Dark, Creepy, Cute and Sweet!

By Ficcus Perdo

Do you know this guy?

His name's Frank.  He's a creepy (well, beyond creepy) bunny.  Should he scare you?  Probably.  You see, A: He's from the future.  B: He's asking you a question.  Rabbits don't talk.  Enough about ol' Frankie here.  On to the next one, shall we?

These guys are the band Sleep Party People. Yet again with the bunny thing going on!  They don't look as scary, but wait till you hear them.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFUzvbkEvRk

Now, you may be asking yourself, "What's with the rabbits?"

I, at the moment, am unable to sleep, am listening to the rain, and need to make my post deadline.

So, we've had dark and creepy, now onto cute!

Look at their lil' faces!

I've been saving that picture for a long time.  Knew it would come in handy.  And last, but not least, something sweet!

America's sweetheart!

And that's that!  My name is Ficcuss Perdo.  It's three something in the A.M., the neighbors are doing who knows what, but it's loud!  Godspeed to you all.  And yes, I do plan on getting back to my other works, I just needed a bit of a deviation.  Switch it up a little.  Ciao!

In Honor of Valentine's Day...

by GR3G0R

Let's get straight to the point - I hate you all.

You read that right. There wasn't a spelling mistake. I'm not drunk, and you aren't imagining things. And, yes, I mean all of you. Even you in the back, leaning against the wall with your hands in your pockets acting like you don't care. I'm sure you're telling yourself that I must mean everyone else. That I don't even know you, so there's no way that I could hate you. Well, I'm sorry to break it to you, but it's simple. I do.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let me explain a little.

Just like almost everyone who's walked the hallowed halls of our beloved school system, I bobbed and weaved my way through the scalpel-like precision of daily insults and a student body whose every word and action was a Chuck Norris roundhouse to the cracks in my self-esteem. Those places broke and grew stronger after they did, so I'm actually a little glad for it. I didn't get it as bad as some others, and ultimately all those years of enduring lunches spent in a stairwell reading instead of the cafeteria along with recess periods sitting on the swings while everyone else played soccer or basketball ended up making me the asshole that you all know and love. And I'm sure that none of you would want to change that.

I bring this up for one simple reason. Through all that teasing and derision, I got the impression that everyone - and I do mean everyone - was better than me. I figured if every stumble I made in the hallway and question I asked in class was so obviously a manifestation of my short-comings, then all of you must be out there effortlessly handling life and doing all the cool shit that I could only imagine.

So now, even though I know better, I just can't shake it. Somewhere in my head, just beyond where I can see you, you're all out there knowing way cooler stuff than I know, wearing better clothes, having smarter conversations, and even fucking prettier women. That idea stuck and grew under my skin like a slow-moving fungus.

And, all in all, this wouldn't be so much of an issue if it were actually fucking true.

See, I keep getting smacked in the face with the facts. You’re not going to the cool parties and turning down the best drugs. You aren’t talking philosophy and literary theory with that really cute looking guy who comes into the bar just to see how damaged you are at the end of a shift. Hell, there isn’t even a single one of you sneaking backstage with the local groupies to give or get a blowjob while leaning back against the business end of a puke-filled urinal.

So where are those people? Did I just imagine them? Are they my Easter Bunny? My LA Clippers Championship trophy? My Cask of Amontillado?

Short answer…yes. You’ve infused me with this idea that I’m not living up to some absurd standard that you had little-to-nothing to do with. Yes, the worst part is that you didn’t actually create that standard, you just implied it like a fictional character does with the portions that the author doesn't actually write. No reason to write the part of Gatsby’s life where he’s hungover from drinking himself to sleep while everyone else parties in his massive house. No need to tell us that Holden Caulfield grows up to resign himself to a wife that’s barely hot and doesn’t like it from behind. We get what we get and the rest is put together from those small pieces.

So, once more for the cheap seats: I hate you all. Not because you're living gloriously exciting lives, but because you're not. All this time, I thought you were doing all the cool shit while, really, you were just living your lives in a very normal, boring way. The way I've been doing. The way everyone does it.

And now, now that I'm finished with using you all as a measure for all the things I'm not, I plan to finally do all the things I imagined you doing as soon as you left my presence. Well, some of them anyway. And I think you should too.

I say get out there and fart in front of the cute girl down the hall. Put on your best frock and fall down in a bar packed-full of popped collars. Puke on your way to the bathroom instead of making it inside. Hell, stir your beer with your dong if it makes you feel good (as long as it’s your beer, not mine). They'd all make a far better story than doing as little as you can in order to ensure that tomorrow is as much like today as possible.

Besides, don't you think you owe it to me after all these years I thought that's what you were doing anyway?

