where has the blog gone?

dance club scene followed by intoxication

"Like ahhh . . . where's the danceable women in funny hats " Said SkaRat.

The club was packed with a throng of drinking smiles, the rattle of highball glasses, the screams of insomniac youth and senseless violence. The Rat's sensitive ears picked up the whining of obnoxious rich girls ( the kind that say things like " Oh m'god, I'mmmmm Sooooo Druuunk !!!!") There must have been a thousand twisting bodies clad in day-glow and duck & whale prints.

"Same dull crowd." thought the SkaRat, looking for cigarettes in his black and black suit.

The crowd parted with the synchronization of a Broadway finale, and SkaCat walked into view. she had a strawberry drink that matched her pleasantly surprised smile. SkaRat became aware of the erratic dance beat that jumped from the air molecules to his brain. (He began to suspect that the Fuzzy Bunny was not far away.) He stopped looking for his cigarettes and slid across the dance floor to the mod girl cat.

"Oooh , you look like a new era in cool." said SkaRat. You'd better watch out - looking that stunning - there's men around.'' She was clad in an affair of amazing orange that hugged her tight and soft.

" Gee thanx.'' She said, with a predatory look in her eyes. But the smile on her lips let a little of her inner energy slip out of her words and into SkaRat's aching muscles.

"Let's dance." Said SkaRat.

"Well . . ."

He took acquiescence for agreement and had her by the hand.

" I think we should just ignore gravity tonight - the night magic is zipping through my hair and my pointy toed shoes!" SkaCat swirled and stomped in her orange-electric-ruby slippers. Dance music grew at an alarming rate and the SkaRat knew that this much gravity would not do.

They left the dance floor with the expectations of those who ignore natural laws. The dancer's clothing burst into a thousand new colors and scenarios bounced off of each other, effortlessly.

Both ceiling and floor was of one mind, no place and everywhere and back again- They might've danced in chaos color limbo forever, but they stopped in a snap - as the band drank cold beer. They ordered up bizarre drinks with tiny umbrellas on them. Fuzzy Bunny and the Big Lie played another set.

Fuzzy Bunny took aim with both hands on the big black unreality gun he held. He blew a big hole in the reality underneath SkaRat's feet.

Fuzzy Bunny shouted of Goodbye, Goood Bye , Gooooood BYE, Good Byyyyeeee!!!!!!!!!" as he Jumped in after SkaRat.

" What the fuck is this? " Demanded SkaRat.

Ten thousand ugly eyed danceiteria types put down their drinks and gave him an evil stare. Fuzzy bunny smiled as he usually did.

''Youre making me sick, with your group mediocrity Cut it out - wake up and smell the coffee ! You're so unbelievably predictable and boring The SkaRat was extremely drunk and felt like a good rant.

The evil-eyed throng picked up blunt objects and lurched up with an unreasonable amount of coordination.

SkaRat snatched up a guitar with a flourish. It gleamed with rhythm and was connected to a ten-foot stack of speakers behind him. The angry mob poised their weapons at SkaRat's pointy face and gleaming eyes and freezed with time.

The rat rattled out an explosion from the black-checkered body of the electric monster he held in his paws. He instantly formed a uncrossable barrier of slam dancers and stage divers that separated him from the homicidal mob.

Before any blunt objects could come down the overpowering rhythm hit everybody. It was impossible to think, thought and despair were smashed up against the wall, along with anyone who wasn't dancing. They could only dance. The place jumped with excitement.

Music tore through the room.

"You never know what you never know, you know. " Said Fuzzy Bunny into the microphone.

"It ain't over till it's over" shouted SkaCat from behind the drum set.

"No matter where you go . . " "The OBVIOUS OFTEN SOUNDS PROFOUND AT FIRST glance" Yelled SkaRat through a bull horn. " Objects in the mirror will appear.. farther

away then they actually are!" MEANWHILE, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF CREATION.

The Student sat down in a comfortable old chair at the nameless cafe. He brushed off the loose sleet from his rumpled grey trench coat, almost too thin for this southern winter.

Automatically pulling open the snaps around his neck, he scooted his chair to face the fireplace at the center of the room.

The flame sent out a wall of heat that clashed uncomfortably with the cold he felt inside. The thick-haired waitress was standing beside him now. He didn't hear her rubber soled feet.

Half startled he looked up as she said " Wanna menu " The waitress had an incredible face, a face that you could stare at and see something like strength, tenderness, some child like glow - but mostly it showed how tired she was.

" No, just coffee . . thanks.. two cups " The student knew that was all the dirty one dollar bill in his pocket would buy. It was all he had.

"Two cups of coffee?" repeated the waitress, walking back into the crowd.

As she turned away, the student glance over her body again.

