Tag Archives: Keith B.^*~~~~

new again!

After publishing for real, I add categories (essentially: locations) and tags (essentially: characters) as needed. I’ll just do it again in this new post (“new again!”) to illustrate. Then if the reader desires, they can check back and look at the history of a particular location, a particular character. Here’s what we have for Andy Warhole, for example:

https://bakerbloch.com/tag/andy-warhole/

From this you can see that the last post he was in before “new!”, published a couple of weeks ago and called “customers”, also contained the same characters: Hilter, Marilyn, add in Gabby Truth this time. So let’s just, for fun, check Gabby’s past posts:

https://bakerbloch.com/tag/gabby-truth/

Ahh, you see? He also has a history with these particular characters, stretching back to photo-novel 14 and his time in Toppsity on the Maebaleia/Satori continent while living there with his brother Amos, who was, let’s see, about a month and a 1/2 back, declared dead due to repeated self ignitions, 7 to be specific as I’m checking.

https://bakerbloch.com/tag/amos-truth/

A sad tale. Gabby still lives in Cassandra City

https://bakerbloch.com/category/virtual/maebaleia-satori/cassandra-city/

to the south of Toppsity

https://bakerbloch.com/category/virtual/maebaleia-satori/toppsity/

and last time I checked (“customers” again) was working in my Moe’s tavern there as a soothsayer, using tarot cards, 8 ball, and roshambo together to create the most effective vortex of timely prognostications. He told Hilter recently that he was already chancellor of Germany even though it was only 1919, another time and space and collage confusion. He dispensed timely if watered down wisdom to Andy Warhole about his art career and the impending doom he sees. Casey One Hole, one a-hole of a guy. We should get back to him.

https://bakerbloch.com/tag/casey-the-alien-casey-one-hole/

And what of Gabby and Amos’ seldom seen brother Keith B., hmm?

https://bakerbloch.com/tag/keith-b/

So much to keep up with these days.

(to be continued)

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completio

“Pretty good, Keith B., dad wanna-be. But me thinks the head must go.” Both look over at the 2-dimensional version of Dr. Who’s Cassandra entity, at the eclipsed brain.

“Homer? Nah, he’ll stay for now.”

“Variables,” warns daughter wanna-be Kate McCoy. “Danger,” she adds.

Keith ponders what she said a lot as he attempts to sleep upstairs. 1 prim remaining of 60 — just enough to rez a bed.

Kate stays with him all night. Kate doesn’t need any sleep. Since, contrary to popular opinion and her last name, she isn’t real.

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Moe’s

Ready for business?

We better check the 8-ball again.


Magic 8-Ball: It is certain.

So is Dinah Moe’s wife? Is that why they humm?

And who is Moe again? This is (old) Keith B. That’s not Moe.

A tea table (re)appears. We must have tea at Moe’s. With the Chancellor? How ’bout Gerald? Hope it’s well strained.

Let’s end with a map.

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Keith B.

Sacky Doll (the band) made a sudden reappearance in Toppsity 11 years later, attended by Bert Bright, best pal Bud Dimm, and best gal pal Abby [delete name]. Since all 3 knew the band members, they were also invited to the rehearsal, but only Sun showed up, announcing himself by saying he was between a Moon and a Star(r). He was egotistical and self-centered in that way, flying too close to himself perhaps, with a fall likely anytime soon. But who was this Sun? No one in the crowd seemed to know him.

“New drummer,” responded Bert Bright to the sight on stage.

“Same as the old drummer,” amended Bud Dimm, innate facial recognition kicking in to make up for lack of brains.

“He *is* old,” added Abby, trying to decide all night between the two of them. Like black and white pillars they were around a central heating system.

“Bert, Abby, Bud, would you come up here on stage? I want to share a secret with you.”

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downtown bar

“You said you wanted to get closer to me, Kate, so here we are.” He turns in his seat. “At the place it all began for Jenny and me. Before she became world famous Your Mama and all turned to rust and rot.”

Kate McCoy was tired of hearing about Keith B.’s daughter but bit her tongue right now. He had brought her along on this trip to Cassandra City and she was grateful for the bonding opportunity. If only *he* were her daddy instead of that low life Craighead Phillips. Where was *he*? Still galavanting around in Bluefield US of A? She didn’t want to know; she didn’t care. She was with Keith B. for the present. She had designs on a long term relationship. Maybe he did too — she didn’t know. Yet.

