Demagogue's Soliloquy

On the train...

2007-02-24T10:23:00.000-08:00

Ok, dig this if you can dig it. I was moving through the subterranean arteries of the Big Apple via the ever vigilant and always reliable iron horse. You know what I'm saying right? I was riding the train. I had a meeting, the business type, in upper Manhattan. Way upper actually. Took the 7 to the 6 to the stop to get there and meant to make the same trip home in reverse. It wasn't to be that day, however, because someone decided to start a fire beneath the Gotham streets henceforth making the first leg of my journey home an impossibility along that particular artery. Never fear though, I walked a few blocks in one of the compass directions and found another line to get me home. I cought a 1 or a 9 and headed south for a spell and found my way back to the 7. In the car and sitting across from me was a trio of rather attractive women to whom I gave a passing glance, noted their aesthetics and continued to read the tome I had with me at that time ( a rather large book about the Civil War, if you were interested). So I'm sitting there, right, making all scholarly and I get the feeling to look up. Low and behold a member of that previously mentioned trio was staring at me. Or at least I though she was. I continued to read my volume and figured I'd check for the spectator once more. That I did and spectator I found. She was drilling into my skull with her eyes and not in that "you sir are an oddity" kind of way either. It was more of a "i'd like to taste you" kind of way. Fancy that. Anyway, as I had been sitting for most of the day I decided to get up and lean on one of the poles. I kept reading, the train kept moving and low and behold she kept staring. So i'm buried in my book when we come to the next stop. I heard the doors open and then a few seconds later I heard the door begin to close. With the sound of shutting doors came the sound of my spectator's friends, from outside of the train. She was so focused on me that she didn't notice that her friends had abandoned her. Unfortunately, she wasn't quick enough to get off the train. So, maybe you're wondering now if I tried to get her number or even spoke to her? No, I just kept reading. Maybe next time.

The Rock or How I got chased by apes in Spain.

2007-01-16T10:34:00.000-08:00

A few years ago my brother and I travelled to Spain. It was in that strange time after September 11th when you could leave the country but only after running a gauntlet replete with men armed with machine guns and security agents demanding that you remove entirely too many articles of clothing. It was more surreal than discomfiting and camouflaged people with automatic weapons didn't make me feel any more secure. At any rate, after the gauntlet and an aeroplane ride we arrived safely.

Southern Spain isn't exactly jumping in January but we had a car, a map and nothing better to do than to drive around a bit. And drive we did. Right to a place called Gibraltar; a little coastal town where the main road goes right through the airport, the people are half British/half Spaniard and towering above, visible from everywhere is a small mountain reasonably named the Rock of Gibraltar. Sometimes called the Pillar of Hercules it served as a fortress for the British against the Spanish in the 1700's and for the Allies against the Axis in the 1900's. It's big, it's beautiful and if you can get to the top on a clear day you can see right across to Africa.

It happened to be a clear day when we went up the rock and were subsequently chased off of it. After buying some provisions we took a gondola to the top and found the highest point which happened to be the roof of a small nondescript building which had a snack bar and some coin operated binoculars. After taking some pictures and gazing out across the Mediterranean my brother and I decided to have some of the chocolate we had bought earlier. Unfortunately, my brother didn't get to taste his as it was stolen by a three foot tall furry primate. Forgive me, I didn't tell you about the primates. The top of the Rock of Gibraltar is inhabited by a small population of Barbary Macaques known locally as Gibraltar Rock Apes. They mind their business and aren't so aloof as not to allow the occasional photo op. Here's how my brother lost his candy.

We were standing near the edge of the roof, over by the binoculars. My brother began to open his candy and the sound of the foil wrapping got the attention of a near by ape. The ape sprang off the steps he was sitting on and began running toward my brother and I. Being the first time either of us had a wild animal running in our direction we made like deers in headlights. The fear of being mauled or eaten by this heretofore pleasant creature was shortly relieved, however. The beast, when he got near to us, leaped into the air snatching my brothers treat and landed on the ledge to enjoy it in front of us. My brother was fuming and mumbling something about pushing the ape off the ledge. I couldn't really respond seeing as I was laughing so hard I could hardly breath.

After leaving the building we turned around to see the rock apes that lined the roof top. My brother was a bit mad, what with being mugged by an ape and all, so I, being the thoughtful older brother came up with an idea for some retribution. The apes were on top of the building which was about three stories high. The side of the building was sheer and seemingly impossible to climb down even for a monkey so I figured I could wave my chocolate at the apes and crumple the foil wrapper to mock them. They would never be able to get us. With chocolate in hand I did mock. For my brother and everyone else who had been accosted by a Rock Ape. The apes heard my chocolate insult, however, and responded.