She was heavy; someone acustomed to Barbie doll esthetics would have said fat. The mother of her very, very best friend next door would have said ''plump'' or ''chunky'' - or one of those watered-down would

insult words mother's use around their children. But, for the student, she was far too graceful for a clumsy word like ''fat''.

''Voluptuous'' might be a better word - sexier and sensual. Some women surprise you, she probably looked incredible out of her clothes.

He slid out of his damp coats the melted sleet was seeping through to his skin and making his shirt uncomfortable. He folded the coat carefully over his arm. (Kind of ridiculous, when you consider how dirty and wrinkled it was.) He sat it down on the chair beside him.

Looking around the crowded cafes, the student realized just how alone he was. He didn't have the energy to talk to anyone. He was content looking at them. He looked at their faces, and played the game of inventing what he thought their lives were like. He would combine old stereotypes into instant impressions of who these people might be. The more he thought about it the more tangents his imagination filled in. Every question had an obvious possibility. He imagined what part of the city these people probably came from and what their lives were like. He imagined ( . , what kind of sex life they had, and What they Would say if he d attempted to communicate with them. He imagined.

When he looked back at the table, his two cups of coffee appeared there. He picked up a cup and smelled the steam raising off the cup. It warmed him almost instantly - coffee never tastes quite as good as it smells. Slowly: he drank both cups.

Looking back up at the faces in the crowd he saw peoples restaurant faces - the ones people only seem to wear in cafe's like this one. He looked for facades and false faces. He saw people who occasionally acted naturally. He thought he could see something good bad and trivial in every face. When his bill came he left. . . . almost unnoticed, the crumpled bill sitting by the ash tray.

Night, the Student loved the night. He lusted after the ghost-town atmospheres being places normally covered with people.

Now empty a abandoned for night, the city received a light shower. A1l around him the sidewalks and walls dripped and glistened. He liked the feeling that he was the only one on the street, a strong feeling. He owned the street now, everything under the flashing yellow street lights was his. He ran across the street, not needing to look for traffic. His feet smacked the pavement and shallow puddles. Then he heard the sound.

The almost silent treading of cautious feet, someone trying not to be heard or seen. The smell of paranoia. He could feel cold fingers reaching for his heart. Something was coming for him. shadows, flickers and brief half imaged from the corner of his eye. He looked wildly around, but the danger remained just out of sight. The adrenaline swelled inside him. He ran.

The Skamobile squealed around the corner. The tapedeck shouted out the Clash.

We come from garage land, aaaaah aaaaah aaaah.

We're a garage band, aaaaah aaaaah aaaaah.

possibilities filled the room.

The Bunny danced about the room ranting paraphrased Jim Morrison lyrics.

"Five TO ONE, ONE TO FIVE NO ONE bet's OUTTA HERE THE SAME . . .

WE WANT THE WORLD AND WE WANT

. . . TWO KINDS OF ICE CREAM.

ONE TO FIVE, THE WORLD, FIVE TO ONE, AND

WE WANT IT NO I'm

"such excessiveness said SkaCat with an intentional small s on her 'such.' She continued.. slightly slurring her words...

"You used to be into Morrison himself, that is yourself into Morrison.'' Noted SkaRat as the bartender made a violent dive for fuzzy B.

"Yeah but then it occurred to me; what's the point of being ,, in love with a dead rock and roll star ? " They claim love is it's own excuses but I wouldn't know.

given the chance, who could resist?" By the time SkaRat could follow her grammar and her logic, the smoke and explosions had died down considerably.

The bar looked quite different now. The decor unchanged except for a little strategic spray-paint ( Including a life size portrait of some graffiti Aztec god.)

. . . but people danced and snuffed out stale cigarettes.

Everyone talked, about everything, and the bits of nonsense that cluttered their minds drifted out. They laughed honest laughs, and smiled without thinking about it. The Women who normally stood like plastic flowers had lost themselves on the dance floor.

The doors were open now, as the pink shaped smoke drifted out of the room, ( creating a strange tense problem and further confusing everyone's sense of time.)

However, no one was leaving quite yet. Natural drugs filled their veins, and the fresh air felt better coming into their lungs, better than cigarette smoke ever promised to.

That Night, everyone met everyone else, and some lovers found some love.

Above the door was spray painted.

"Everybody act cool, and nobody get hurt. " Preached fuzzy bunny.

"I need some fresh air... " Said SkaCat.

SkaRat followed her out, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Fuzzy Bunny found himself in an alleyway drinking mad dog 20/20 with some well medicated out-patients of the state hospital.

He sang. "I WAS BORN IN THE SUBURBS, WITHOUT RHYTHM OR SOUL.."

SkaRat, who made a point of never following anyone for more than 15 minutes, had lost SkaCat in the rain soaked streets. Slap slap, went his new shoes on the concrete. He was soaked to the bone with the summer

night showers, and was enjoying every second of his damp journey. FREEDOM! When you are soaked, you don't give a damn about any more water.

