Mitchell in the Mornings: Scenario #2 of 2

*~~*BING*~~*

I. Am. Awake! 

Yeeeow! It’s time to announce to my family and the neighbors downstairs that I am now beginning my day. I’m gonna get out of bed and run up and down the hallway a bunch of times. Now, I’m gonna do it some more! Now, I’m gonna go make sure that Daddy is awake and knows that I’m awake and knows that I like running up and down the hallway a bunch of times.

Aha! He is none of the above. Now, I’m gonna climb up on the bed and jump up and down and talk loudly and sing nonsensical lyrics and ram my head like a baby lion into his shoulder blades.

Oh! I’m sure the vertical blinds in the living room are drawn. Now, I’m gonna run down the hallway into the living room and run my hands across the blinds and continue to sing nonsensical lyrics while doing so.

Well, hey, while I’m out here: Now, I’m gonna jump off of the couch and land (maybe) on the beanbag. I love how the floor rumbles when I land. I love that sound so much I’m gonna do it again! It’s neat how my loud voice and the rumble of the floor compliment each other and fills the entire audio spectrum.

Hey! I wonder if Daddy is out of bed yet. Now, I’m gonna run back down the hallway to check. Well, considering how much I love to run up and down the hallway, I’m gonna do it a couple more times before checking to make sure Daddy is awake - and then, if he’s not, I’m gonna sit on his head and sing “Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star” because I’m so frikkin’ spunky!

Pictorial Preview of Febuary's Mixtape

...When the smoke beings eased into the abandoned Frontier Land Settlement...

Stuff That Falls Out of Books I Flip Through at Half-Priced Books

I reckon that this will be an ongoing theme on Doctor Jones because 1) Half-Priced Books is totally, unearthly awesome and 2) Trinkets-turned-bookmarks will occasionally catch me by surprise as I browse, making it difficult not to muse and wonder. It’s a spice of life that is another example of the benefit that Half-Priced Books serves to all of humanity.

This little guy was in the first edition (1979) edition of The Great Shark Hunt, a collection of writings by Hunter S. Thompson that were printed in various periodicals between 1964 through 1978. I love HST. His prose is sharp, temperamental, irreverent, and bubbles with acidic sass. And while I acknowledge and accept the neon aura of unrepentant drug use that surrounds and influences his work, I find it disconcerting how legions of fanboys and geekfags only cling to - and relentlessly recycle - this surface fact; He’s the guy that wrote Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, y’know. Such an approach to Thompson’s work is amateur and foolish, albeit, the most popular.

This is why, at length, it comes as no surprise to find a ticket stub to a Grateful Dead concert in one of his books; a $23.50 ticket in the “upper/side” of Grand-Whatever-Arena in WhereverTown, USA. Indulge me a judgment, but I think it is safe to assume that this was some hob knob that gobbled up cheap acid thinking the concert experience will open all kinds of portals in the aether, passageways to rapturous unifying existences, only, I’m willing to bet, he ultimately found himself staring into the fuming and swirling portal to the city sewers. This is the same middle-age guy who burned to Aoxomoxoa and drank Wild Turkey while reading Kingdom of Fear.

The ticket has no indication of a date, but considering the admission cost that this chump paid for the nosebleed section we can safely determine that we’re talking no earlier than the 1990’s. After clicking around a website dedicated to GD ticket stubs, passes, and laminates, here’s the closest comparison that I was willing to put forth the effort to find:

For the most part, after 1992 the tickets become flat, glossy and all start to look the same. Charming raised-ink roses bespeckled with glitter became a thing of the past. Likewise, Jerry Garcia eventually croaked. To commemorate this icon of hippie snobbery, Hobknob ticket-stub-man probably sparked a fatty and read aloud works by Ginsberg, Thompson and Wolfe because, at the time, it felt like the right thing to do. Perhaps, in the morning after, he came to his senses, and after a lifetime of bummin’ around he finally straightened up, sold back his vegan cookbooks, denim overalls, and his copy of The Great Shark Hunt – ticket stub and all – and got himself a jobby job.

