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Mr. Buff and his oversized hound dog were at it again.

Heading home in the Haybinemobile after a long day spent over the stover, our hero’s nostrils twitched.

“Smell that, E-biscuit?” Buff inquired of his white and black companion.

“A Rog Rarm?” the great dane asked.

“Beside the hog farm.”

“Ranother Rog Rarm?”

Mister Buff sighed. He knew that there was a mystery in the air, and if he could smell it, any one could.

The Haybinemobile whirred into the Iowa night. All of a sudden, there came a great clattering, and the van lost all its torque. This was a bad sign. To make matters worse, heat lightning crackled across the sky, illuminating a spooky house on top of a spooky corn-covered hill.

“Ruh-roh, Robbie” E-biscuit said, “Rhris rosen’t rook rood.”

Cursing Hanna-Barbara for their dog-imposed speech impediment, the amazing Mr. Buff and his canine companion wandered up the gravel path to the eerily lit farmhouse. A whirring, not unlike a Lego helicopter buzzed from inside. As it did so, green light glowed out from its lacey curtains.

Being a Shaggy and Scooby clone, They didn’t think too highly of creepy green lights coming out of abandoned buildings. However, also being a Shaggy and Scooby clone, when they saw the two pies cooling on the window sill they knew they had to knock. It takes two pies to find torque, you see. With those pies, not only could they fix the Haybinemobile, they could also have dinner (with room for enchilada casserole). Yes, my friends. This was the most important pastry-related plot device since Back to the Future 3.

An old guy answered the door holding a pitcher of glowing green gunk.

“Don’t drink this,” he warned. You guessed it. The Blendtec dude. Music and lights similar to The Price Is Right started spinning around the countryside as we cut to commercial.

We returned from break to find Buff and E-biscuit hard at work trying to convince the other to take a drink of a nice frothy glass of cokechicken.

The Blendtec guy sighed. “I would have thought the two of you would have jumped at the chance to try real bird in a blender,” he said.

Our heroes stopped their bickering and immediately struck a pose while saying everyone’s favorite catch phrase – GO CYCLONES! And the cokechicken disappeared from sight.

Immediately, the Blendtec guy grabbed the mug and blended it before our hero’s amazed eyes.

“Glass Smoke,” he said. “Don’t breath this.”

“Amazing,” said Mr. Buff. “Is there anything you can’t blend?”

“Well, there is one thing.”The Blendtec guy dropped a crowbar onto the table. “The evil ghost who haunts this house won’t let me blend crowbars.”

“A roast!” cried Emmet hopefully, “A rowbar rocking roast!” The black and white monster licked his chops. In the distance, someone opened up a can full of laughter.

“You’re in luck, Blendtec Guy,” Mr. Buff said with a puff in his chest. “The Amazing Mr. Buff moonlights in mysteries, we’ll take the case!”

In the distance, something squealed. Our heroes and special guest looked around worriedly as the lights went suddenly out!

“Robbie?” E-biscuit called into the darkness, “rare are rou?”

In the distance – but less distant than the squealing, (because good god, the writers have never heard of anything happening close by, eh?) a refrigerator opened. Alien special effects that might have taken up half the budget glowed from a pitcher in Mr. Buff’s hand.

“Don’t drink this,” he said, holding aloft his makeshift glow-stick lantern. “Hey, where’s the Blender dude?”

He was gone! Cut to commercial!

The scene rose again as the masterful Mr. Buff held a loft his green lantern made of pre-blended glowsticks.

“Where’d the Blendtec guy go?” He asked Emmet.

“Ron’t rask re,” replied the wonder-mutt.

“Oooga-booga,” said the ghost in the corner.

And a chase scene commenced. It was a standard one as chase scenes go… until something in Rob Snapped. Yes, Snapped, with a capital “S”. As the ghost chased our heroes past the neighborly hog farm, Mr. Buff grabbed a tin panel and turned to face the aggressor.

“Come on,” He snarled, “Come on, you BLEEEEP. You don’t scare me!” The monster of the week charged Rob and he jacked it in the face with the tin panel. The monster snarled and charged again. Our Haybine hero slammed the panel in to it again, shouting a sting of cuss words not printable on children’s TV.

E-biscuit didn’t know what to do, so he chased the pigs around the hog lot, like a good dog.
Sick of being buffeted, the ghost gave up.

“Don’t hit this,” he said, “Anymore, please!”

It was the Blendtec guy!

As the cops were handcuffing him, the Blentec guy explained how, to his great shame, Blendtec blenders can’t actually grind up crowbars, so he created a ghost persona to scare away anybody who asked.

“And I would have gotten away with it too,” he said, “If the Amazing Mr. Buff wasn’t a pig farmer’s kid.”

“Thanks a lot, kid,” said a random cop, who gave Mr. Buff two pies out of gratitude.