Slowly they turned their attention towards us and one by one made their move. They ran down the wall. That wall, that sheer un-descendable wall was the keystone of my master plan and they defeated it. Before we knew it we were running from about fifteen chocolate hungry primates. Though a mess of uncontrollable laughter and fear of ape bite we were able to pull each other and ran as fast as we could. I don't know how far we ran or for how long but the beasties eventually gave up the chase. My brother and I continued and walked all the way to our car which was parked at the base of the rock. It was a long walk but we had chocolate for sustenance. That's right, I never let it go. Those apes would have had to catch me and kill me for my Cadbury's.

Sorry for the delay...

2007-01-10T08:42:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time,
I shouldn't have left you
Without a strong rhyme to step to
Think of how many weak shows you slept through
Time's up, I'm sorry I kept you
- Rakim

New Posts Coming Soon......

Almost 500 Words....

2006-12-04T14:51:00.000-08:00

Some flash-fiction I wrote in the cube...

Three roommates had just pooled their funds to buy a brand new Magnavox 500 AM/FM hi-fi receiver for their small lower east side apartment. The place was a four story walk up in a decent neighborhood that had a new Frigidaire and a gas range. As modern conveniences went the radio was a needed addition and it was a wondrous bit of technology. It was beautiful with a mahogany finish, beige speakers and onyx colored knobs for volume, tuning, loudness and bass/treble. The quick talking salesman at P.C. Richard and Son had assured them that the set would pick up NBC, CBS and even Dupont and that due to the quality and clarity if they listened to broadcasts from Radio City they’d think Glenn Miller and his band was right in the parlor with them. When they got it home the three had compromised on what program they would listen to first. The Jack Benny program was a favorite but so was The Shadow and X-minus One and of course they all aired at the same time. So, following a completely scientific method of elimination utilizing a rock, paper and scissors the three choices of comedy, detective story and science fiction were reduced to one. The three would sit and enjoy Jack Benny’s comedic styling on the National Broadcast Company’s station. Though two out of three roommates had not chosen Mr. Benny’s program they did admit that it would be a well received break from reality. What with the Japs bombing Pearl and the Krout’s making like Genghis Khan all over Europe a bit of comedy was necessary. When Jack Benny came on the three sat around the radio lounging in cheap folding chairs, each man with a lit Lucky Strike and a bottle of Miller High Life. They laughed at the antics all the while making side comments to each other until suddenly the show was interrupted by a high pitched chime like sound. The roommates looked at each other and one turned the radio off. The chime sounded again just as the tallest of them went to the kitchen and retrieved a leather attaché case. They huddled around as he opened the bag, pulled a black rectangular object from inside and placed it on the coffee table. He pressed a small button to open it as one of the men made a comment about Sony making cheap laptops and Toshiba being more suited to this manner of work. When the system booted and passwords were entered their assignment popped up on the screen. The general consensus after reading the document was that the mission was a whopper, they’d discuss it after Jack Benny and a few more Miller’s and that beyond the shadow of a doubt time travel was never without a dull moment.

Another misadventure...

2006-11-11T20:25:00.000-08:00

Bored and come to vist me again? I appreciate that. Well, since you're here I'd better regail you with a strange tale from the annals of my misadventures. A few years ago I was a waiter, a culinary recommendation specialist if you will. You won't? I understand. Early in a shift one evening I arrived at one of my tables to find a polite middle aged couple in the mood for some vittles. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary, that is, until the fairer component of the duo proceeded to make a request, a request for plastic utensils. Why? She requested plastic utensils because she was allergic to metal, so allergic in fact that any contact could kill her. Of course, after she said that I did exactly what you would have done; I hit her with a barrage of questions. I gathered that the lady wore gloves to protect her hands, drove a custom car that was devoid of metal and lived in a house with not a single alloy to offend her. Nothing too strange, right? Just a lady who sat in a long black trench coat, wore white gloves and humbly requested a dining experience sans metal. Who cares that she reminded me of a comic book super villain? Just a normal person with a peculiar ailment right? Wrong. Here's were it got just plain weird. When it was time to deal with the damage the woman paid me in brand new, crisp and clean $2 bills. That's a true story.

A Quote from the Cube Farm...