Sounding Base Cable

by Alexander Lee

I'm a violinist with a problem.  The problem is, I'm a violinist.  So much of my relationship with music throughout life has been spent focused--somewhat obsessively--on violin playing that I've neglected to listen to and study entire genres and sub-genres of music (which, thankfully, have been patiently waiting for me).

Well, in recent months, I've found myself in desperate search of new music to stimulate my tired brain.  Like a junkie always looking to relive the experience of that first high, I've been seeking music that would set off my endorphins in the same thrilling way I first experienced listening to music that pushed the limits of what can be played on the violin.  After deciding I was ready to take the plunge, I started perusing the astounding library of YouTube videos that now exist for all to explore on the Interwebs.

While much of the modern world has been busy shuffling their I-Pods and picking out their favorite Pandora stations, I've been delighting in creating my own YouTube play-lists of varying types of music.  This satisfies my need for control over the DJ booth while also satiating my cravings for new sounds.  What I've found I could not resist sharing with you, my anxious and eager reader.  I present a random sampling of five of my favorite YouTube discoveries which have gotten me through the winter so far.    

Miles Davis Quintet - It Could Happen To You

Relax while you get started on those taxes. 

   

DJ Spooky - Asphalt (Tome II)

Urban Sound-scape.  Mild profanity.  Groovy track.  Go!

The Lovin' Spoonful/John Sebastian - Coconut Grove

Great 60's songwriting.  Fall asleep in a hammock. 

 Krzysztof Penderecki - Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima

You may recognize these frightening sounds from Stanley Kubrick's The Shining or Alfonso Cuaron's film Children of Men.

Arvo Pärt - Spiegel im Spiegel (Mirror in Mirror)

Ponder the cosmos.

 

What Happened to Common Sense!?

By Ficcus Perdo

My name is Ficcus Perdo, and these are my opinions.  I'm not a whiny journalist, but after having to beat 2010 out the door with a broom handle....  2011, I must say you have not done much better.

My question to the world is: What happened to common sense?  Social norms have changed, for we as a people--as a whole--have changed.  Me personally, I'm totally into all this new technology; the internet, stem-cell research and whatever else a bunch of freaks and geeks in a room, with enough time on their hands, can come up with.  I love it all.  I also love people.  I'm a human first.  If you're human (and probably if you're not), we can hang out.  What I don't have any affection for is “stupid.” 

I remember as a child I was taught--or instilled, if you prefer--with certain "Rules O'Life," or guidelines that to this day still help me out.  Here are a few:


Don't talk to strangers.
Look both ways before you cross the street.
Lock up behind you.

Be aware and mindful of others.

Now, to anyone reading this who is like, "Well, no shit!"  To you, Sir or Madame, I say, “ Thank you.” You have common sense enough to know that this article is not directed to you.  Maybe you have children and have furthered these teachings unto them.   Maybe by trial and error you have made it this far by acknowledging the fact that we all make mistakes, so let's learn from them. 

To those of you who are reading this saying, "This is getting good, he's really onto something here," to you I say, “BOOOO!  Get out of my way.  Just go sit in that corner until your name is called for further instruction.  You need someone to hold your hand and walk you through life, stupid!" So, here we go!

First: Don't talk to strangers.  A stranger is anyone you don't know.  You may want to know them, but that is not always a mutual feeling.  If I'm sitting at a bar, watching the TV, there could be any thing on it , news, a game, whatever.  Feel free to make a comment or two, but do not think that this is going to make us best buds.  No, I don't care who your favorite team is.  I may not even like sports.  Point is, if you don't wanna run the risk of getting upset, keep your mouth shut.  If you're adventurous, go for it, but don't be mad at the end result to which you were the catalyst.

Next, we got those people who forget that traffic may be going only one way on a street but pedestrians go all ways.  The number of times that I have almost been hit by someone trying to make a quick turn and is only looking into on-coming traffic sickens me.  Now I just stare until they look me in the eye.  Usually catches them off guard them.  They nod.  I nod.  Then I cross.  I'm not trying to be a dick, I just don't need to get hit by a dumb-ass.  What if I was a kid?

As we all are beginning to see that these rules are all so very simple and are in fact quite handy, I now bring up the third point.  Lock up behind yourself.  If you're in a public bathroom, lock the door.  Lock it!  I've reluctantly seen more people pissing than I care to remember.  Almost saw a dude taking a shit.  A shit!  Why would you not lock the door to take a poop?  I lock the bathroom door in my own house. Saves both sides of the door embarrassment. You lock up before you go to sleep at night, right?  Please be courteous to the rest of humanity. If you want your privates on exhibition, go to a nude beach, or become a porn star.  They will still get mad at you if you don't lock the door, though.