“Sweet!” said The Amazing Mr. Buff, who now could fix the torque on the Haybinemobile.

E-biscuit wandered up with a comically distended stomach.

“Why do I suddenly smell bacon?” Asked the cop holding the two pies. The Harlequin hound grinned at the camera as an artificial studio audience roared.

As the Blendtec guy is put into a police car, Mr. Buff and E-biscuit strike a pose as the episode ends with everybody’s favorite catch phrase – “GO CYCLONES!”

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Silt

Everywhere he went, Larry left sand behind him.

It didn’t matter that he had never been to a beach.
Nor did it matter he never saw the desert. All across the office, the sidewalk and particularly his apartment Larry-shaped sandprints appeared, like the dotted line that follows Billy around in the Family Circus.

Old Jeb sat on the stoop watching Larry walk by. I asked him what was going on. For a song on my harmonica, told me.

Larry was settling, and like silt at a bottom of a mill pond, the sand was drifting to the floor. I thanked Old Jeb and continued on my merry way – content on having solved the mystery.

It just so happened on that day, I wore my nice white woolen suit to work. This was foolishness on my part as I was not used to wool and itched my way from nine to five. When I finally could stand it no longer, I found that Larry and I had something in common.

Guess I should probably spend more time on the beach.

Weekend Adventures

A remarkable time:

On Friday night, I held a feast.

Chicken wings, onion strings and Venison sausage, aged to perfection. There was singing and dancing. There was baseball on the radio and checkers on the table. It was a time of peace and joy before the wonders ahead.

The adventure began on Saturday. While the squirrels chased one another up and down the Maple trees, we set off on bicycles for the Forested Hills, and the Cemetery within. There we played hide and seek with partners immobile. Bemapped and bemused, we wandered across the yard, feeling like pirates on a treasure hunt. I got to meet e.e. cummings and view Snow White in her glass coffin, but Eugene O’Neil remained hidden from sight. The long day meandered into darkness, lit by the words of Alan Moore’s children stories.

Sunday was devoted to the religious experience that only a circus can bring. A husband and wife, 15 years my senior, wrapped themselves in silk ten feet above the ground, and hanging by only their ankles, gently kissed. Jugglers stood across from each other on top of broken glass and calmly spun and caught machetes flickering in the sun. Pirates sang of the joys of freedom, pillaging and… pirate things. There were Gymnasts, brass bands, and hoopers. A contortionist creeped the audience out, and a remarkable man with a flute got the silent, wondering children to laugh and play for ten beautiful minutes.

When it was over, I sat with my loved one and ate Ice Cream until it was gone.

A remarkable time, Indeed.

*p00f!*

I live at the bottom of the orange line. At times, this is not the safest neighborhood to be in. At times, I’m stretching my legs across Boston in the middle of the night where only those who are up to no good and feelin’ good are out and about. In my travels, I’ve never been molested, requested, divested or arrested –

Now, you might be sayin’ to yourself, “Self, what’s he doing out at the middle of the night?”

Easy. I’m not getting into trouble. How’s that? Why I have an invisibility cloak!

It’s a formerly iridescent brown winter coat, with a big white button pinned on it. Throw that thing on top of me, and regardless how fancy everything else I might be wearing, I suddenly look like a homeless person. It’s QuaMoflague!

Unfortunately, this invisibility seems to have invaded other aspects of my life.

And now, it’s time to disappear.

A rant.

Last night, I went to the Theatre, and realized how much I hate it.

It was so safe, this theatre. Big, comfortable chairs. A warm, rich hall. A proscenium. Funding that totaled millions a year in tax-free contributions. The patrons, grey-haired and professional alike, seemed to know one another and the actors. It was community theatre for the six-figure set.

In a lot of ways, it helped confirm my theatrical beliefs. In others, it turned my stomach. Perhaps I was Tired, Hungry and Cranky, perhaps I was just jealous, but my teeth continued to grind until the curtain went up.

I go to the theatre to be entertained, and I was. The play was well written, designed and acted.

I go to the theatre to be inspired, and I was. The physicality of the actors made me want.

However, for all the opulence, I wasn’t filled with wonder.

For the rest of the night and this morning, I’ve wondered why that is.

Perhaps Brecht has the answers. Perhaps Banksy holds the keys. Perhaps this isn’t my passion, after all.

If it ain’t, methinks I’m in a world of trouble.

Qouth Movement

I’ve decided I’ve had enough of growing up.

Don’t get be wrong, there’s something to be said about blossoming into a full grown person; but at the same time I feel like I’ve gone to seed.

I think it’s time to start growing down.

You know, re-examine my roots, see if there’s room to grow underground, like Willy Wonka’s factory.

Learn to play and to take myself less seriously.

I don’t want to abandon my responsibilities, just the stupid ones.

I can’t tell if this is a partial-life crisis or a good idea.