''Nothin' else to loose, and all that's SkaRat said to himself.

SkaRat took advantage of every drop falling from the sky. The slick dampness of his fur; the smooth chill of breeze, the slipping drops on his sunglasses. The rain kept away familiar annoyances. Insects had crawled into holes and under rocks. No one who wasn't friend of the rain was out tonight. SkaRat continued his travels across the beautiful wet city night. Then he saw his destination.

The old apartment house with its shiny windows seeded to be waiting for him. A partially torn condemned BUILDING DO NOT ...

ETC. EBCDIC sign was posted prominently against the peeling paint.

SkaRat knew enough to ignore such signs.

Up the slippery concrete steps and through the arched doorway. The hall beyond, also arched, was painted a auve/pink color with a black tile floor. The front glass door swung silently shut as he entered the quiet hallway.

No one around, no need for a doorman when the night magic is strong; and it is always strong in this particular hallway.

The rodent took his time walking (and dripping) along the corridor. This was a place that people (or rats) shouldn't rush through.

There aren't enough magic places for everyone so you must spend your time in them wiselyoll Said karat, just to hear himself talk.

Looks to me like three colorblind-college-students on acid, painted this placenta Said karat, her high heeled shoes made no noise against the tile floor. .

SkaRat turned, of Yeah, but isn't that what gives this spot - it's own particular charm I'm Skacat stalked smoothly past him and up the stairway at the end of the hall. (It, by the way, was pained a gentle grey.)

what are you doing here anyway?'' She asked.

Great minds think alien's SkaRat suggested.

Over the landing of the stairway, a single hanging lamp illuminated the entire area. It was about eight feet above the ground and had a long dangling chain. (The kind made of little metal balls linked together.) The cord holding up the lamp (with a black, coolie-hat type shade, you'd expect to see over a pool tablet' went far up into the darkness. The rodent pulled out a black and red cigarette case, snapped it open, and selected a long fat cigarette. He snapped shut the case without looking at it. He enjoyed the noise. He put the cigarette in his mouth and jumped up to stand on the stairway railing. He stretched out precariously - lighting the cigarette on the hot bulb.

Skarat jumped down. Looking grounds he noticed that Skacat had disappeared - one of her favorite tricks. He knew enough not to look for her.

He then pulled the chain, ''click'' and darkness. Half a

The time has come, the SkaRat said, to speak of many things, of dales and chicks and goddesses, of fingertips and kings.

SOMETIME LATER . . . -

be Day time is just as addictive as night, but easier to get in this country, and therefore legalize CLICK, poolhalls slide, near silent across dirty felt, and slam with a whoosh into respective pockets.

11, personally, am a nocturnal beast by choicely The SkaRat circles the table, looks down his pool cue figuring anglos and ricochets with his subconscious. Also I must live illegally and intensely, in this daytime society's He knocks a curious bank shot into the left hand corner pocket. Of And that, is the only relaxation I knoll's Hard funk chords twang funk from speakers above the pool table a the music was as integral to his shot, as say, just the ' right amount of chalk on the pool cue - preparation.

1 If I stop to think about a shot, 111 miss. But if,however, ' I just stick to the beaten (He knocks 3 balls in - with machine like precision.) Clicks chic, whoosh.

The bunny: ears made him an excellent listener. Skacat a-, sipped another double capuchins, more interested in the movement of the balls than cravat's babble.

You'll novice's said SkaRat circling the table again. That, I'm an excellent player on this particular tablet's This table is steiners uneven and covered with rough and smooth spots. But, I'm a shifty player on a perfect table. However here I can beat anyone's colt's well known that the best players play on the worst tableau's Said Skacat, sounding as if she made perfect sense and was making some kind of sarcastic joke with the tone in her voice - all in the same breath.

The Fuzzy Bunny crouched so his eyes were almost level to the table. ' undoes this make me addicted to the rotting felt, the cigarette stained maple's Juno more than the rich day-time pool players with their planes and triangles - geometry addicts.'' Skacat finished the last if her coffee.

Debut, I've got more respect for the gentleman who gives me a good game on a broken table - improvising against the irregularities.''

yeah, I hate it when people sound like they're just ' repeating something clever they said at party before - just like the one last mighty just like they saw on TV's pecan you refuse to be conditioned?'' van ''GEOMETRYIIIIIIIIIID' Yells Fuzzy Bunny - jumping to the table top - off beat, and out of turn. He grips the pool cue like a warclub-baseball bat to slam the ball in.

There is a theory that if you just hit a ball hard enough - ,1 skacat mentions. ( it will have to go in somewhere.

The time has come, the SkaRat said, to speak of many things, of dales and chicks and goddesses, of fingertips and kings.

