Archive for the 'Aberrant Anecdote' Category

Oct 14 2007

The Pursuit of Pure Talk

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phone

by Adam Engel

10/14/07

Horticultural heroics at the Public Relations firm. Office of the beautiful young Publicist. She harangued a client over the phone. Talking, talking. Every word a scream.

“Give the people what they want,” she said. “Tell the people what they want. Make the people want. Tell them, make them, give them. Understand?”

Slammed down the phone. Wired, she addressed me.

“I’m right, you know. Look at me. I started low: restaurant and club openings, celebrity profile parties, City events. Junk publicity. Junkpub.”

Hard girl. Learned to be loud, wry, ferocious. Talk, talk. Talkety talk.

“Phone the news desk direct line to the gossip column, or better yet, the television station. Make a stir. Create a buzz. Disseminate information. Lay anchor in the sea of data. When the job is done, sail on. Don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. But if the answer must be ‘no,’ carry a grudge. Get mad, get even. You understand, Plantman?”

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Oct 14 2007

Midnight at the Apocalyptic Pancake

Cyrano’s Journal Online and its semi-autonomous subsections (Thomas Paine’s Corner, The Greanville Journal, CJO Avenger, and VoxPop) would be delighted to periodically email you links to the most recent material and timeless classics available on our diverse and comprehensive site. If you would like to subscribe, type “CJO subscription” in the subject line and send your email to

metal

by Adam Engel

10/14/07

Zarathustra’s Dragons stormed the stage like Cro-Magnon angels, a feral furry crew, too savage for Redemption, too innocent to Fall. Where their hair ended and their clothes began was painful to discern. The lead singer wore an ornamental bone through his nose. A necklace of human teeth, plucked sentimentally, the press releases claimed, from the jaws of one-night stands, hung to his navel. The band looked like they’d been used to scrub a large, industrial kitchen.

Midnight at the Apocalyptic Pancake with Buxtehude, proprietor of the Time Capsule Antique shop and amateur “poet” (though, to be fair, all poets of the Nation are amateurs). An old acquaintance from my college days, a lonely man, not of his time. Certainly not the kind I’d choose to waste a night with, but he invited me to drink, “for old time’s sake.” How could I refuse?

Impatient for a waitress, he reached for my drink. The sting of Brain Death, the house specialty, a heady maelstrom of herb juices and spirits, put the light back in his eyes. The Dragons tuned their instruments, creating noise like claws on flint.

“I’m lonely. My little lady’s left me,” whined the Antique Dealer. “My woman dances for another.”

“There, there,” I consoled as best I could. “Now, now. These things happen. Other fish in the sea and all that.”

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