And finally, at what I'm sure is the end of your attention span, we come to being mindful of your surroundings and those around you.  If someone is to close to you, get the fuck away.  You don't know if they are just overly personable, or crazy.  Just move and let them be on there way.  Ever been at a party and there is someone standing in the way?  Notice how they just won't move.  That's because they aren't aware of what's going on.  You're not planted in one position.  Make room for others, and they will make room for you.  Also, and lastly, know how to get out.  Know at all times where you are and how to get somewhere safe. You don't have to go home, but if anything goes wrong--and in most large, social settings, they will--have a back-up plan and know how and when to use it.  People are funny.  Just don't let the joke be on you!

Now, take this “crash course” in common sense with you out into the world and see if you now notice how so many are lacking in it.  You are now the teacher!

Don't let me down.

Riff-Raff: The Untold Story

by GR3G0R

Lately, I've been watching a lot of strange television.  And enjoying it.  In fact, it may have gone a little too far.  Like when you realize you need a porn-reset.

At the point when you've seen so much internet porn that without even realizing it, you've gotten a little bored with the usual stuff (blow jobs, reverse cowgirl, swing sex).  Before you know it, you've moved on to watching midgets dressed as superheroes doing it to each other with inanimate objects or enjoying the two girls who do distressing things with a single cup.  And when you find yourself considering whether the quadruple amputee you're watching really has much of a choice about their entry into the porn-industry, you realize that there's a serious problem.  To solve it, you pick up a copy of the Victoria's Secret or Sears catalog and hit the porn-reset button.

Maybe that's what I need to do with television.  Because for the past few months, I've been watching Heathcliff each morning at 7am on ThisTv.

Episode after episode, something has bothered me.  It's not that Heathcliff seems to have a bad case of paraphilic infantilism and is willing to be dressed as a baby and pushed around in a stroller.  It's not even that Heathcliff compensates for this by beating up anyone who dares to laugh at him and ruling the neighborhood with an iron fist.

No, it's not even Heathcliff at all.  It's Riff-Raff.

Riff-Raff: That Other Cat

Who is this cat?  Where did he come from?  Why does he live in a junkyard?  Who made that Cadillac that transforms into a boat, etc.?  Is he some sort of Bruce Wayne cat?

Well, after a bit of internet-digging, I've found the answers.  Most of them anyway.  Riff-Raff, like Oprah, has gone to some extreme lengths to keep the people around him from talking.  Thankfully, with the additional help of Hector (his second in command), the following can finally be revealed.

Riff-Raff was born to a wealthy family on Westfinster's south side.  The family had taken in his mother without knowing that she was pregnant.  While they did not want to be identified (for fear that Riff-Raff may try to squeeze some support money from them), the family told me they simply could not support the entire litter and risk becoming referred to as "that cat family" in their gated community.  The decision was made to give the kittens away, but each with a parting gift.  See, cats are hard to give away in Westfinster, so the wealthy family gave the adopting families a small token to sweeten the deal.  The little Riff-Raff was boxed up with an old ball-topped cane that once belonged to the family's patriarch.  Riff-Raff still holds this cane as a reminder of his upper-class roots.

So before Riff-Raff was 6 months old, he was bestowed to a local lower middle-class family where he lived happily for the next two years.  The mother of the house would feed him store-bought kibbles in the morning and the occasional scrap of fish from dinner in the evenings.  The father mostly ignored him.  But little Billy was Riff-Raff's main friend.  Sadly, Riff-Raff was little Billy's main friend as well.  The two played for hours in Billy's room.  Billy would build a Lego city and Riff-Raff would crash through it playfully.  Riff-Raff would run around the room and hide under the bed, waiting for Billy to find him. Once, when Billy had finally given up on trying to find him, Riff-Raff emerged from under the bed having slipped into one of Billy's old floppy hats.  A hat he still wears to this day.

This happiness wasn't destined to last though.  When Billy was 9, he caught a cold and died.  The family saw Riff-Raff as a symbol of their lost son and sought a way to escape that pain.  One day, they took a drive.  When they pulled up in front of the junkyard, Riff-Raff thought little of it.  The place looked interesting enough.  But then, the loving mother got out of the car and let little Riff-Raff out of the back seat.  She stood over him with watery eyes and placed a small, blue scarf around his neck.  "Don't catch cold," she said.  And as the family drove away, a sudden, frigid loneliness fell upon Riff-Raff. After a few moments of reflection, he strolled into the junkyard, determined to make a new life for himself and any other abandoned cats he encountered.

The Catillac Cats

Riff-Raff continues to out-reach his grasp by plotting outrageous "get rich quick" schemes in order to one day re-enter the elite ranks from which he comes. Just like you and your internet porn addiction, Riff-Raff finds himself pressing the bounds of reason to fulfill his desire.  Maybe one day, he'll finally realize that Mungo, Wordsworth, Hector, and Cleo are enough, and he'll stop trying to outdo himself to get back something that he had all along. Happiness.