In this modern day, it is difficult for the “pathless” (that’s you and me) to find respectable oracles that might offer either prophetic insight or incomprehensible mush to pathify our directionless lives. Telephone psychics have been washed from the earth by a flood of exposés, the daily horoscope applies to too many of us at once to make us feel special, and the local churches blather on and on about deity this and deity that and I can't for the life of me figure out why. So with an antiquarian’s eye, a classicist’s touch, and a philologist's tongue, I recommend that old standby, the Great Sphinx.
In days of yore, she was quite the lady. She always sat in the same place and challenged passersby to a game of riddle me this or I'll kill you flat. Most people lost, which then allowed her to eat them (those were the rules, bucko). What is striking is that she never lost her girlish figure, sedentary lifestyle and flesh-eating notwithstanding. As the years past, people learned just to avoid her road. "I wouldn't go that a way if I were you, bud." "No? Why not?" "Sphinx." "You mean that half-cat, half-girl thing?" "Yup, that's the one." "Wow, I thought she was dead." "Nope. Just naps a lot." "Thebes doesn't get many visitors, eh?" "Not really." "Any other way into the city?" "You could try the back room of the cigar shop up the way." "I might do that, thanks."
Legend has it that Oedipus answered her riddle correctly and she killed herself over it. But big half-lion ladies aren't that easily trumped. She had these little wings tucked in along her flank and she used those to keep from dying. Oedipus, true to his future, didn't bother to look over the edge. He just turned around and walked away, BLIND TO THE TRUTH.
And now we know she's alive today. She doesn't ask riddles anymore (men are too savvy for her), but she does offer her services as an oracle. Unfortunately, nobody can find her, so in order to get our answers, we must visit the greatest sphinx in the world: the Great[est] Sphinx of Giza. In Egypt. Because she is made of stone, you probably won't get much of an answer, but it's worth a try: she's almost 4,000 years old. Lots of wisdom in those old bones.
SOME TIPS WHEN CONSULTING THE ORACULAR SPHINX
1. Be vague. You've got one shot, so pick your question carefully. You want direction, not answers. "Where is grandfather's secret will" isn't going to work. Neither will, "How can I get better gas mileage for my '98 Corolla?" Make the questions vague so that the oracle can do what oracles do best.
2. Bring Gifts. Sphinxes like fruit in non-varnished baskets, songs sung angelically by boys choirs of no fewer than six lads, toothpicks (made of oak) , or ceramic blankets to help with that erosion problem she struggles with (any size will do and she's grateful for what she can get).
3. Yell loudly. The wind blows strong in Egypt. Plus, she's old. But don't tell her that you know.
4. Listen carefully. The wind blows strong in Egypt. Place your ear next to her lips. Don't be afraid, she hasn't eaten anybody since Oedipus Rex bested her. If you can't hear anything, look for the headphone jack on the right hand side of her lips (her right).
5. Interpret with care. Many people will tell you a) that oracles suck and b) that your interpretation is wrong. Whether or not they're right, you should go on your instincts. What you hear is what you hear and there's no denying it. They didn't spend the money on a round trip ticket to Egypt and stay in a cheap hotel crawling with bed scarabs, only to find themselves caught in a miserable dust storm that made the Canopic Tours bus tour a complete waste of money. And they didn't climb the stone bitch's torso only to find a really lukewarm pair of impassive lips and a load of no-oracling and no headphones jack either. And then they didn't suffer the embarrassment of discovering that the oracles of ancient Greece are alive and well and a lot more pleasant to consult, being windy holes in the ground tended by beautiful young women who show more than adequate concern for your troubles.
6. Follow her advice. No matter what. Otherwise you've wasted your money. And that's the real lesson here, kids. If you spent it, it was worth it. No matter what.
Monday, October 12, 2009
HOW TO CONSULT THE SPHINX ON ALL MANNER OF THINGS
Saturday, October 10, 2009
BOOKS BY BRHISCHIER
FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY:
DOWNLOAD A COLLECTION OF BRHISCHIER’S LATEST WORK.
a collection of humorous short stories, ranging the faintly autobiographical to the faintly demented (that’s everything from A to D folks!)
•Bills and Smokes and a Place Called Home.
Eleven Short Stories, Collection One.
Out of courtesies to publishers, these stories are available by request only, so please email brhischier@gmail.com for link and password.
