Tag Archives: Elberta^^

October 18, 2020 · 10:42 am

zzz www

Later they all ate sushi with oversized toothpicks at Black Diamond’s. Big Wanda with “deflated horns”, as I’ve called her floppy pigtails, was in charge, Spore’s plan in action. Master judo samurai Black Diamond (background) gave Little Oakley Annie the honorable name Green River during a pre-meal tea ceremony and her mama the name Kummer, which was short (he explained) for, “coming mother”. Or so that’s what they thought he meant. We were working with places in Washington again, switched from Illinois switched from Mississippi. Faulkner had no hold here, the Rule of the 100 and the way of fame and fortune conveniently forgotten. Zzz was not about Faulkner, nope. This was the mother, this was the father, but not the son, the fruity one.

Big Wanda spoke. “Little Annie Oakley, *sorry*, Green River, has fallen asleep again, cutting zzz’s instead of being in the moment. Too much fighting in life will do that, drain you of the oh-so-precious life force because you have done so with others.” She turns. “But you’re holding up well, Old Grey. How’s that floating device going?”

“Pretty good,” Old Grey admitted, knowing indeed what is holding her up and propelling her forward. Snowmanster and she will be at the tree again soon. In fact: they’re there.

“Interesting,” Core-Alena says to begin in his-her feminine/masculine voice and staring toward Old Grey’s way.

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October 18, 2020 · 10:42 am

zzz aaa

“Now. Isn’t that a lot better than that nasty old gun, eh? Corona-V. Won’t let you down, hehe. 9 out of 10 pirates — *recommend*.”

“Who *are* you?” she said to the tiny green creature on the pool’s edge beside her with the projecting, announcer-like voice. She was getting use to honing in on the frequency, like a small radio that blends into background noise at first.

“Why I’m a *friend*, a guiding spirit if you will, yes.” Spore rubs his miniature hands together in diabolic glee. Plan Z was working perfectly. Except he’s decided to trim the name down to Pan-Z to separate it from that other guy with a plan about the canal that didn’t work so well. NWES City remains in pieces. “Now just rellaaxx and forget *all* about that awful black swamp, eh? Settle back. You remain a star, don’t worry. I’ll be back shortly.” He patters off, still rubbing his hands and snickering underneath his breath. Oakley Annie floats and sips for a while, thinking of the past.

“You use to be *my* friend,” Big Wanda with new doo spoke, sitting up for emphasis.

“Well things change, what can I say.” She looked over. “What happened to your horns, the thing that gave away your sign?”

“Aww, got tired of them.” She patted her hornless head, indicating her pigtailed hair she replaced them with; kind of floppy horns if you will; deflated almost. “Looked much better on the other version of Elberta I have,” she opined about it, “the one that was going to marry–”

“Don’t tell me,” Oakley Annie beams with new psychic insight because of the brew; in the dark no more. “Toothpick.” She cackles. “*That’s* what Spore was going on about with the guy with the failed plan, ha.”

“You’re not the only one who’s dead here, Oakley Annie. I am too.”

“I know.” She almost reaches back into the box to produce a beer for Big Wanda but then remembers this is all imaginary; in her head. Big Wanda was not dead, not yet. She hasn’t tasted cool happiness at the end of a long, dusty trail.

Another sip (*ahhhh*). Spore says she can stay in his land for as long as she wants, and she has nowhere to go. Could be a while (*sip*).”Who can I speak to next? Who will fill that vacant hole of a zero doughnut this time?”

She trembles despite the good vibrations. “Mom?”

Truly dead this time.

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October 13, 2020 · 6:22 am

North again

“Well? How did you like it?”

Toothpick turned on the bar stool. “Who are you?”

She rubbed her big red horns seductively. “An Aries, why?”

Toothpick adjusted. “*What* are you?”

