daily mcduck

oh patton, you've deciphered the mystery of wine...

09 Wines by the Glass

business card numero uno "handflipper"

download a picture why don't you, it'll last longer

the front~

and the back~

of course its flipped so the image looks right when you handflip it

the rest of 2010, part 1

I watched "the american" starring clooney last night, and it has inspired me to only speak in short, moody, mostly paranoid declarative sentences for the rest of 2010. 

I listened to kanye west's new album this morning, and it has inspired me to insist that all the lights are turned up until it's vegas everywhere that I am for the rest of 2010.

I read GQ this afternoon, and it has inspired me to travel time and space ceaselessly until I find half dead abin sur and convince him to give me the green lantern ring for the rest of 2010.

I downloaded that new facebook movie directed by fincher to watch tonight, and i'm hoping it inspires me to update my status with sad nerdy attempts to sound cool for the rest of 2010.

I inserted this image just a second ago to inspire confidence in you for the next time we play basketball, so that my crossover will continue to break your ankles for the rest of 2010.

unfinished egoistic blanks fired as notes on anger and impotence

i should write something. i should work on the fancifeast octopus story of previous posts- update it. let the spiraling tentacles become a staircase and walk down it into the depths of every imaginative "pop". get down to the boiler room and study the synaptic reaction up close- transcibe it's artful expansion- wonder at it's pathlessness, it's newness- the way it takes random colors from the full spectrum- picks up pebbles but disregards shells- the way it's collection fits together, seamlessly rendering some grand complexity from that "pop"

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i'd like to. i'd like to watch that "pop" as a flawless origami gazelle manifested into an Eden- walking from flower to fountain- laying the foundation of it's possibilities- gathering strength, testing the muscles folded in its legs. i'd like to follow it out and see it run, but i can't right now. and i can't let it go on it's own either.

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my reality is an earthquake that in shifts leaves me cautious and intimidated or chaotic and careless. it is ever present, underlying. 

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building a drop of water-

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i should put that "pop" under a microscope, into a centrifuge- i should reverse engineer that "pop"- turn it inside out like some cruel hunter- roll its organs in the dirt and pretend i'm learning what makes it work? for what? it spells the same in either direction. there is nothing to learn. there is no chicken there is no egg- it's all just leaf fragments from last fall- whipped up in a dust devil in my mind- going nowhere, just churning and smashing itself, butting up against the same confined eggshell interior. in fifty years it will be fine dust, 15 if i keep drinking like i do. 

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mix-tape art part 1

so Gabe and I are making discographyish mix CDs for our road trip to Coachella and we needed covers-

here are the collages I've made so far-

(tonight's the final collage party before C, so there will be more to post soon comma, YAY!)

(click for a larger looksy)

Gorillaz~

 

Muse~

 

 and 

Fever Ray~

of men walking into bars, part the 3rd, (intro to the 1st act)

-backed up for a new line about carpet crawling, finished with your homework of the next music-

When the octopus finished, he handed the instrument back to the man, who in turn handed it to it’s owner, now wide-mouthed like the kind of fish the octopus would crawl across carpet for. The man collected the $200 and noticed no thinning of the line. This always happened and for the monetary gain of it the man was pleased, but he mostly liked the con and now these suckers were only lining up to see what the sea creature would do with their instrument. 

This is another reason why you choose a bar across the street from a concert hall, the man thought, it takes longer to run out of instruments. With that the man motioned the bartender for another scotch and the suckers clamored to pay for it.

The Trumpet fish melted into the Playbill wallpaper revealing the next sucker in line. The man was not thrilled to see it was a violinist. He had known the octopus long enough to know it’s sounds, and the whine that would follow the sight of a violin on outstretched arm bordered on disgustingly indulgent. It was his weapon of choice in the war on breviloquence, and rightfully the man feared a twenty minute concerto. This time the man’s expression of warning would pivot on his neck like a snakehead if it had to- he’d hunt down the cold ebony marbles of the octopus and turn them to doe eyes. 

Acknowledged, the whine stopped abruptly, but the tentacles continued to tremble with anticipation. The poor internal somatotopic map of its body was the octopus’ worst enemy and most obvious poker tell. Its wiring was alien madness. With 2/3rds of its nervous system split between its arms and a complete lack of a neurological feedback path to its brain, its thoughts traveled like the ripples of an earthquake and its lies were often betrayed by the aftershock. When the man directed the octopus’s gaze to its scheming tentacles the sound wound back up and quickly lowered a couple of octaves. The man recognized this as the sound the octopus made when it was fooled and bitter and betrayed.

The arms wound down and the bitter octopus waited now like a labrador tired of agreeing to the particulars of a trick it had preformed time and again.

Satisfied, the man handed over the violin and the octopus immediately set about tuning the E to E flat. This meant Danse Macabre to the man, which was fine with him. It wasn’t his favorite piece but the violin part was relatively short, especially if the octopus jumped right to the modulating solo near the end as he had in the past. When the man dropped his guard to scope out future concerns within the line of suckers the octopus quietly abandoned the scordatura and returned the instrument to its standard tuning. 