Friday, October 9, 2009
THE CHILL IS NOT YOUR FRIEND, NO MATTER HOW NICELY IT DOES ITS HAIR
I’m not an avid bill payer. I have other things to amuse me. Like my perpetually distracted brain. Does me favors, like a distracted brain should. So who needs another hobby like bill paying? Water? Pish posh. Electricity? Who needs it. See, there’s a coffee shop around the corner that doesn’t exploit mermaids for its marketing purposes and which suffices for caffeinated hydration and the occasional sponge bath. And electricity is taken care of by the roughneck’s secret weapon: the swiss army iPhone. Not only does it come with flash-light, world wide wonderweb, and built-in typewriter, but the usb port can power select household appliances such as electric can opener, electric back scratcher, and electric distillery. But it won’t power my electric blanket. So I’m terrified about losing the good graces of the gas company.
I’ve treated them well. Probably better than I treat my dog, who doubles as a comforter on the cooler days. Natural gas flows at great cost through all the pipes it can find in my apartment. Unfortunately, I have a very modern mid-90s thermostat, and I can’t figure that bum out. Since we’ve officially given the fake summer the proverbial biannual boot, the October days have been rainy and chilly. My precious fingers are cold to the bone and even my shins resist the temptation to dance when Puttin’ On The Ritz gloomily jumps out of my speakers. What is an overgrown delinquent to do?
Note my attempts to manhandle the system. I’ve set the thermostat “schedule” to run the heat everyday at a whopping seventy-something degrees. I’ve wooed the tiny batteries and tickled the golden gray leads that extend outward in recalcitrant pose. I’ve tried various Native American indoor weather dances to elicit that fine gurgling sound into my radiators, but all to no avail. Thus, in true desperate fashion, I’ve taken to keeping my bones warm using a variety of not unpleasant techniques. Yes, techniques. For you see, keeping that chill from the bones is a strange science, ruled by engineers and freemasons, of which groups I do not belong though I’ve asked nicely and I totally told them that I believe (believe!) in some kind of Supreme Being. Doesn’t help, so I’ve had to improvise. You can do the same, but it won’t be improvising any longer.
First, brew four pots of coffee and then fill two kettles with the hot-hot contents. Insert feet and two things will happen: via dermal osmosis, caffeine is directed into the system, speeding up the heart-rate that has been behaving like a cold-blooded invertebrate; then the coffee will (and this is nice) give the bones down there a taste of that wonderful warmth. Second, ask the dog to join you in the chair, directly behind you. That takes care of the lower back and immediately improves the posture while seated---in any chair. Third, a quick jog around the spacious apartment (with dry feet of course) will warm up the torso and confuse the dog, though one must wear a hat or a turbaned fluffy towel to keep the breeze from your speedy legs from cooling off the head. Lastly, encasing the head entirely in wool will allow the warm (warm!) breath from the never-chilly lungs (lucky bastards) to transfer warmth to the skull and all its pieces (eyes, ears, lips, horns, etc). These simple things require only the minimum of resources and a couple minor investments (kettles from the thrift-store, dog from the no-kill shelter (imperative to ensure that the beast is at least moderately well-behaved), jogging shoes or lacking those a fine set of callouses, and lastly a towel of sufficient square-inch count to cover the head.
Once again, I have solved problems that many men would struggle with (this being the age of monkeys). And I have done it without the assistance of the apartment complex maintenance man, who is less creepy than he is psychopathic and who always sings “Hold that tiger, hold that tiger, where’s that tiger, here’s that tiger, where’s that tiger, here’s that tiger” whilst fiddling with tools that I do not recognize whilst casually browsing the shelves of the local hardware store.
Take that, Chill!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
FRED CAMPER EXHIBITION ARTICLE
Monday, October 5, 2009
Cross-Talk Hobbyists
“He’s stuck again,” says the second gnome in my head, whilst wearing a fez, no lie.
“What’d he stick it with?” says the first gnome in my head, looking up from his dusty stuffed oriole.
“Pardon?”
“What’d he stick the Ginn with?”
“What’s a Ginn?”
“A djinn with a cold.”
“Probably with a thermometer.”
“Did it have a fever?”
“Let me check.”
After a few minutes, during which I continued to read some very interesting paragraphs about the great George Formby, the second gnome in my head returned to his pal. He sat down slowly.
“There’s no Ginn.”
“What are you talking about, that’s absurd!”
“Calm down. But it appears that there is no such thing as a Djinn.”
“And thus the Ginn?”
“Doesn’t exist.”
“Even with a cold?”
“Even with a cold.”
“This is most distressing.”
“Yes.”
“How are we to take its temperature?”
“It worries me.”
“It could develop into pneumonia.”
“The silent killer.”
“The killer quiet.”
