Dinner For One, In the Dark

So you caught me thinking what shall I decide to wear at the end of time? All escatology aside, Enrico Fermi and his pair of weiner dogs (dachsand in German) would deduce that there were to be no guests. He had don his calculations specs and gathered the nearest cocktail napkin and stabbed it staccato with his mechanical pencil. He would wear the clothes he would wear when he was washing all his other clothes. I fancy Fermi wished he had a large array of wardrobes endlessly searching for his perfect suit.

But these one in a million things can be misleading. Consider this-If you live in the southern hemishphere, where I undertand that all pleasure arises from the left hand, you could put on some clothes and step out of your ranch styled bushwack thackshack and behold a mighty spectacle in the sky.

Stellar in its essence and confounding in it presence, this latest gift to the taxonomy of the heavens has a life so mysterious, we wonder if she, in our apparent infancy, may not be the one that delivers our churning cannablistic DNA farm into the kepler belt.

No one saw it coming.

Well actually Robert H McNaught, an astronmer from the underphere conjured it up with the sheer willpower of his comet creating cortex. Or maybe by having the stamina that it takes to become an astronomer Robert H McNaught was paid a star gazers wage to sit around all night in his fancy astro science lab coat and study years and years of photo plates to find what so many of his colleauges never would. A Fuckin New Comet.
I undertand that when he discovered the mighty snake of celestial ice he was wearing his standard astronomy attire-a fancy astro science lab coat.

But science is never pretty, that is why most people do it alone in lab coats.

But what about Comet Schumaker-Levy so many frustrated comet hunters must be thinking. Well yea Schu-Lev was cool. It was new and it had some violence to do, but it all ended up looking like someone throwing a rice crispy at a shirtless Fat Albert.

Somwhere along the other end of all this million to one odds lies the highly disputed theories of the actual apearance of modern culture in the Americas. Did they somehow, like so many other species pilot across the vast waters of the north atlantic on magical McDriftwood, fertile with impregnating info. Or will someday soon that plastic magic global warming reveal ancient pathways sliced through the arctic tectonic plates herding ice age refugees east and west across that most insomniac place on the globe. Never mind the controversies of Mr Ice Cool himself-Keniwick Man, and his arch enemies They who left thier spear in his back, the Clovis People.

But with science straining to listen to the future and religions arguing about the past, can we ever find our way in what appears to be the McNothing? Or can we expect some ark from afar sloshing petri-dishes on this comet raveged rock?

As Above So Below -Breakfast Special with Honor

Well now that the Chinese have demonstrated thier Big Wong in the form of some Satellite seppuku, hijacked right out of that pure white hot nova of the quintessential Reagan strato-fantasy, have you considered what you are going to eat when the hordes of the city folk (recently insane without thier precious satellites to guide and remember and connect them with thier normal lives, now ripped asunder amd wandering, whining like cortexless emotidrones) choose to desend upon your beautiful garden?
Well I am proud to announce that some determined meat researchers (Yeah Meat Researchers)are using the Black Magic of stem cells to grow the sweet yet sour pork. I like to think of these petri dish designers as some newfangled demiurge ceasley pushing and pandering and providing us with a sustainable life source that has all the hallmarks of an intelligent creator except that part were we kill other living beings to eat them. And Fuck yeah they're Dutch!

And finally in tonights post, I would like to comment on T.A. Winstons contribution in my comments section on the earlier post Mouth Swabs and the Feline Chapel were he so scooly upknowed me to This which in no way reminded me epicuraly of this meatball genie who, let me quote said "You are not a cannibal if you eat art," although his art was made with liposcutioned fat from his own self admittadly fat body.

I am soon overwrought with heavy spells of nausea and thermal dreams that leave me cold and sweaty and some how, through my own fog, reminded me of an other alternate food source that the lean and mean red china machine may be outdistancing us even now, as we eat the solar meat, that eats so neat from the carpets of green outside your satellite dependent panopticons.
And I tremble when I see the Manderin orchards of athanors reflecting wet Mao chrome incubating endless strands of DNA for strains of taste, protein, consistency, logrythmlicly generated to make use of the endless language that is The Rockin Music of life, and in a horrified splendor awesome with celluar architecture, I rapidly taste test the æons of life and yet I always wake up when i see my fellow man eat the petriogenesis of the large man from the valley of Neander.

Mouth Swabs and the Feline Chapel

How often do you ask yourself, Do I have what it takes to purchase beautiful art made from me or my pet's personal DNA sequence? Well ponder no more, or at least a little less because todays special sponsered link from Gmail happens to be a fancy little sight that goes by the ever proud little name of DNA Artistry and from what they claim, they know the art of science like Gunther Van Hagen knows the art of the long pause. Pet lovers, gods bless you, I can only wonder how you can continualy prove your unconditional love to those lesser forms of life, how you ceasley spare-change them the luxuries of a normal existence, the love and warmth of a medium sized suburban home, the food in a bowl, the litter boxes obstucting the path to the garage and your favorite magazine, maybe People, or Us of which you are trying to read for to them to lie upon. I may someday understand your obsession with accumulating a wealth of beasts who depend on you, in great numbers stare at you, in the afternoon lick you awake. I may find myself in a place where it is clear that a household of cats, and thier kittens, may provide some kind of clutter to fill the orchard of holes in that vast emptiness that is a soul, and I suspect that, time willing, I could find some understanding in living in a world of festering feline filth.
But I still have a bit of a problem with this DNA as art thing. First of all, how do I know that is my (or my cats) DNA?, As far as I know these guys (or gals) could be running some fancy alogrithym using G T A and what ever that other letter is (C?) to make random Art work that reminds me of Tetris with a directional blur. Whatever. And how do they determine what colour to make my painting (yes that was color from the olde english)? Pantene phenotype receptors? Listen DNA Artistry guys, my dog, Max, rest his soul, is fucking brown. Got that, Good because I dont want a Personal DNA sequenced piece of art if it doesen't match my dog-er couch. And if I do decide to make a personalized piece of art from my DNA sequence, I would prefer it to be in a landscape format. I forgot to tell you, I fancy myself a bit of a DNA artist myself but Marcel Duchamp already owns all that and a bandage from a head wound that looks like General George Washinton, IN BLOOD!

Where have you gone Guy de Maupassant?

Did you know that in January 1984, the year I was kicked out of my local high school, that Art The Garfunkel was plowing his way through James Joyce's Ulysses? Me either. But God-damnit if I Didn't find the proof. Here is a list of all the books that Art Garfunkel has read since 1968. Quite the well read Harmonizer we should all agree.

suicide bridge

Coincedence in the Incal World.
Oddly enough, recently new to me

Aether Naught

I have heard it said (much more eloquently than I can put it) that the above drawing may be my finest work . Evah. AHHH Memento mori.

Hot Licks - Extra Cheese

Of course I thought it prudient to start this sight off with a bit of shameless pandering to the masses in order to draw some hits to my sight. Naturally I thought of linking to that double neck weilding Guitar Hero Mr Pizza. I enjoy this little slice of genius for three reasons.
1. Pizza!
2. Guitar Hero
3. Clark Vogeler behind the camera*


*Clark is my brother and he can rock you some GH anyday.

Primordial Soup D'Jour

Bow down you post-modern pygmies - Sven's got a Blog! Now when you need your fill of over- opinionated and highly inaccurate bloviating this is the place. Expect much ballyhoo on incongruous themes ranging from ambiogenesis to the phantom limb. Also expect much ado about nuttiness from around the intertubes. You may also find, on occasion, humorous diatribes against the inanities of the modern world. Make note that you will see no sophistry whatsoever.