The man was sharp, but overconfident enough in his upperhand that he often left the coals of the last situation with just enough heat to get a fire going again. This complimented the signal-pause of the octopus perfectly, and if it wasn’t for all the residual public battles it produced, this cadence would paint them as charismatic as Butch and Sundance.

By the time the man had remembered the order of the octopus’s loyalties it was too late. He winced at the bravura of rapidly descending notes, the Allegro molto appassionato of Mendelssohn’s godamm 30 minute violin concerto.

The Mendelssohn Business

of men walking into bars, part the 2nd

-with a step backwards to fix the narrative, and the first song-

The way the man played it was like this, he’d talk-over whatever uselessness the sucker would ante-up as the icebreaker. He’d make his pitch right there and save them all the nice weather talk. Doubly he found the abruptness of the interruption amplified his challenge, and forced the sucker so irrationally onto defence that he overplayed his hand. Often the man was met with an immediate raise in stakes before the guidelines of a bet could be agreed upon. 

Something like- “100 bucks says this purse can play any instrument you hand him” met with- “Why not make it 200 pal?”

Even with his skyscraper of disdain for suckers the man was always able to find a gorilla of contempt for the rube that doubled everybody’s losses. Still, any good poker player knows that character is also good for a free drink.

“Buy me a single malt, get your cronies in single file, and you’re on.”

They had chosen that happy hour to walk into a local hotspot across from a concert hall. The place was packed with shirt-collared musicians, marching band misanthropes, and jazz-daddy hipsters- and while the man saw himself as more Vicious and Rotten, he knew this stage better suited the octopus. Rock bars got fighty, nightclubs were too loud, and nobody played ukuleles in dinghies under the shade of parasols anymore. Coming here had been a deliberate move and as the suckers lined up, brass flashing in the sunlight, the octopus began to feel that same satisfaction he excused in the man.

The first musician in line hadn’t scrambled to get there, he simply and coolly walked to the front and the others stepped back. He was young, twenty something with dirty long hair and wry underpinnings, the perfect casting for a coke commercial in 1992. It was obvious he fashioned himself a bit Clint Eastwood in the way he slowly handed over his trumpet- raising it lazily on an outstretched arm and letting it fall forward on his index finger like a sixgun. 

The man was fond of a little showmanship, but was seldom outdone. He got up from his stool just in time to receive his scotch from the bartender and made the trumpet player wait, his exaggerated gunfighter gesture seeming more ridiculous with every second, until he’d taken a drink. The man wasn’t the musician of the pair, but he had a diabolical gift for timing. He set down his scotch and without any acknowledgement to the cowboy, took the instrument and handed it to the octopus on the bar.

It was in this action that the octopus seemed most like a pet, such was his giddy anticipation. In the beginning the man had coached him not to be overzealous and grabby, thinking the image of the wiggly tentacles might be frightening. He later reneged while watching the octopus in line for an ice cream cone. The flailing wasn’t scary, it was dopey and if anything, the man felt it might inspire confidence in the sucker. To spare his feelings he never explained this logic to the octopus.

It was a Bach standard weight horn, a New York #7. The octopus also noted it was shiny. He took it eagerly and handled it thoroughly with all but one limb left on the bar for balance. It had first and third finger rings which he found small and annoying, but ultimately inoffensive. He settled on a grip, thought a moment about what he’d like to play, and changed it. The man noticed and discreetly cautioned the octopus not to overdue it on this first tune. The octopus pretended not to see the mans look, sealed up his beak embouchure and warmed-up with a long low C, followed by a beak slip down to G. The man tried not to roll his eyes.

The octopus swelled like a beach ball and punched out the explosive reveille that begins West End Blues. If the crowd had been wearing hats they would’ve collectively blown first up three feet in surprise and then clean off their heads with the gale force of the trumpeter. Then the loping melody, the gentle swinging on a southern summer porch. The octopus played with a bedeviling command of the instrument, so much that the crowd forgot to care about the spectacle.

“Go man go!” And “Boy can that octopus blow!” Shot up from the crowd and the man, wary that the fullness of this con was slipping away, took some relief in that it was a short song.

When the octopus finished, he handed the instrument back to the man, who in turn handed it to it’s owner, now wide-mouthed like a fish. The man collected the $200 and noticed no thinning of the line. This always happened and for the monetary gain of it, the man was pleased, but he mostly liked the con and now these suckers were only lining up to see what the sea creature would do with their instrument. 

This is another reason why you choose a bar across the street from a concert hall, the man thought, it takes longer to run out of instruments. With that the man motioned the bartender for another scotch and the suckers clamored to pay for it.