SOMETIME LATER . . . -

be Day time is just as addictive as night, but easier to get in this country, and therefore legalize CLICK, poolhalls slide, near silent across dirty felt, and slam with a whoosh into respective pockets.

11, personally, am a nocturnal beast by choicely The SkaRat circles the table, looks down his pool cue figuring anglos and ricochets with his subconscious. Also I must live illegally and intensely, in this daytime society's He knocks a curious bank shot into the left hand corner pocket. Of And that, is the only relaxation I knoll's Hard funk chords twang funk from speakers above the pool table a the music was as integral to his shot, as say, just the ' right amount of chalk on the pool cue - preparation.

1 If I stop to think about a shot, 111 miss. But if,however, ' I just stick to the beaten (He knocks 3 balls in - with machine like precision.) Clicks chic, whoosh.

The bunny: ears made him an excellent listener. Skacat a-, sipped another double capuchins, more interested in the movement of the balls than cravat's babble.

You'll novice's said SkaRat circling the table again. That, I'm an excellent player on this particular tablet's This table is steiners uneven and covered with rough and smooth spots. But, I'm a shifty player on a perfect table. However here I can beat anyone's colt's well known that the best players play on the worst tableau's Said Skacat, sounding as if she made perfect sense and was making some kind of sarcastic joke with the tone in her voice - all in the same breath.

The Fuzzy Bunny crouched so his eyes were almost level to the table. ' undoes this make me addicted to the rotting felt, the cigarette stained maple's Juno more than the rich day-time pool players with their planes and triangles - geometry addicts.'' Skacat finished the last if her coffee.

Debut, I've got more respect for the gentleman who gives me a good game on a broken table - improvising against the irregularities.''

yeah, I hate it when people sound like they're just ' repeating something clever they said at party before - just like the one last mighty just like they saw on TV's pecan you refuse to be conditioned?'' van ''GEOMETRYIIIIIIIIIID' Yells Fuzzy Bunny - jumping to the table top - off beat, and out of turn. He grips the pool cue like a warclub-baseball bat to slam the ball in.

There is a theory that if you just hit a ball hard enough - ,1 skacat mentions. ( it will have to go in somewhere.

Debut, really refuse to be conditioned? Play with children's eyes. The insane lack of fear makes the Bunny an astonishing player - an amazing driver root's small be it a dangerous one's of He may run lights and nick mailboxes - but just look at hilt's The Bunny continues to club shot after shot in manic secession. Of His refusal to have anything but fun gives him an edge.

Good looks and a big gun help somewhat Said skarat, still watching the game.

"you ever space out driving? Ever drive fifteen minutes out of habit? Driving like you are playing some boring old video game? Get in play the game and you're there'll show about listening to the radio, putting on make-up, drinking coffee'' and worrying about nuclear warfare?'' "But the bunny! When he drives, he enjoys himself he drives every instant he lives every moment and remembers the l ! .! ! ..

whole experience !!!.

The bunny knocks the remaining five balls into the same pocket, the last bouncing out onto the bar room floor. He collapses in a heap on top of his broken pool cue.

Why go anywhere without a good driver's "Lets GO!" Said SkaCat.

The pool game is well over.

They are sitting on the balcony/veranda, smoking blue cigarettes. ' I know a little slight of hand Says SkaRat.

Impress me, said the look in SkaCat's eyes.

''Hocus Pocus, nothing up here . . . adults are conditioned, beasts of habit, daytime addicts.''

"that was great, " said SkaCat mildly impressed.

"NO that was perfect."

''HA!'' says FuzzyBunny. ''What's in the other hand? Said his rabbit-child eyes.

"Just because you know where it is, doesn't mean it didn't vanish. Maybe someone else across the room saw it vanish, maybe you didn't. But I can make it vanish for them again, and again, and they would remember it vanishing - and so it would vanish. I can make it so . . He opens his other hand revealing nothing.

" Victims of casual observation." Said Skacat - Each and every One.

I'm addicted to confusion, you are addicted violence, and she is addicted to seduction . . .and we're all addicted to this night and it's magic. . . If I speak of philosophy again . . .

kill me. Said SkaRat falling into a drunken faint.

"Anything you want Said Fuzzy Bunny."

Music sounds better in a car said SkaCat. Let's go.!"

"music does sound better in a car. The faster you are traveling, the better the music sounds -'' Said SkaRat, steering the car through a busy intersection.

can't justify our lives as being real enough without conflict.

AND we don't even have the pleasure of knowing we are plotting this. A feeling that the past is not real enough, that the future is more real than the past. It's a quiet burning, x.a almost not to be noticed amongst the trivial lotions of our everyday life. survival. It growl silents like cancer, bake tension, like boredom and frustration. . . . . . . . . . . .

Suddenlyy you are drunk and behind the wheel of a car. Soooo much speed. You realize that there are too many people in the car. Everyone is comfortable in this chaotic possibility, the communicating on the same level of stupidity and intoxication.