“They call me Wanda,” she said in a bass voice for a woman. “Big Wanda. Because of the, ahem, horns but maybe not. 1/2 –.” She stopped here, saving some grace. “I’m what you became absorbed in,” she goes again. “Just a moment ago. Just over there.” She points to the nearby black couch. “Like the one in the Bigfoot Bar, except that one’s gone now. There are others.”

Toothpick thinks back to Bigfoot. Yes, he remembers now. This was his sister in another guise. She has horns. They’re still testing couches and realities both. Yes he had been absorbed. It was nice. Too nice. He thought back to the pleasantries. A belt was involved. The Great Belt of Marwood or thereabouts, purchased in oppositely directioned and colored Black Ice down south at its Black Diamond market square, or at least as a demo. Near where they were born, actually, in the Deep South (of the Black Ice sim). The original one broke; all he has now is the one with the attached squares that say demo and follow him wherever he moves with it. Like the Gone Fishing square from before, prior to the horned one taking over. He takes another gander.

“Are you Satan?” He thinks back to well known Aries and settles on the idea of batting champ Peet Rose, red as a. Why Peet Rose? Why not Jonny Bench or some other bench player, like Leeroy “Steamboat” Kelly who filled in for the Browns when Cleveland Jim Brown became a star on Hollywood Boulevard?

—–

In a related scene, Big Wanda’s sometimes, gun toting partner Little Oakley Annie, a Leo, was visiting her own grave but having trouble remembering the name of her own star. She only recalls (with a shudder) the wide, yawning abyss just beyond, the Great Black Swamp devoid of such. Her star was the first out. Polar came to mind but that wasn’t quite it. Pole star?

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October 10, 2020 · 9:36 am

you got it: maps again

“A message to all my fans out there. Some like their Pink hot.”

—–

“This will never work, Elberta,” Toothpick states at another low point. “You’re so beautiful and I’m so… ugly. Never mind the whole brother-sister…”

“I’m going to stop you there, potential husband of mind. No, better, I’m going to *absorb* you. I want to see what happens.”

Toothpick/Filbert was at a low point, as stated. He had nothing to lose. “Take me.”

—-

“He must never find you, Ross C. He’ll destroy our little square world if he does and make everyone in it miserable.”

“Happy (*zip*) unhappy,” she sputtered.

There’s only one way out. *Become* the world, see. See me in him and him in me.”

Robot from the future Ross C. saw the truth in it.

—–

Hotgirl was freed from Misery Cabin but was unable to speak about her experience there for a while.

Old reality was flickering on and off.

She eventually made her way back to GASTON.

—–

“What we *need* to do,” old companion Domino told Hotgirl Hitgirl Hitgerl Hitgurl Hitgal while they watched piled up house band Firesign Theatre play for the 4th time tonight at the Rhino, “is to similarly change *Misery*… to *Mystery*. That’s what [delete name] indicates.”

“Shuts your trap.” But the seed had been planted.

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October 6, 2020 · 8:37 am

-shine

“We’ll give it another shot, baker.”

“Yes. We understand that we didn’t get to the point in Uncle Meatwad that Spongeberg the Destroyer did in photo-novel 1 where he became convinced of the alien influence.” She recites this sentence robotically, pronouncing each syllable crisply. Rehearsed. They were trying to encourage me, not discourage like last night when they sat on the couch beside me and we watched the syncs together, the 2nd half of Pretty Bunnies and then the 1st part of Uncle Meatwad, well, almost the whole 1st part (of 3). Not quite to the “Egypt” cue that convinced Spongeberg going on 5 years ago now. A long time! Yes, they were trying to help, of course; understood the small misstep as guiding spirits. They know it’s hard enough for me without any support outside my trusted circle of the wife and one or maybe two other friends. The brother wouldn’t understand for sure. And that’s *my* problem to still deal with, that whole family issue. I must make peace.

“You have to understand,” Toothpick/Filbert began again, “that *we* created (a lot of the source audio). We are not the most objective judges.” He looked at Elberta; Elberta, his now blonde bombshell of a sister-fiance, looked at him. Camping came to mind this time in their still synchronized brains, another test. “And Lynch — I know what’s on your mind — will come around too. Right Pencil?”