Download Louis Armstrong His Hot Five featuring Earl Hines - West End Blues

of men walking into bars, part the first

the serialized forthcoming novel in 67 parts by one mr. adam mcclary. 

unedited, subject to improve before its release to the insatiable public.

It never surprised the man walking into the bar that his octopus would initially go unnoticed. It was a small Blue-ringed octopus, genus Hapalochlaena, and it liked to tuck itself under the mans arm like a satchel.

 

Usually what happened was that someone on a nearby barstool would mistake it for a purse. Sometimes there was a wisecrack about the mans sexuality. This didn’t offend either the man or the octopus. The man happened to be straight but couldn’t care less about the distinction for others; the octopus was also straight, but inexperienced and impulsive and not particularly discriminate gender-wise, about who’s mantle cavity he stuck his hectocotylus in. 

Another reason no offense was taken had to do with the breakfast of inevitable shock worn by interlopers. As with their gender preferences, the man and the octopus were similarly a bit sadistic- the mans sadism rooted in the depressing but opportunistic percentage of suckers amongst the population, the octopus’s in that he never knew his parents. 

“Nice purse lady”, or, “Does your husband play golf as well?” 

or whatever uselessness would spring forth from one of these playable suckers, these bar-goons, would be backpedaled into childlike fascination when the purse blinked or crawled onto the bartop. Cooing and obvious questions regarding the make and model of the octopus followed, along with the compulsive desire to touch the taboo object as if he were made of snakes or marshmallow. This never failed to delight the man or the octopus, who ironically relished his role as bait.

They would play it cool at first.

“He doesn’t like to be handled by strangers,” the man would dryly say as he looked over a menu or scanned the backbar for the single malt selection, “-and he’s poisonous...” he’d add if the situation called for it.

And though the suckers would try to return to their droll discussion of the numerical hotness designation of t-backs, or whatever uselessness, the sea creature always proved too intriguing to ignore. There was however a real lack of a decent follow-up query once the sucker had been initially dismissed, and this caused them tangible distress. It was this awkward silence before the next melee the man loved most. He’d count in his head to substantiate the interval, every fresh second filled him to his Che Guevera hat with chemical satisfaction. The octopus broke with the man in this aspect and was sort of embarrassed during this pause, but he allowed it of the man, conscious that the allure of the con had nuances for each of them and that frankly he himself had unsavory vices.

The way the man played it was like this, he’d talk-over whatever uselessness the sucker would ante-up as the icebreaker. He found the abruptness of the interruption came off as a challenge, and the urgent atmosphere of a fresh challenge forced the sucker so irrationally onto defence that he overplayed his hand. Often the man was met with an immediate raise in stakes before the guidelines of a bet could be agreed upon. 

The game established, the man would survey his surroundings. He would consider the skill sets of the octopus and with the mental quickness of veteran, he’d outline a wager. They had chosen that happy hour to walk into a local hotspot across from a concert hall. This had been a deliberate move and now the octopus began to feel that same satisfaction he excused in the man.

to be continued...

a real thing

i had an honest thought last week and it's still warming my frontal lobe like embers that are plugged into the wall.

i wake up with it, i drift to it in the middle of taking a tables order, but mostly it hits me when i'm driving.

crush, for Mayacamas, ended last week and as i was driving down the mountain, on my way home for the last time in my foreseeable future, i started thinking about these deer that i'd seen one morning on the way up.

my thoughts drifted to the sunlight dappled over the round road and sweet trees that make tunnels-- 

to the stillness of the woods and depth of the mountain--

to it's timelessness--

and rather than snap back with an urge to preserve this moment, i expressly noted, to my satisfied surprise, that i don't need a photograph- that i don't need to come back, that i don't need a remembrance-

i didn't have the need to capture this feeling.

and as this sensation unwound it revealed quietly, sincerely, that this was me,

that a photo would be akin to a photo of a room placed in that same room.

everybody that knows me knows i talk a lot. i have a lot of ideas and even 37 years haven't really slowed the rate at which i expel them. and i collect. photos, words, to-do lists, movie stubs- it helps me know where i am.

suddenly it occurs to me not to press record and i'm blown away.

a hippie moment as real as my hands on the wheel. no sarcasm or disclaimer. no preservation of self, just the innate understanding that i am part of this--- 

mountain, life, now, creation, forever.

you know as i'm rereading this post it occurs to me that i may have time-travelled.

this is how i travel

-which desserts travel well?

-how do you mean?

-well, i like a dessert that's lively- that likes to play license plate games and hunt for engaging radio stations.

-then i suggest you steer clear of the bread pudding.

this is how i travel-

standing up. via boat. holding hands.

it's glamorous and that's why i do it.

it befuddles the paparazzi and that's why i do it.

it allows me to see farther than i could if i were sitting,

and that's why i do it.

when my boat is having its barnacles scraped,

this is how i travel-

in a vintage automobile.

through post apocalypse arizona.

chased by motorhead mutants.

though it's more difficult to see, 

i still prefer the girl in my lap.