, to the digital manifestation of the word processor. We are now in the age of the work specific visual writing program. As much as the imaginative can prophesize, only the future can tell where we will go next. Who knows? Maybe there will be someone in the distance looking back at you for your contribution to the world and he will say, “And they had to actually write it all by hand.”