They all looked over, but the entity properly known as Eraserhead Man in this here blog, hand behind head, wouldn’t commit to a thumbs up or thumbs down. He remained unconvinced like them. It was his creations involved after all. Same issue.

“But the maps…” I argued. All nodded here from their respective positions around him, indicating that maps were a different thing and separate from the audiovisual synchronicities. But they weren’t. Unified Field Theory. The Diamond. Heck, The Diamond is clearly coded into Billfork for X’s sake.

The hole couldn’t be made up. The hole between the synchs and binding them together existed. Hellmouth!

“I will still fight for the importance of the Piera, the run of synchs (I explained further) between Billfork and Uncle Meatwad. The period of 2004 through 2007.”

I realized a major influence was missing. Wasn’t me. This was pre-Carrcassonnee. Maybe, maybe…

“Let’s look at the rest of Uncle Meatwad.” All agreed to this as well.

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October 6, 2020 · 8:37 am

zeppelin tube

The stage is set for Toothpick and Elberta’s “Beech vacation”, a test run. Mr. Z and Mrs. M won’t like it but the wedding has been slightly postponed. Trouble is, Toothpick (and Elberta) aren’t even sure now, when checking, that Munday is actually a day: seems to be a mash-up of real days Sunday and Monday, borrowing letters from each. If so, that would mean there are actually 7 Happy Days already instead of 6, which throws everything off, and also explains, it seems, why olive colored alien Carrcassonnee can’t become fully alive at the Temple of TILE. Because the non-olive eye is the 7th (prim), Tin and Gold both. Self. POLK. “I need my voice!” she says inside. 6 + 1.

—–

“Budweiser casserole’s ready, dear.” Toothpick didn’t budge. He wasn’t even sure which was which. He was both on the couch and announcing that dinner is served. He had on coveralls but he also didn’t. This wasn’t working. 7 had been reduced to 6 and the 1 was missing. And that 1 was him. Zeroed out. Time for Newtonia Cashcow, aka Tracy Austin, to step in, 88s accompanying her as usual.

I, as the Man About Time, decide to meet her at Axis’ coffee shop in the heart of the city as we’d done before but find it closed. Newtonia then invites him, me, over to her apt. for coffee. He watches tv while she changes upstairs into something more comfortable — “less period,” she puts it — but I know this doesn’t involve romantic advances because we’re related. Brother and sister as well?

Hmm. He’s (I’ve) seen this video before. But where? Fuzziness consumes again. I decide to get rid of the I. He’s been asleep for an indefinite time when she arrives back downstairs, offers him some hot Sumatra. “Rats!” she exclaims. Forgot the sugar. She goes upstairs again. She’s trying to be funny. It’s working! After putting lumps in my java she calls me Willard and asks how my gang is doing and if we’re still working on all those map things. I jump back in the picture and say, “yes,” because she just alluded to them. She asks about the mouth of hell and the cave between two synchs and the hole in the cave and why it leads to the center of the Earth where gravity becomes comedy. We talk about a lot of things and I know what she says because we sort of speak a common language. I realize, at the heart of things, she’s just as much in on this communication as Toothpick/Filbert. I needed to talk to the female half for a while, for a post or two or close enough. Grahams. I ask about the Grahams and she produces two, one cracker each. She puts on some Crosby, Adler, Fraud and Young. Spoken book, each taking turns explaining their theories of psychoanalysis with the first and last also involving music. “That is one river of words,” she says when they finished, wiping off the extra sugar from her lap in preparation for the next act. “Like the Mississippi and Amazon. 12 tiles each.” She moves atop her chair and starts to scratch herself like a Monkee for all to observe. I decided to put an end to it for tonight. More soon.