2006-10-11T16:14:00.000-07:00

It was a stressful day for your favorite demagogue. I managed, through a complex bit of ball dropping, to lose $21000 of my company's money. The tongue lashing that one expects after such a bungle was nowhere to be found so for that I feel blessed. However, though not chewed out, I still felt a bit off kilter after the morning's events so I decided to partake in that more dangerous of stress relievers, the Camel light. A colleague of mine, the only one who smokes "real" cigarettes (as in, not menthol) was good enough to give me the aforementioned tightly wrapped carcinogen. As we smoked under the dreary late morning sky we spoke of his pending wedding that is but a scant nine days from now and in the direction that conversations between men about nuptials tend inevitably to go, we began to joke about possible pre-vow dalliances. Naturally my colleague has a candidate for such a dalliance. She is fair and pretty, gentle and sweet and is, to quote the vernacular, wife material. After laughing about the possibilities we both agreed that to stray sounds like fun but is, in essence, opening Pandora's box. At this point, my soon to be betrothed fellow cubicle dweller referred to an enjoyable experience that could prove dangerous in the following manner:

"...it's like having a shotgun in my mouth, but I like the taste of the metal."

We are Sisyphus...

2006-07-27T16:54:00.000-07:00

I work in a cubicle. I work in a cubicle and I perform mundane Sisyphean tasks all the live long day. Now when you read about Sisyphus you realize that he was a cruel king who when cursed to everlasting damnation in the afterlife was forced to roll a boulder up a hill just to have it roll back down again for eternity. Granted, my cubicle isn't exactly Hades. There are people to talk to and I get a break from time to time but I can't help but make the connection based on my daily work load. No need to bore you with what it is that I do because you are well aware. It's a cubicle job with all the basic fixings complete with a boss who extends obligatory greetings and is the bane of everyone's existence. He's the kind of guy who comes to every cube in the morning to say hello and actually takes offense if we don't say goodnight in the evening. That would be fine normally, however, in this situation the rank and file employee knows that the goodmornings are just his way of taking attendance and the goodnights are necessary boosts to his extremely fragile ego. We have to make due though. It's a cubicle farm and he's Ol' McDonald.

There are two types of people that spend the majority of their waking hours on the farm. Those too young to be there and those too old to leave. I am of the former and hopefully never will be of the latter. I feel strongly about this. If you are under thirty and sans offspring, spouse, and or mortgage then you shouldn't be in a cubicle. There is entirely too much life still coursing through one's veins to be wasted in the manipulation of documents. This is not to imply that those older cubicleians with the aforementioned entrees on their proverbial plates are without vitality but they no longer have that ability to just up and go. Those of us that can survive a career switch should do so post haste. Why, you ask? Listen, it may be a living but it's a crappy life.

Working in that little 6x6 box is like playing some sort of poorly thought out video game wherein the hero doesn't do anything but his power depletes a little bit each day until he's done. The strangest thing about the job is that no matter how chipper and full of vim and vigor I am on the way to work, the moment I cross my office building's threshold I'm drained. At first I didn't understand why, but I now know it's a function of taking my place in a large machine that seems to crank away from 8 to 5 with a one hour respite and produce next to nothing. Do you know what it reminds me of? It reminds me of one of those Rube Goldberg machines.....

Simple...

2006-07-24T15:24:00.000-07:00

I have always been attracted to antiques and the way things were done in the past. For instance, I shave with a straight razor. I lather up with the beaver hair brush and ever so gently run the blade across my cheek with a mind to have a baby soft face. I play LPs, that's right vinyl, on my phonograph. Granted, it's a new fangled doohickey with a CD player and cassette deck but that doesn't take away from the joy I get from hearing that initial crackle of needle meeting wax. Things somehow sound better on a device which you can't dance around for fear of making your favorite song skip. Tobacco is preferable from a well broken in pipe and time seems somehow more precise when I click open my pocket watch. The golden age of radio stirs my imagination even though it's coming to me live from nowhere via satellite radio. Film for my antique cameras is nearly impossible to find but when I come accross it I'll take some nice shots with my grandfather's old Kodak Brownie or my uncle's Argus 8mm he used in the Korean War.

Coming Soon...

2006-06-26T20:14:00.000-07:00

To all who may take a gander at this humble page, there is more to come.
I promise....

Still...