“The whispers of evil from the lips of a lung.”
“It approaches us all.”
“Nonsense. I can breathe just fine.”
“Show me.”
“I’ve been showing you.”
“Well why didn’t you say so?”
“I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“Well I don’t.”
“So I think he’s stuck.”
“He must be. He’s giving us the spotlight again.”
“Feels nice.”
“Yes, it’s been a long time.”
“If only we’d come from a musical family.”
“If only.”
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
I TOOK MY HARP TO A PARTY
And nobody asked me to play. The others were jolly and arty. So I took the damn thing away. So sang Gracie Fields.
Ooh, the pathos. Gracie Fields and me, springing the strings of creative rejection together. Gracie Fields and I, stringing the springs of our hearts across the yawning chasm between Yuletide cheer and the half-awake publishing world. Pretty tightly wound springs, too. Wouldn’t want to see those things snap. Rejection strains the will, a little. I didn’t write much for a week (lots of rejections), after having written something like 15,000 words in the previous two. Seven rejections in two weeks. I don’t mind so much, (honest, you bum, don't doubt me!) and most of the editors have given me little notes of encouragement, like an aunt who pats your head non-committally after a piano recital. Maybe the problem is words like “non-committally” with its repetitive consonantal obsessions. Or maybe they just don’t like the way I give them the story straight (it’s the story of an etcetera). Or maybe they genuinely don’t like the writing. Hard to tell. The worst part of it, though, is the paranoid suspicion that it’s something petty. I can’t stand pettiness in the real world, so suspecting it in the subreal world is a place I can’t go. It wouldn’t be fair to them. Their feelings would get hurt. They’d feel persecuted. They’d wash their hands of the mess and say, “Not mea culpo, you meanie!” Well, it ain’t mea culpa either.
Really, nobody is obligated to publish anything. Nobody but my mother, of course, and lord knows that isn’t going to happen. I tried to convince the parents to start a publishing house, but they couldn’t see past my own selfish intentions. I could easily see past them, like peering over a fence at the bikini-wearing neighbor lady. Nobody is obligated to write, either, but there I go again, doing what I want. This whole process looks like a psychiatrist’s amusement park.
Oh well, can’t let it get to me. Just gotta take my harp to a different party and hope that the champagne is flowing freely.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
FLASH FICTION MEETS THE SHORT STORY
Or does it? You know, this electricity thing has spawned a lot of things. Car batteries and electric doggy fences and lady consolers and flash fiction and—wait, I hear you say. Flash Fiction? Really, Mr RB Machines? Yup. Granted, it was written many moons ago, probably before there was any electricity to go around, by guys like Barthelme and his coterie of little midget monk acolytes before the internet was spawned. But it was the Electric Internet that made it a form, the way plastic dolls are made from molded plastic forms. Attentions spans became spider sized, so the fiction had to accomodate. Now all sorts of places are publishing Flash Fiction in addition to Short Stories, and the only thing that separates the two is a tenuous line in the sand made up of less then a hundred words.
Flash Fiction is a genre [sic] noted for its tiny form and vague, woolly tongue that conjures with both eyes on the prestige. Flash fiction bugs me, like ringtones bug me. It starts, has promise, then ends, for some ungodly reason, usually because someone picked up the damn phone. Flash fiction is just a short story that didn’t interest the writer enough to finish it, and a ringtone is a melody that intrigued enough to synthesize, but not enough to harmonize. The similarities end there, though. Unlike the ringtone, the flash fiction doesn’t get stuck in my head.
Monday, September 21, 2009
LIFE IN THE SUMMERTIME, 2009
PART I
The present year, 2009, rhymes halfly with the word summertime, a poetic chronotype as rare as a solar eclipse or a volume of accentual verse in the American tongue, and thus I must take advantage of it by writing something, anything, about it. Unfortunately, the summertime of 2009 in Chicago was less summer than it was one of the lesser seasons, (lesser only because the attire of the ladies is greater) resembling in turns some of the warmer days of autumn or the drier days of spring. But only rarely could it be accused of being summer, Summer with a capital S.
PART II
One summer day, your pale author scraped together a load of pennies and dimes with the intention to purchase an air conditioner. This was early June, when sweat is conceived and born and wiped away. Coolness was inaugurated with the running of the air conditioner for twelve days consecutively. The electric bill was of no concern, for Summer was here. A quick glance out of the apartment window showed me many of the ladies were attired accordingly. And then the summer hiccupped (or hiccoughed, which spelling does not offend my spell checker) and neither my air conditioner nor my binoculars were necessary for the next three months. The air in the apartment remained warm yet cool, and the ladies wore longer skirts and longish sleeves and occasionally that great summer insult: jeans.