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October 2, 2020 · 5:33 am

fireproof

He was laid down in a trench and then covered head to foote with mourning flowers but not the expensive Amazonia kind that would quickly burn up the family’s meager savings. Toothpick stood back after throwing down his own bluebell blooms, picked fresh from a Meat City field behind Francis’ club just this morning, maw beside him in her Sunday finest which was actually just her everyday rags, and her hopefully soon-to-be new roommate Mr. Z beside her, complete with his continental mask laden backpack which he took most everywhere for fear of theft in this here backwoods suburb. Elberta was absent since she wasn’t suppose to see the groom the week before the wedding; Toothpick borrowed her hat to give his now sister/soon wife a type of presence.

They took one last look at blossom bedecked Uncle Luther, killed by a flu-like disease just 2 days before yesterday’s tomorrow, a stark naked Luther not wearing any overalls for the 1st time since way back in ’76 when he inherited them from his recently deceased Cousin Ferdinand, dead from a fire in the old mansion that ended the rule of the 100. Poverty: the rule of the day ever since. Some named it the Curse of the Coveralls, another word for overalls back in the day and what Uncle L. called his own, but Toothpick might have just made that up after the fact, in his head; he had an imaginative brain, almost invisible to others, or he tends to hide it behind a perpetually straw embellished mouth that he also feels distracts from his damaged teeth as he whisks it about rapidly, creating a kind of blurring effect in that area.

It was time to leave the teeny tiny cemetery next to a corner of Marwood’s scaled down Eiffel Tower and let gravedigger Big Hand Eddie do his work. Goodbye Uncle Luther. But hellooo coveralls!

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September 27, 2020 · 7:15 am

eyes

“Where’d you get that *hair*, brother of mine.”

Toothpick pats the top of his now thickly padded skull. “Neptune hair. It’s all the rage in the central parts of The City. Just a demo for now — trying it out. You like?” He moves his piece of straw around in his mouth in rhythm with Elberta’s. Both notice. Both turn a little red (?).

“Ahem, yes I suppose.” She couldn’t say much since she was testing out a demo as well. Silence for the moment, then: “Do you think he’ll still show up tonight?”

“Who?”

“You know. Spongebub. The reason we’re here. We need to tell him that his wife is still alive and well in Urqhart or thereabouts, selling rental units for the Illuminati. That’s the organization she was working for all along. It was the drink–”

“Sponge*bob*?” Toothpick was backing up, unable to understand the line of thought pointing to the single eyed ones, The Residents and Firesign Theatre (or Theater) both.

“*Bub*,” reinforced the sister. “We’ll call him bub in this lower, more paradoxical dimension.” She reconsidered the word. What was the adjective form of parody? She didn’t know. She remained quiet, waiting for him to talk again.

“You mean the little yellow fellow, the square one?”

“Yes. Sponge*bub*,” she pronounced again.

“You mean like the little yellow, square fellow on the floor beside me right now?”

“Um. What?”

“He’s right here. Beside me. He’s been here for a while. I thought you knew.”

Elberta stands up, peers over the edge of The Table and sees the top of Spongebub’s square head with its big goofy peepers ogling (?) back. “Oh. Okay.” She keeps staring, looking for signs of life. “Why isn’t he *doing* anything — saying anything?”

“Go ahead, little fellow,” encouraged Toothpick by his side.

“Bahahahaha!” suddenly came the activated sound upon this request. “She has a square just like *me*!” He reads above her head in his high pitched and oh so nasal voice. “Gone… mo… ing.” Spongebub puts a yellow finger to his now down-turned line of a mouth, a thinking gesture complete with bulging eyes rolled upward. “Err.” He stares forward again. “What’s a mo-ing?”

They correct him as one, synchronized once more.

Back to the canal for the both of ’em.

—–

Buster gave Duncan what he thought might be good news. “They decided to get married after all, the brother and the sister. Disturbing I know. But par for the course in the Deep–”

Duncan hung up. He was already mentally prepared to move to the Sunklands to stay with Elberta and Toothpick. It was as if a cushy rug had been rudely jerked out from under his feet, leaving him to fall to a rock hard floor he understood all too well. It was his cell.