He starts pointing around the place, indicating changes. “The stage, Kate, use to be in that corner — instead of over there on the side. A lot of these booths have been added too.” Keith B. was disappointed that there’s no indication of their presence in this bar. It was apparently up to him to keep the history alive. “It’s all in the autobiography,” he often tells friends after throwing them a juicy piece of the past. They usually want more and then that’s what he tells them. He’d rather write for many instead of talk for few. He’d learned that lesson decades ago. People like to talk, but words only last if you write them down or record them in some equivalent way. He started a blog in 2008. He could better organize his thoughts about people places things with categories and tags. He had a system.

“Keith?” Kate McCoy spoke, seeing her wanna-be dad spacing out again, most likely about the past. She wanted his full attention once more.

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Thinking about the blog?”

“Yeah. I suppose.” He feels the slightly extra pressure his flip style notepad makes in the back of his pants. He senses the push style lead pencil in his front pocket against a thigh. Tools of his trade. While he was away from the computer. But he must resist the urge to pull it out in front of his wanna-be daughter. That’s not how it works.

(to be continued?)

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portal 02

It was night for Biff. Maybe he overdid it with the BD thing, he thinks while staring over at the now sleeping Keith B. Had to sleep in place since no rooms are available. Maybe he’ll get some decent rest tomorrow; maybe find that couch over in Hoboken or whatever they call that place now. Hobo Ken. Ken the Hobo. That was it. And that was his couch.  I bet he’s over there right now. Sleeping soundly away. Well — let’s just switch them out. Test the malleability of this place.

There was no true sleeping animation in the couch. Ken the Hobo must not exist after all. Keith B. would have to wait until Saturday to get that good night’s rest. Let’s return to the present.

He really is gone. It worked! What’s that speck on the globe? Is that where we’re suppose to head next?

This is as close as I can get for now.

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portal

Keith B. was back in Cassandra City, exploring old haunts, some still around, a lot: gone. He doesn’t remember, for instance, Big Dick’s Halfway Inn. He quickly figured out that BD stands in or resonates directly with MP, that is, Moby Prick. Here was a famous white whale manifested, perhaps. He better check it out.

He waited for the clerk to show up but one never came. From the corner of the lobby, unseen until now, a man spoke up, his voice crisp with confidence and intrigue. “Place is filled up, sir. You better go elsewhere. Gabby is on one of those long lunch breaks again.”

“Gabby?” returned Keith B., thinking the name was wrong. What was it in rehearsal. Jimmy? Dimmy? No, that wasn’t it either.

The man introduced himself instead of gabbing more about Gabby. “My name is Wendell “Biff” Carter and you were lured in here by the sign. Lured in so that you could meet *me*.”

The *whale*? Keith B. thinks while staring over, trying to get a better estimate of the man while not being so obvious about it.  That was it: someone was attempting to create a *report* on this man. And failing. Failing in general. Keith B. was here to help. At least that’s what the last version of the script read.

“Big Dick I assume.”

He extended his arms and scooted forward a little. “In the flesh.”

Keith B. turned away. He was finished studying for the moment.

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no Bland

The Donut Hole, Marty thinks while looking down at it from the high window of the Starlite Lounge, fortunately for him and others one of the last Pipersville landmarks Lt. Salt had on his list to check. Didn’t get there. “And Sweet Alice is the filled void in the middle; no need to go back,” he spoke aloud while turning his red topped option back to the turntables. For every season, I suppose — seasoning. Pepper in this case. Pepper black starry void of 1975 or thereabouts.

He stares thataway now at what’s being filmed…

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children

“She’s *good*, Katy,” states Keith B., listening in on “The Real Me.”

“Call me *Kate*,” Kate McCoy hawed back.

“Alright, Kate. But she’s not as good as my little girl.”

“Oh, just *shut* UP about your little girl. What about ME?”

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landmimes 01 02 03

“Go ahead and take off your head and roll it into the center of the sink. That way you’ll be free of it. You can enter Pipersville unencumbered.”

“Of what?” Hucka Doobie speaks behind me in the void. “Yarns?”

—–

https://www.amazon.com/Giant-Ball-String-Arthur-Geisert/dp/061813221X

Beyond the resourcefulness of its porcine citizens, there wasn’t much to recommend the small mining town of Rumpus Ridge. But even in such a hardscrabble place, they had created something they could be proud of: over the years they had collected the biggest ball of string in the world. Folks came from miles around to see it. But one night, a flood carries their prized string away and washes it ashore near the town of Cornwall. Rather than return it, the Cornwallians decide to keep the string for themselves.

https://foursquare.com/v/porters-sculpture-park/4cb6046256fca1cd653a5318/photos

—–

“See what we did, Keith B.? I *told* you we couldn’t avoid Horns.”

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