. They are all drunk. Some talk to the foreign travellers. They speak slowly. Everyone is communicating on the same level. It seems equally impossible to communicate with anybody. A person who speaks little language is face to face kith the difficulty of communicating. The native speaker ignores the difficulty (in bad faith? The concept of foreign is abused) People traveling in the dark across big countries. They don't know exactly where they are. They can't be sure where they are going this drunk. The driver could crash at any moment. Things are just working well enough - there is no slack, no margin for error.

. why panic? Why not talk to the asian girl on your lap?

" Are you high? ' Yes.'' (Actually you are drunk on coffee and light beer . . .

but the lie is much more amusing . . .)

"Yes... I'm on _______."

"Tell me about it , I've studied about it, but all the drugs seem the same - I don't know what they are like. Does my hair look green to you? "If I really want it to....

. . . yes..."

And at that moment you have to think about your lie, and what color means to you and how drunk you are and . . .1

SkaCat grew quiet.

That's the best metaphor for planet Earth I've heard in a while. Said SkaRat. .

" we're drunk... said Skacat. ' "We pretend that getting drunk on vodka is more real than ' drunkenness on anger and disgust, cars or LSD. We pretend that this is not a real experience. We're drunk ? How can we appreciate reality intoxicated - we can only appreciate our drunkenness with our planning to appreciate it. We treat life like a cartoon - unreal.

We've tricked ourselves, planned the conflict, put ourselves in danger to appreciate why we don't want to crash. To numb the no tension of everyday danger - to ignore it. Most people don't plan to get into DANGER on drugs, do they ? They didn't plan to get so drunk, they didn't plan to drive so fast or climb so high. They climb so high they have to climb up to climb down. They didn't plan to get lost within walking

can't justify our lives as being real enough without conflict.

AND we don't even have the pleasure of knowing we are plotting this. A feeling that the past is not real enough, that the future is more real than the past. It's a quiet burning, x.a almost not to be noticed amongst the trivial lotions of our everyday life. survival. It growl silents like cancer, bake tension, like boredom and frustration. . . . . . . . . . . .

Suddenlyy you are drunk and behind the wheel of a car. Soooo much speed. You realize that there are too many people in the car. Everyone is comfortable in this chaotic possibility, the communicating on the same level of stupidity and intoxication.

. They are all drunk. Some talk to the foreign travellers. They speak slowly. Everyone is communicating on the same level. It seems equally impossible to communicate with anybody. A person who speaks little language is face to face kith the difficulty of communicating. The native speaker ignores the difficulty (in bad faith? The concept of foreign is abused) People traveling in the dark across big countries. They don't know exactly where they are. They can't be sure where they are going this drunk. The driver could crash at any moment. Things are just working well enough - there is no slack, no margin for error.

We treat life like a cartoon - unreal.

We've tricked ourselves, planned the conflict, put ourselves in danger to appreciate why we don't want to crash. To numb the no tension of everyday danger - to ignore it. Most people don't plan to get into DANGER on drugs, do they ? They didn't plan to get so drunk, they didn't plan to drive so fast or climb so high. They climb so high they have to climb up to climb down. They didn't plan to get lost within walking

distance of civilization - just walking distance.

They beg the first tourist they meet for water, how can he be sure if he's thirsty - thinking too much ? Will they die of thirst before they get back ? In an instant partying campers are transformed into tuxedoes magicians walking through a garden. Walking along a pool table like garden with low hedges and a wide lawn path with rose bushes. They walk to the horizon. They know a head waiter is waiting for them, with a silver tray - ice in crystal goblets await them. The water is from a platinum faucet, the ice carved in perfect spheres. The white gloved servant awaits.

They realize that they are building their thirst. they realize that they may die of thirst , just out of view of the water. They realize that this whole scenario is for their own personal pleasure - even if they did not plan it that way.

Tricks, illusions most people are making their own right now - they imagine most of their world. But once they learn the secrets - they get bored and create more extreme tests . . .

I'd just like to appreciate the magic I run into - I'd like to plan my own problems and insanities . . .

It's strange how people can believe in shattered illusion's up" "OH shut the fuck up and have a drink!" said Fuzzy Bunny.

SkaRat passed her the last gulp of champagne, and broke the bottle on the pavement just to hear the glass shatter.

The Bunny laughed like a maniac and drove the car off the roof.

Swirls of flash, smoke, sounds of laughter and confusion.

Delicious confusions thought SkaCat.

.

transformation

chapter 1 part next

Damn sink the student muttered, as he dropped the blade (dripping with the foul excretions of the slime).

He sat back down, and poured himself another cup of coffee. He liked mornings like this.

A Special's song from the battered compilation tape in his jambox grabs his attention.

