Posted by
Vincent Dermody
• 01.29.09 04:19 pm

I don’t feel responsible for my visions. The Gods are to blame. I must confess that I have been hearing voices and succumbing to seizures for the last few years. They intensified and were usually prophetic when I huffed the vapor and/ or hit the bottle. I have been completely unaware of their purpose until now.

I don’t feel responsible for my visions. The Gods are to blame. I must confess that I have been hearing voices and succumbing to seizures for the last few years. They intensified and were usually prophetic when I huffed the vapor and/ or hit the bottle. I have been completely unaware of their purpose until now.

The phenomena became impossible to ignore when I rented a rat-infested coach house built on a weird steaming chasm. The decrepit pantry was the only place in the house where cell phone reception was to be found. This seemed to link up nicely with the voices in my head and my day job, as I sold telephone book advertising under the dim bulb there. The house burned down in 1978. Only to materialize like a ghost ship, long enough for me to sign the lease and set sail. My little home was most definitely haunted by the ghost of the Thick Grandmother who perished in my bedroom, lit cigarette at her fingertips. I was positive that I was sensing her balmy presence and green aura lurking over me while I tried to sleep. She smelled like onion borscht. You could feel her cold breath on the back of your neck whenever crossing the threshold to the living room from the miniscule bathroom (mind your knee). Every morning when I started making cold calls, I would arrange my crystals; unpack the Ouija board and the day’s leads, pouring a coffee from the little red thermos while drawing a pentagram in pink chalk around me. Sitting cross-legged in the center of a little Turkish rug, quietly flipping between B96 and NPR on my clock radio, hot flip-phone wedged firmly between shoulder and chin. I wanted to raise the Dead Modernist Poets or at least have a chat with them. Instead, I found myself selling more space in endless volumes of blank yellow telephone books that had no definable page count. Nothing worked. So I thought I would recruit some experts to interpret the signs.

This endeavor came to me in a dream, fluttering in on pigeon’s song, huffing gold spray paint fumes from paper bags that leave face-halos. The Human Nature D.J. is here and ready to set Shit right. I feel like I fell in a ditch and found cryogenic canisters filled with gold Indian Bones, Dracula phones, and Colony Collapse Disorder front row seat tickets. The cameras I subscribe to on the moon confused Sylvia Plath with Sportscenter, and my phone started to emit funky but not totally unpleasurable goo, which I promptly lapped up. I was sure I was recognizing low-frequency birdsongs under the dial tone. And I swear I was eating cereal and watching Gertrude compete against the Honorable Billy Williams, running Frisbee dogs through neon obstacle courses on ESPN2. A bright North Carolina Saturday morning.

The Gods blinded Joybubbles for revealing their secrets, and J-Mo greeted my doppelganger at O’Hare airport the night before at three o’clock in the morning (the Demon hour): Dressed like me? Yeah he was you. Head to toe.

“BOURBON”

Randy Russell has produced, acted in, and written for film (American Job, The Pool, Modus Operandi), has written many plays, and has performed in the Milwaukee area, including, with Peter Barrickman, The Spinning Rainbow Ball at The Marcus Center for the Performing Arts. He has owned and operated a punk record store, a zine store, and he invented the Semioabstractique Collage technique. He has recently finished writing a collection of stories called: 9 Lies.

“I KNOW ALL, I DON’T REMEMBER ALL”

Jeffrey Dorchen is an essayist, fiction writer, and internationally produced playwright. He has also served the theater as a composer, musician, music director and dramaturg. He is an autodidact scholar of Jewish folklore and agaddot. He is currently working on several screenplays including a Bollywood project, which recently won a Sloan award for scientific content, and which is scheduled to begin production in Tamil Nadu this spring. His new play, “Strauss at Midnight”, opens June 11 in Chicago as a Theater Oobleck production. He presents his commentary on ThisIs Hell, a current affairs radio show hosted by Chuck Mertz; podcasts and info available at www.thisishell.net. The texts of his essays appear at his website: www.mejeffdorchen.oblivio.com. He lives in Los Angeles with his dog. He enjoys cooking.

John White Cerasulo is a Registered Republican Romantic Painter from Connecticut living in New York City, this time around he voted for the black guy.

[ED NOTE: This post has been rewritten. It didn’t make much sense at first.]


Comments
  1. AIDS body says:

    Is this funny???vvvv

  2. Regal Beagle says:

    these don’t make me laugh.

  3. WHATEVS says:

    COME ON GAVIN TRY HARDER THIS SHIT AIN”T FUNNY< I”M SURE U GET SENT COOL STUFF FUNNY STUFF THAT MAKES U LAUGH< POST SOME FUNNY STUFF NOT THIS BORING DUMB STUPID LAME SHIT REALLY NOT FUNNY I’M GOING BACK TO VICE F U GUYS SERIOUSLY I GIVE UP

  4. consuala says:

    What the fuck,

  5. […] STREET BONERS and TV CARNAGE » VINCENT’S CRANK CALLS […]

  6. french guy says:

    true story: i’ve got vincent gallo’s phone number and sometimes i prank call him when i’m drunk. one time he really answered and i kinda dropped the ball. anyway, i thought that ws what this post was gonna be about.

  7. fag scene kid says:

    did i mention u suck?

  8. Connor says:

    Come on guys. You can do better. This is pure nonsense. Only mildly interesting, let alone entertaining.


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