2006-04-28T16:45:00.000-07:00

Stand very still
And watch her walk by
A bird’s perfect feather falling
On to a busy street
That flies back skyward
Amidst millions of foot falls
Stand very still
And watch her walk by
Like melted chocolate
Drizzled on hot cake
Not the decadent morsel
But that which makes you
Lick your lips
Stand very still
And watch her walk by
A sweet cabernet
Into the emptiness
Of the glass
Enhancing its smooth curve
Inviting you to drink
Yet you admire
And remain thirsty
Stand very still
And watch her walk by
The honey that
With the milk
Makes it that much sweeter
In the paradise we seek
Stand very still
And watch her walk by
A dream that once had
Awakens you
And in your longing to not forget
Compels you to
Stand very still…

Earth Day Rant

2006-04-22T20:12:00.000-07:00

I’m smoking a cigar right now, a Bolivar to be exact. Cigars are wonderfully therapeutic but murder on the physiology. So as I poison myself with one of my favorite vices, the other being alcohol, I begin my Earth Day rant. Why do we insist on feigning ignorance in the face of the blatantly obvious? An earthquake here, a tsunami there, a catastrophic hurricane down yonder and God knows what else. We’ve gone from Global Warming to Global Dimming and while the scientists warn of an inevitable point of no return the politicians offer half hearted proposals and possible plans for change. I am a bit concerned you see because the majority of us are moving ahead with a casual, business as usual, state of mind. It’s almost like we have a fiftiesesque view of the future where soon humanity will be able to go to colonies in space to escape the planet we are killing. The unfortunate truth is that there is no Lunar Base Alpha or Space Station Bravo. When the planet is unlivable we’ll be faced with a vast Check Point Charlie through which there won’t be any escape to a better life or a brighter future. There are hybrid cars but we drive SUVs. Solar power is feasible but there’s talk about more nuclear power plants. We could use less but just use more knowing good and well that soon enough there will be none. Our house is burning down and we are trying not to notice while concurrently hoping someone, anyone, extinguishes the flames. I’m not standing on a soap box yelling in a vitriolic tone. I’m standing with everyone else acting like everything is ok because the worst part of my rant is that it amounts to hypocrisy. I spent this Earth Day driving my big American car with a tank half full of petrol I bought at over three bucks a gallon.

Untitled

2006-04-18T12:09:00.000-07:00

I’m your regular, average, not very exciting,
College educated, cubicle dwelling nobody:
But not really.
In actuality, I’m a not so regular, above average,
Fairly exciting person with an over active imagination,
Full with imagery of, well, stuff…
And I continue to find a living in this corporate world,
That suits me,
But really doesn’t.
Maybe I suit it, with my big words and manipulation of them.
So I try to make more money in new and more
Fitting, but still corporate environs.
And I sit in the meetings with my pressed shirt, my
Matching tie and cuff links
And I think to myself that no one there,
No one will ever understand what goes on in my head.
And damn, I thought my phone was on vibrate,
But it wasn’t and now everyone is staring at me.
I scurry to turn it off and silence the strange song that is my ringer
And I look at the man sitting behind me.
He didn’t mind my phone and its wailing.
He just nods knowingly and says,
La Boheme.

A Misadventure revisited

2006-04-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

I’m your regular, average, not very exciting,
College educated, cubicle dwelling nobody;
But not really.
In actuality, I’m a not so regular, above average,
Fairly exciting person with an over active imagination,
Full with imagery of, well, stuff…
And don’t tell anybody
But I sell houses too.
Now for clarity I tell you,
I’m a dark fella
Bloodline from the ole dark land
A Diasporan, I made that word up,
But you get me, I’m black.
So out where the other folks live
I was out trying to show a house,
In my new car
In my best clothes
In my prettiest smile, white teeth
And smooth skin, dark brown,
A bit reddish.
Standing by my shiny new motorized conveyance
Breathing that clean crisp air.
No one around.
I liked the houses,
Out where the other folks live.
So solitary, with no one around.
But all at once I had company
Friends I was expecting
Three cars worth,
All with initials ending with the letters PD.
And I smiled at the first officer,
Gave a firm handshake and
A business card and
With a smile I said,
“I knew you I would see you eventually.”