Is this the in place to be? What am I doing here? Watching the girls go by, spending money . .

A notebook sits open on the messy kitchen table full of felt tip pen and wild doodling, full of notes no one will ever read.

I'm alone,
three thousand miles from any real friends -the people you can say ''fuck'' around. People you'd die for, or maybe try to save when the Earth blows it's self to shit.

They aren't here.

But it's as if I can feel them, all that way. Laughing without me, crying without my sympathy. I can feel them changing and growing and forgetting me and my childhood. I don't have the American dream, or some kind of work ethic, or sin to wallow in, no real guilt even ( but it's available - lets twitch on the tv and watch some starving children on the religion channel.) Nope. No hate left. I'm alone. I only miss the people.

WELCOME TO ADVENTURE THEATER, WHERE LIFE IS HARD

DEATH IS BEHIND YOU, AND YOU ARE NEVER OUT OF BEER.

This week: the SkaRat meets . . .

SkaRat was extremely bored.

"To be really bored is to be miserable, to be miserable is a waste of life he mumbled to himself as he slipped on his white|ngblack checked jacket. SkaRat tightened the laces on his shiny red dancing shoes, slipped on appropriate shades and looked at himself in the mirror.

"Cool, cool, kool" he whispered. For SkaRat, life is a constant monologue and you should say What you like when you like. SkaRat slipped an unopened pack of smokes into his jacket, locked his front (and only) door, chained it, flipped off the lights. He opened the window with his left and slipped through.

Being that there was no fire escaper SkaRat was forced to hang to the gutter and downspout to avoid becoming a messy mass of dead meat on the alley floor below. SkaRat hung by his left hand so he could light a cigarette with his right. He glanced casually over the city, good weather tonight, good Weather to wander the streets , see some night magic. He held his cigarette with his tail as he put the cigarette box back in his right hand jacket pocket.

His arm was beginning to get tired so he swung over five feet

or so (letting go of his grasp at just the right time). Landing with acrobatic precision he found himself on a convenient balcony.

"I wonder who lives here were the SkaRat's thoughts.

A mysterious young cat, with hypnotic eyes and infectious smile was looking at SkaRat. SkaRat had already been smiling, but he was enjoying the her lovely energy.

"like something ?" Said SkaCat.

"Champagne, Ginger ale? Perhaps some whiskey?" She continued with her perfect voice. " Perhaps some whiskey ?" " Got any brandy?" "Brandy? . . hmmm I thought you'd be a martini drinker. Oh well..."

Inside the apartment window, was an opulent apartment with a party in progress. She lifted the silver cover off of the tray next to the stereo, revealing two snifters each half full of a rich amber liquid..

" Only 10 years old . . . It's all I've got in the house."

"Perfect," said SkaRat.

As he was finishing up the last sip of his drink, a large crashing noise was heard from the coat room. There were screams, then laughter and noises of people playing with the ice in the bottom of their glasses. When the smoke cleared. Fuzzy Bunny was standing in the doorway.

(Fuzzy Bunny is a 4 foot high rabbit with a drivers license and an unreality gun.)

Fuzzy Bunny said, Mr. Kurtz . . He ded."

"He always lies, and he's always right. Whispered SkaRat to Skacat."

The fuzzy bunny loved to drive . . .

The white and black boat of a Cadillac slid through the evening, brights on and 2-Tone Ska music (some would say dangerously loud music) twisting and flinging through the crevices of the travelers mind. A red light and the white shine, pure and glowing with the reality of it's cleanness in a dirty world. The black and white checkered top of this Ska-mobile folded back to the hum of powerful engines. The SkaRat jumped out onto the hood. The fuzzy bunny popped a pink pill (which might as well have been a breath mint - but wasn't) in his grinning mouth and slammed the accelerator. The dexterous rodent was gripping the hood with his fingernails. He wondered if the flask of scotch would spill out of his pocket.

The Fuzzy Bunny (it seems) was mad, mad as hell and determined to out-race destiny and sunlight.. Rejecting fate and accepting the challenge of driving faster than the sun could rise! the Fuzzy Bunny cranked the car into high gear.

"POWER, SPEED, DEATH!" Shouted the bunny.

"Fly low and accelerate in the turns!" commanded SkaRat. "Hey,

like - watch out for that bank" The Bunny, deft at the wheel, smiled evil-ly and hit his new

booster rockets. The car stereo played the song "Little Bitch" as loud as possible. They slammed through the blue mirrored glass doors of the Mutual Bank and Accountancy building. Fragments of glass, a windstorm of mirrored shrapnel.

ONE ! TWO ! SkaRat jumped loose of the speeding car, almost caught his balance on the wet pavement, slid 15 feet on loose gravel, and fell.

''Uncool'' .

He found himself at the bottom of a deep ditch that hid at the road side.