(to be continued)

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September 26, 2020 · 8:52 am

set

“She h’ain’t coming!” So shrill and trilling for a chicken, who usually wax eloquently when they have that talking device inserted down their throats. But Toothpick knew what happened; voice matches emotions of the moment. He figured Elberta ran off with that [delete name] boy Jimmy John Jones who she’s been going on about for months now. She’s bucking tradition in more ways that one. So she sent her messenger chick. The coward. He’d understand. He didn’t want to see her that way neither. This was his sister for God durn sake. His *twin*. He begins to think of running away himself. Maybe he’ll just follow her and Jimmy to wherever they went. That’ll teach ’em. He would have understood. He h’ain’t no looker like Jimmy. Everything will be safe and above board. He always liked Jimmy anyway. Despite the, um, well…

—–

“We’ll have to order you a new part from Black Ice. I think it’s down in the belt section.”

“No.”

“You’ll get use…”

Duncan Avocado kept shaking his head. He wasn’t going to budge on this. Pot-D can do whatever they like to him in return. Send him back to Dixie for all he cares. Then the memories flood back, the Slave-up vending machine, etc. Two months is a long *long* time down there (in Hell). He doesn’t want to relive that pain, even from a safe distance. He forces himself to come back to the present. He fondles his skeleton heart necklace, the one Buster gave him almost two years ago now. He reconsiders.

Buster Damm senses the change of heart and sweetens the package. “Elberta is a *looker*. You’ll get use to the hick ways. And they’re not really from the Deep South anyway, Mississippi and all. They’re from the very southern part of Black Ice where we use to have the Boos and Bogota…”

Duncan was nodding his head now. He’d given in. To whatever they had in mind. Mention of The River sealed it.

“No three word name. One, or, at best, two.” He spits in his hand. Buster spits in his. They shake.

Reality changes.

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September 12, 2020 · 8:23 pm

looming

“I don’t get it Elberta. How come you turned out so nice and I came out so… *bad*?”

“Aww, it’s just the place we’re from, Filbert (= Toothpick),” she spoke prettily. Everything about her was dainty and proper. No Southern slur to her voice, even though, like her brother Filbert/Toothpick, she was originally from the deep South. She downed chicken after chicken just like the rest of ’em, but never licking and smacking her fingers. Put her overalls on one suspender at a time, but with demure and grace. No shirts for anyone — she couldn’t get away from that. Just pants, and overalls if you’re lucky. You get one pair and then when you wear those out that’s it, unless someone dies in the family and you inherit theirs. There’s been rumors of murders just because of this. And then you have to make sure another sibling or cousin or something hasn’t been pushed out of a womb and grown up fast enough in front of you to earn theirs right on the spot, before the grave dirt’s hardened and the mourning flowers wilted. Wild flowers we’re talking about here, because no one from their parts can afford the shop ones. Like city lady Norm the Cashier’s exotic blend of Amazonia specimens over in the Black Ice district. No south of the border for them. They’ll never move beyond the front part of the palindrome involving Panama.

So here they sit in front of a dividing canal, one man and one plan. A canal going nowhere — Elberta had detected there was no flow to the current early on, but still came to fish here. If only for the beer and the company of her brother. Here, down in this sunken channel of rock and cement, she could escape the stares of the others. The ogles of the ogres she likes to think of it. “We are a pair,” she said, leaning over toward him and elegantly handing him the empty, with the understanding that he’d stand up, open the box cooler, and give her a full one in return. He was obedient, but yet he was also a slave again. A slave to tradition. Brothers usually marry their sisters in the deep South culture, with twins no exception. Usually. He counted the days and weeks in his mind. 17. Just enough to get settled into the new temple with the new avatar God and make arrangements. He was hoping their parents would actually go out and buy him a new pair of overalls for the wedding but we’ll see. Usually doesn’t happen that way; usually someone has to die as stated. Uncle Luther has the flu, Filbert can’t help but think here. He imagines another funeral before the wedding with freshly donned dungarees.

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