A Little Bird

2006-04-13T14:36:00.000-07:00

While driving to work this morning I stopped at a red light. I was right at the crosswalk and I could see directly in front me a bit of litter that turned out to be a flattened cupcake wrapper. You know, the kind that you peel off the bottom so you can eat the less interesting part? Well this little bird hopped on and began to peck at the scraps and if I could guess I would think he was pretty content being the only little bird around and not having to share any cupcake. When the light turned green I began to roll toward him and he looked up at me. Birds don't have very readable faces but I believe he was daring me. The bird seemed indignant that I was going to come between him and his cupcake and he meant to hold his ground. The way his head was tilted up appeared as if he was looking down his beak at me in defiance. I continued to move and he continued to stare. However, at the critical moment he took flight. I guess some fights are best left unsought. Lil bird vs. two ton miracle of American ingenuity wouldn't have been much of a contest. I don't think lil bird would have had a chance.

A Paradigm Shift

2006-04-12T18:31:00.000-07:00

I was watching a movie and one of the guys in the scene made reference to his age group being the coffee and cigarettes generation while those before were the coffee and pie generation. So I thought to myself, what generation do I belong to? Well, I imagine I am of the soy latte with splenda and keep-that-cigarette-away-from-me generation but I'm not thinking gastronomically right now. If there is a proper name for my contemporaries, us knocking on thirty but not yet there, then I think it must be the Rich Dad Poor Dad generation. Did you read that book? It’s the one where Poor Dad advised that his son go to school and get a secure job while Rich Dad taught that one shouldn't let fear of poverty and desire for obsessions trap them in a low paying unfulfilling job. When I take a look around today I notice that the majority of people I meet that decided to move away from that traditional paradigm of going to school and getting a secure job are generally better off. They have more money, they have more time and they seem much happier. Those of us who have the degrees (“the ole sheepskin” in the words of a gentleman I once met) seem to be in some sort of trap. We’re short on money and we have no time. As to happiness, we seem to be dreaming of the day when some manner of fulfillment will manifest. I believe that what we are witnessing is something of a paradigm shift where more people are deciding to strike out on their own and make their own mark on the economy without the perceived security of the degree to fall back on. They take the fear of poverty and turn it into a kind of fuel that drives them toward economic security while the others use that same fear as an excuse to remain content in their cubicle amidst endless piles of paperwork that have no meaning doing a job that has no bearing.

Another Misadventure of KCED

2006-04-10T20:19:00.000-07:00

Listen to this fantastical bit of truth. Unbeknownist to but a handful of people I am a realtor. Part of my job is showing houses to people. So, a week or so ago, I was showing a house in one of your fairer complected areas of long island, new york. I had a brand new car, a clean shaven face and my spiffiest of clothes on. While waiting paitently for my buyer to materialize I was met by not one, not two, but three (three!) squad cars all representing that particular fair complected onclave. I greeted the officers with firm handshakes, business cards and my telling them, "I knew you would get here eventually."
The other part of my job is trying to convince people to sell their home through me. The day after my encounter with the long island coppers I was marketing in my own neighborhood. The quaint burg where I had spent my formative years and needless to say, in the words of Ray Nagin, a "Chocolate City." As I walked the calm streets I met eyes with two local urchin who took it upon themselves to attempt to rob me. Thankfully they were unsuccesful.
It was in this fashion that I passed two days as a realtor.

The Misadventures of KCED or You just can't make this stuff up...

2006-04-10T20:12:00.000-07:00

When I was thirteen I spent my after school hours at a comic book store, the name of which eludes me at this time. It was a quaint place with lots of neat rows with the most recent comics displayed against the wall and up where the walls met flush with the ceiling there were collectors items on display with price tags out of reach of the meager amount of coin I had on my person. The proprietor of the establishment was an Irish expatriate named Andre who at the time had the reddest hair I'd ever seen and the thickest brogue I'd ever heard. He was a humble man, a pleasant man and to hear him tell it the positively poorest purveyor of pulp periodicals. This man cried poverty so much that I was ashamed of my inability to buy more from him. He understood though. After all, I was just a kid. Months went by and I visited that store and Andre and I talked comics and of course he would sing his sad song of having one foot in his shop and the other in a debtor's prison. This went on until one day after school I went to the shop and found it closed. I shrugged it off thinking that he had just taken a vacation and I walked home. A couple of days later my mother showed me an article in the paper that she thought I would find interesting. The headline was something silly like "Brinks bandits busted" and when I read that article I was stunned to find out that my friend Andre was actually an IRA member by the name of Samuel Ignatius Millar who had, with the help of two of his countrymen, robbed a Brinks armored car for a few million dollars. Needless to say I lost my favorite comic book store and I never again spoke to the poor Irish fellow named Andre who in reality wasn't named Andre and wasn't even poor...