SkaRat sat up very slowly, his back ached like it'd been massaged by a ball peen hammer. Trying desperately to regain his sense of direction and shake off this monday morning like daze - he stood up and took a small sip from the champagne glass he still held in his hand. (it had but one sip left.) He took a long sweet whiff of the evening, and headed off into the wilderness.

The humanoid/rodent took an exploratory stroll down the mystery ditch that chance had placed him in. SkaRat kind of dug being in the great outdoors for a change, even though he rarely left the warm protection of the city. But, this was a rare and unexpected occasion. SkaRat struck a scraggly wooden match against the bottom of his shoe. The match bloomed into a nice round flame, that would never blow out in the wind.

"This is/was and can not be a real place", He realized, talking to no one in particular. He checked his pockets for a reliable anti-depressant, and found nothing. Only one rational choice came to his mind - run like hell.

SkaRat stood his ground. Removing his sun-glasses with his tail, he filed his claws in the most non-uptight manner he could produce for a situation like this.

SUDDENLY.

With a huge noise resembling a sonic boom, a white-neon door blasted'open - sending a rectangle of flashing light over his red clad body.

The sign said:

CLUB BOURGEOIS FACADE

"Oh wow, a magic-nightclub springing out of the crust of the earth how convenient" [ CONVENIENT: 1. Appropriate or favorable to one's comfort, purpose or needs. 2. Easy to reach : accessible ] The SkaRat could smell the stench of plastic, wombats and fratboys. He was in danger deluxe.

The jukebox played an obscure Boomtown Rats tune: Drink to the bitch and we'll dance for awhile, if you can't do the module, you'll have to try the slide it was all cool enough if you had the jazz. The night was still young and it was all we had.

Our Rat protagonist pushed the candy neon french doors open.

pt 1 text

It started a long time ago. Before he had even thought about it in sentences and explanations. It was the one plausible explanation. That is to say, the explanation he most wanted to believe in . . . it was the way things seemed to be pointing.

Nobody said it was true, but no one denied the possibility of it either. It was constructed of thousands of bits of pop culture flooding his brain. An explosion of youth trying to define itself without having the time to understand what it was doing.

Who were these people on the album covers? Where was their world, that could only be caught out of the corner of eye, of on the cover of some magazine you couldn't afford. In an unknown world anything could be true. . .

Fashion forms out of a void. A chaos as abstract as econometrics and other contrived systems of explanation designed to describe the confusion . . . the shared confusion, the basic assumptions . . . those unspoken rules . . . the musicians don't always know when they are composing the music . . only When they play . . . or somebody writes it down.

CONFUSION in capital letters . . . it forms somewhere in the eye . . . an image so abstract you can only suspect the possibility of it. An ideal that improvises itself in the subconscious, the describable-curves of the mind, the impossible equation. An answer to an unasked question . . . a question that hasn't or can't be put into words.

But, in the instant it is asked, it goes on for as long as anyone cares to listen.

Potential energy, ready to explode all over the place. And when you are running full speed ahead . your feet pounding against a street someplace . . .

The MYTH of youth is a reflection of dreams unrealized and unquestionably possible. The adrenaline starts pumping somewhere in between the rhythm guitar and the bass line, under control, control, and almost control again. ' Youth stumbles up to the microphone and says everything again. New, and every generation needs to say it again, in their own words. The words are theirs and no one eases.
A scene is reborn by a million tiny decisions. It happens despite everything . . . a single unspoken word.

INCANTATION

The book of thoughts - the shadowy perspective, trite? Perhaps . . . but just possibly truly dark thoughts are always there. In a place we'd like to call unknown. Subconscious, hidden, somehow half seen. This book tries to put these thoughts in the light of what I do know. This book should be a place to release insanity on paper - without fear of the audience. Let go of depressions - put them in their place. Divide and conquer. . . Separate from casual conversation this book is to protect myself. Maybe look at thoughts refined and sharp so I can see them. Know them. Laugh - taunt them into hysteria and meaninglessness - subvert and in a way destroy them. It would be a mistake for the reader to confuse the content of this denote booked with the author's true psychology. This is a fragment, a dark look. Anger, perversity obsessions, crimes, hate, violence - abuse, sin - not ment to be seen as a truth but as a condition - an inescapable fascination. - I think this is an interesting experiment - the armchair voyeur who has this book in hand might find it some how interesting, curious, maybe frightening; I certainly do. My best dreams are part nightmare.
What is the darkest thought that can come out of a frustrated pen? I write often when I am lonely. When I am happy I am usually doing something else.

So, be prepared for the irrational, emotional terrorism, thoughts that are sharp. Can sharp thoughts cut the soul? But if one is careful, observing the destruction of these thoughts - shattering the dark illusions thoughts can make.

Observe the humor.
Mirrors of unreason.
Be careful, the light here is dangerous.

