Terminus: Little Five Points

Mother F@#$ing Angel Y'all!
March 18th, 2007
~Rob M.

Perceptive readers of my blog (all five of you) will recognize that this tag is an homage to none other than Count Dante, "Patriarch and Supreme Grand-Past-Master of the Black Dragon Fighting Society" and "deadliest man alive". That's no small boast when you keep in mind that this was way back in the early 70's, a time when every man in the United States was obligated to have a moustache, a blackbelt, a coke habit and at least one ABBA album in the their record collection!

Ahhh to be a kid again, when an issue of Conan the Barbarian cost 15 cents and offered you the chance to have a Charles Atlas body and the secrets of Dim Mak ('the Death Touch') were only a stamp away.



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A Hard Days Night of the Living Dead!

Thanks mlfoley I really needed this! Now if only I could stop coughing when I laughed.

Terminus: Little Five Points

Artifical Memories

( The shot in context )

Who?

It took me a few times to do this. The facial recognition software kept computing that I looked like "Hell"(73%), "Shit"(62%) and "Death (warmed over)"(62%), which really upset me because those aren't celebrities per say, but rather a series of insulting nouns.

I had no idea who Fabio Cannavero was until I wikied him. An Italian Soccer player apparently. Ciao Francesica!...*blows kiss from back of Vespa Eddie Izzard style* Well as a lot of you know by now, I do still get people coming off the streets who say I look a lot like the Notorious B.I.G, it's kind of embarassing really, getting all that random adoration (not to mention assasination attempts from the West Coast Jack Babalon). Anthony Keidis? Wow, I wish. Actually before male pattern baldness took it's toll on me, I had very curly hair and had I dyed it blond (and worked out a lot) I could've pulled off Flea. While I don't see the Duvall resemblance, i've been told that I remind people of Bo Radley. Cleese is the one person on here that makes me do a little happy dance. Hey it's a fifty-fifty chance, but with the right lights and if you're drunk enough, I could pass for the second funniest man on the planet (Bill Murray still holds the number 1 spot for me). Brian Jones, wow, right on. I don't expect a lot of you to know who he is, but as long as I stay away from unattended pools and Mick Jagger I should be alright. Rene Zellweger is an odd one, mainly because her role as Bridget Jones cemented her as my number one crush of all time... now it seems a little narcissitic.

Well anyway, these resemblances are just off this one photo, so who knows who I really look like.

The One Lie

She can't sleep, which means i'm not allowed to.

"What?" I say as if she had just asked a question I could not answer.

"You know there is one lie that even the most noble, the most honest of any parent will eventually have to tell their child."

"Yeah and what would that be... that they love 'em?" I get a light smack in the arm for that one.

She pulls herself out of the tide of blanket, sits upright, snorts out a frustrated sigh. I can hear her fingers skitter and tap a blind salvage across the night table. Metallic sparks light up an arc around her face. Then the glow of a cherry floating there, the embers of a dying sun weaving around oblivion. I bury my face back in the pillows, trying to burrow my way down the softness back into the tunnel of dream.

I toss.

I turn.

I twist.

I flip on my belly. I flip back on my back.

"Well?" I demand finally.

She snorts a sad little laugh.

"'Well' what?" the stoicism savored as much as the smoke.

"What is the one lie?"

"That all parents will... no, must tell their children that they are terrible liars."

I'm a bit slow on a good day and this has been one long night as it is. I work it out in my head. I say it aloud to make sure I got it right.

"You mean the one lie is that their kids can't lie?"

"Obviously."

"Something you're trying to tell me?"

"... no."

"That's convincing."

"Not now. C'mon get some rest, Honey." She leans over and kisses my forehead, stamps out the dying sun of a smoke in a blackhole of an ashtray. Drifts down into my arms. Not a word. Both of us desperately pretending we're not awake.