Mitchell in the Mornings: Scenario #1 of 2

The vast room has bare parallel walls and vaulted ceilings so that his voice may carry and resonate and flutter, so that he may delight in hearing it, therefore he will nary cease to speak loudly. There are clones of his father, spread throughout, so that an opportunity to argue and be stubborn are plentiful – indeed, never ending. Vats of bathwater are not to be used to wipe away cupcake residue, or the like, from his face, but are for vigorous splashing, accompanied by continuing shouting and singing of nonsensical lyrics. The towels that surround the bathtubs are not for cleaning or drying but are simply meant to remain and become soaked and squishy. Televisions, each presenting a different children’s feature presentation, are also conveniently located throughout the room, each connected to daddy’s expensive headphones so that he, with peanut butter fingers, may put on and hear. Likewise, undressed windows are also at appropriate height to accompany finger smudges and dirty face smears. Place settings of chicken nuggets and French fries are also in abundance, each with a colored [“We went camping, just me and my dad”] plastic cup generously filled with water used for dunking said chicken nuggets. There are also environmental chambers [“I picked the campsite, but someone was already living there…”], each maintained to a steady 38-degrees Fahrenheit, [“…So I gave it back”] where he may freely enter at will and run and frolic in said temperature without a coat.

….Hrrrmmfff. What the? No. No! I want to go back! Please, have pity. Perhaps if I close my eyes and pull my blankets back over my head that wonderful place will once again fill my mind. “We found another campsite nearby. My dad was tired, so I pitched the tent.” Ugh, he’s such a chump thinking that lovingly reading my favorite stories will be a harmless way to lull me out of sleep…

“No, daddy, little critter not go camping.”
“Well, let’s read on and see what happens. Then we can pick out the clothes you’ll wear today – maybe your T-Rex shirt! Ooooh, how does that sound, big guy?”

Y’know, I recognize that he’s speaking but all I hear is ‘blah blah blah please argue and resist everything I’d like you to do this morning.’ Maybe if I curl up in a ball he’ll go away. Perhaps a low-level grumble will be a nice embellishment.

“I wanted to take my dad for a ride in our canoe, but I launched it too hard.”

Seriously, he’s still here? Crap and a half, can’t the dude take a hint? If only wrapping myself tighter in these blankets would cause them to swallow me whole so that my very consciousness will leave this cursed mortal prison and my spirit may soar freely away from this place to be with the birdies and airplanes and fireworks and the – There’s my mommy!

“Mommy Mommy Mommy!” Cursed blankets, get me out of these damn things that I may cling to my mommy, to claim her. “Mommy, hold me. Hold me!” I want you and only you. Only you can hold me and say ‘good morning.’ Only you can do stuff for me: Only you can pick me up; only you can talk about reading little critter and getting dressed; only you can get my yogurt out of the fridge, peel off the foil lid and give me a fun plastic spoon; only you can turn your back to me.

Yes. Only you.

Look at Daddy sitting there on the edge of my bed, looking like a damaged puppy. Better luck tomorrow morning, big guy.

Basilisk Stare - January 2011 BRR Mixtape Brigade

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=G0ABGI7U

When I started this blog I swore that I would never apologize for a “lack of updates”. While I am absolutely tickled that you take the time to read “Doctor Jones” I continually work under the mindset that I owe you exactly diddily squat. The ebb and flow of this blog will swell or abate at my whim, desire and motivation. So, with that, you will receive no apology or justification for my inactivity. In fact, you should be thanking me for this 5-month lull. My schedule this past season has been a strenuous exercise in self-discipline and time management. My efforts were simply placed everywhere but here.

But, just because little has been posted doesn’t mean that my wit and charm hasn’t been skillfully pressed to the face of the grindstone of this crazy thing called life. Indeed, dozens of ideas have been formed and are incubating to maturity, each at different stages of development. “Doctor Jones” is on the brink of a cathartic gushing. Like those egg batches in Aliens, each post and Mixtape is gonna burst forth and hug your face as if nobody’s lookin’. It’ll be good for the both of us. And the facehugging begins now, with this month’s Mixtape. Yes. I’ve had a great deal of mental potential energy building these past few months…“Basilisk Stare” is the release.