(here starts the book)

SkaRat
A VERBAL CARTOON

A battered cassette tape is inserted in a black jambox on top of a bedroom dresser . . .

THESE are DANGER DAYS WHAT SORT OF DAY IS IT?
THESE ARE TROUBLED times, do ya KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?
the Boomtown Rats

The student inhaled his coffee, the noxious black substance poured down his throat giving him an intense feeling of satisfaction. He hated coffee, but this was perfection, the idealized cup of coffee, the holy grail of caffeine, and he needed it.

The long Saturday night he had spent alone (unexpectedly) left him with the distinct need for unproductive and anti-social behavior, some kind of luxury. So he stayed out last night, shoving all his worries and responsibilities out of his mind. He wanted to see the sun rise. He had never reached his bed, and this was his reward for evading sleep , the end of an evening, his resurrection. The student liked coffee alone. He took another deep drink.

In his morning euphoria, he didn't hear the low hum of Sunday traffic. He didn't see the vile green tentacles rise out of the garbage disposal - coming ever closer to his stiff neck. The tentacles twisted and shivered with evil pleasure as they dripped and slimed over to the oblivious drinker. They stretched out about for feet from the Messy sink, only about a half inch more to the student's neck. Three more pulse beats and the slime beast would lunge, one fatal blow. The student whipped out the large butcher's knife from the kitchen drawer and hacked the killer slime in two. The startled slime shook in agony and recoiled back down into the garbage disposal, with a deep gurgle of pain.

part 1

as a matter of introduction

Well, where to begin?
Where did the name SkaRat come from?

Long ago, a friend sent me a letter on some kind of cute staionary featuring cartoon rats.

He was a bit bored with this motif, and started to decorate each rat character..
he drew some clothing atop the cartoons... graffetii-ing a little personality into each rat..

first he drew a punkrock rat.. wearing a DK tee shirt.. with the caption "punk rat" and the balloon "got any beer" ...
Here my memory fails me.. I am not sure what the other few permutations of the rat character were ... but it inspired me to draw a tiny cartoon of a rat wearing a rude boy suit... "SkaRat" was born.

I liked the idea.. and it stuck with me. I had no idea that it would come to take over most of my post highschool journal writing activites.

It became it's own thing, like a journal in code, or a story you tell yourself ..
in the end it became a novel like collection of writing. With illustrations, and lots of snippets of my popculture diet all wrapped up together.

Now... it is many years later... I have 200-300 pages of typewritten stuff.. 50 plus illustrations... and a plot structure that would make Joyce cringe...

And yet.. I can't seem to quite let go of it.
People really liked something about it.. I liked something about it... so here I go again

The plan is to post some pictures and text here..maybe some soundclips mixed into the background.. as a way to get some feedback..

Some questions..
Is it worth editing... will editing kill it? Should it be a macromedia multimedia production..?
It it just cheap nostalgia for the magic of selfindugent writing....
well that is what I am here for.

I have an idea of making a second life object with this material...
if only as a monument to the great selfindugent novels of our precollege years..
a cartoon book about a cartoon world imagined by a kid pretending to be a cartoon character.

Also...

I liked the uncensored, uncut.. unkempt holding nothing back feel of my writing back in the olden days... Enjoying it for it's own sake.

A friend once coined the word "spew" for journally / bloglike writing that holds nothing back.. the raw material .. written as if the audience did not exist....

I perhaps latched onto that idea a bit too much.. wrote like hell confident that it would take me somewhere worth going...

so be warned, posting this stuff is alot like posting old love letters, or that videotape of me drunkenly singing Pogues songs on the Saikyo line..

what was I thinking.. but before you log off...

let me tell you a little of the plot of this story.. written citra 1983-198?

Ska Rat is a story of the dialog between Reality and our Imaginations...

the main character is a generic guy "the student" who imagines a world that is cooler than his own. He populates it with some anthropomorphic animals who are too cool to be quite human.
More specificly SkaRat and his manic companion Fuzzy Bunny....

I think many will find that this story resonates with second life in many ways.
Many would just dismiss this writing as being about drugs, or just drug addled nonsense..
but the questions in the book were important to me once upon a time.
Who are these people on record jackets.. how much of this media world is in our minds...
how much of this world do we recreate anew... a collaboration of people who show up and take part.. each and everyday.

~~~

I belive that if something is worth doing, it can become the source of an obcession-
which can .. produce a focus, so intense..
that can blot out the rest of the universe..
and at the same time become your metaphor for everything else.

Well stay tuned for my prosepoem, spew, journal whatever you want to call it...
selfindugent or not.

I feel a little like the first time punk rock kid.. climbing up on stage.. about ready to go apeshit in public.. but not knowing how it is going to go over.

Well enough apologizing before I say anything.. I am going to start by posting the half written monstrosity .. as it is ...

I invite all comments and input.