PART III
The summer officially ended the day after receiving my June electric bill, which was accompanied by a letter from the normally reticent proprietor of that shop. The letter is excerpted here: “...and in these times of economic hardship, we humbly request that you remove your sweaters from storage at the bottom of your bureau or the top shelf of your closet, and wear them as you take re-advantage of the air conditioners which you were no doubt accustomed to making use of at this time in previous years but for which you have since found little need.” For that excruciating bit of epistolary pan-handling, I promptly refused to pay my electric bill for three months. Curiously, they didn’t shut off the electric. Wishful thinkers, i suppose.
PART IV
It is September, and I find that I have few fond memories of the summer of 2009. That brief interlude of electric breeze in its dawning days is my sole joy. I only regret that in those days, rather than sit on the beach with my toes in the water and my eyes on the consolation prizes, I sat huddled around those vents, sucking in the freon lace that was spun from out its coils. The Autumn has now ascended the throne, and I can only expect that it will serve the summer the same insults it received in the masquerade. The coming week will no doubt have temperatures in the eighties, and I will gladly resume use of my air conditioner, to please myself and, against my better judgement, the electric company.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
NOVEL AFTER ALL
Wondering where the novel went? The one that was supposed to be published much earlier in the year? Well, it seems I have to wait for a little while longer. You see, there’s this little thing called “Submitting Your Manuscript” that I have been encouraged to try before plunging it into the abyss of self-publishing. And since I spent ten years on the novel, I might as well spend four months trying to publish it “legitimately.” Now, before we go all crazy over the word legitimate, let me say that I think self-publishing is an honorable thing to do, blah blah blah. I’d just like to try it the old way first. The book deserves that.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
THE PET IS A REFLECTION OF THE PETTER
Bad, Human. Good, Dog. The teeter-totter of evolutionary superiority has just slammed me to the ground. The mirror of my inadequacy is my slobbery friend. If only she knew that she could bite the hand that feeds her and get away with it...
Many Americans in my neighborhood are troubled by their own inability to be “good pet owners.” “Just what is a good pet owner?“ I ask them, hoping to free them from doubt with a little old-fashioned self-examination. But their dog answers for them. He shakes his head while the owner remains silent in shame. I say, “Relax, it’s probably not your fault, America!” Dogs of the world tilt their heads, not quite understanding my exclamation. It’s time to change!
IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT THAT YOUR PET MAKES YOU LOOK BAD. HERE’S HOW TO MAKE LIFE BETTER AND EASIER TOO.
❑ Pet might be too strong a word for your animal. A substitute word or phrase will help to orient you more accurately in relation to your Black Plague, your Old Mother’s Legacy, your Best Replacefriend, your Inland Emperor, or your Sticky Licker.
❑ If troubled by the troublesome behavior of the “pet,” consider replacing it with a pet who is a little younger (one year less is recommended). This allows you to start over again, but not from the beginning, which is sure to humiliate you. Observe the younger pet’s behavior for signs of the older pet’s wayward ways. If nothing is learned, repeat the process ad nauseum until the purchase of a pet embryo. Stop there if still unsuccessful. Consider retreat from the world of pets.
❑ Paste photographs of animals that share a stool with your pet at the species bar of life: Photographs are well-behaved and often better looking than your pet, which should make it feel inadequate. Keep them low, no higher than a foot and a half off the ground. The resulting docility is bound to please. This method has forebears in that great Italian laugh-fest, Il Purgatorio, by that snappy dresser, Dante.
❑ If Number 3 has you worried about ruining the paint job of your dining room, try fantasizing aloud about those fantastical creatures we call well-behaved pets. Coo names your pet has never heard, piquing its curiosity. Accidentally (“accidentally”) say another pet’s name while rubbing your pet’s belly or in greeting. If necessary, leave pamphlets from local shelters lying around.
❑ Bulk up the muscle in your disciplinary arm. One should never beat one’s pet, but one should at all times appear to be able to do so.
❑ Give your body a break and purchase a whip. You’ve probably discovered from Number 5 that too much dieting and exercise can be dull and damaging to the self-esteem. The whip is one of the few symbols of masculinity that can be worn in public and not suck scorn into the lungs of the bearer. Also, other humans don’t consider a whip to be a weapon; paradoxically, they will scatter when you take it off your shoulder. Your pet will too.
❑ Blame the pet and get a human instead. Harder than it sounds.
Posts
