Beware the Post Horn...

The premise for our Booklub is simple: Each month we read a new book and rotate the hosting spot. Whoever's turn it is to host must choose the selection. Sometimes we read multiple short stories; sometimes we read multiple poems. We never read tombstones. We attempt to strive for an ambiance reflective of the text itself. You can imagine the controlled chaos inspired by my selection for the month of April, Thomas Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49. My sprawling pimp pad provided a spectacular setting; I said to the other Booklubbers, "We roll tonight, to the guitar bite," and Booklub was on for Thursday.



Needless to say, not all present appreciated The Crying of Lot 49. The Mayor drove the last rusty nail in the coffin of my black and shriveled heart by calling me a "toad." Others resisted reading the book, and the Sly Little Minx went so far as to stage a coup d'état. Why did she have to do that? I read her fucking Nipple Jesus, damnit! A fucking coup d'état on my hands for Booklub--since when does that shit happen? I'll tell you when--it doesn't--not on my watch, suckers!

After a contentious April, Justice finally won the day; I prevailed with my truly admirable use of diplomacy. The Minx checked her ID and realized she wasn't Che. Unfortunately, numerous personal insults were hurled, and various threats were made in the process. The Minx taunted me and defiantly threatened to purchase Cliff's Notes. (A sacrilege to any Booklub.) A boycott? Would she dare? She said she could only be bribed to read the book if Dryfus would be permitted to attend in full pirate regalia. This posed problems as Dryfus is illiterate--I don't care what she says--I know it's a fact, he confessed it to me. We compromised, and agreed that if she found it in audiobook, Dryfus could listen and make a cameo appearance at Booklub. Fortune dealt a fatal blow and the Minx was thwarted! No audiobook was to be found on such a short notice. Foiled again, Minx!

Finally, the day arrived for Booklub festivities. We sat around drinking delicious beverages and waited for the Minx to come and bring some sweet treats. Below the Escape Goat and the Cricket smoke like eastern Europeans. As expected, the Minx came through...



Doing what Minxes do best, she sniffed out some scrumptious cupcakes. The Minx loves the opportunity to enjoy a fabulous snack even more than she loves merrymaking and mischief! Just look at these colorful deserts...
The ghoulish image of the Escape Goat serves as a premonition of things to come. Take note of the ill-fated purple cupcake she is brandishing in her left hand. Below, you will notice that the ill-fated cupcake is appropriately positioned as the center piece of the cupcake entourage. This was no mistake.

The Minx had signaled to the Escape Goat which cupcake was loaded to self destruct in the Mayor's face! (The Escape Goat is a double agent, and sometimes she can't resist the urge to detonate cupcakes; in the Minx she saw the perfect accomplice.) The average observer might say, "Why. Those cupcakes look delicious. How did they survive long enough to be digitally documented?" I will tell you...we showed the restraint of the Donner Party. Indeed. We distracted ourselves with delightful conversation and bocce ball while the Mayor channeled Nessie, her underwater ally. Sea serpents are the Mayor's people, and she will not hesitate to call upon her denizens and henchmen if she feels threatened. Here she is seen murmuring the calls of the deep to her elusive sister, Nessie. The Mayor is capable of sending subversive signals from miles away, and in this rarely documented moment she is featured in a ritualistic cry of dominance as she vies with the Cricket over a sparkling glass of wine. The Cricket was loathe to tangle with such a wretched beast, and finally parted with the glass, astutely citing a preference for red wine.



The Mayor's primordial instincts recognized danger, but the wine dulled her senses. Her call to Nessie was confused with her call to all plastic pink swine. Oh no! What had she done! A herd of tiny pink pigs materialized and attacked the hapless Escape Goat! I saw the arrival of the pigs as the perfect opportunity to cast out the demon named Legion that had temporarily taken up residence in the Minx. We could instruct the pigs towards the nearest cliff and call it a day, but the Escape Goat had other ideas.




Fortunately, she befriended their leader with her famous interpersonal skills and ability to communicate with animals. Below, the pig whisperer works her charm. This brief distraction was easily suppressed once the Escape Goat coerced the swine to return to their alternate dimension. No blood was shed, but the Minx was still in saucy form.



After the pigs were vanquished, the Mayor produced an interesting photograph. It must be noted that if the Mayor becomes irritated, bored, or inebriated she is guaranteed to brazenly remind onlookers that Jonhnny Cash is her cousin (or--alternately--tell the captivating story of how--at the age of five--she thwarted a pack of heathens who attempted to kidnap her in their El Camino). Usually, I would shrug her raucous claim off like water on a duck's back, but this evening she had photographic evidence. How could we argue? She had obviously been time traveling again, and this beat everything to date! This photograph clearly says: The Mayor and Johnny don't give a fuck--Sean Penn style. They know how to bring the pain. Step up to this shit and you'll get served. Muthafucka. Eat a dick!




Never again can I dispute her claims. You're awesome Mayor, and Johnny Cash gives you street credibility! You really came correct on Booklub night! On to the ratings!

A thumbs up is a good review for the book; a thumbs down is a bad review for the book. You can angle your thumb at any degree in between, and the angle indicates whether you lean towards a positive or negative review. Here are the reviews: one thumbs down, three thumbs at an upward 45 degree angle, and one universal gesture signifying, "fuck you." I like the book, but I like other Pynchon books better. I picked this one because it's his most accessible, and I do think it's an interesting read. Some disagreed. As you can see, it drove the Minx to drink. Here she is seen sucking face with the hair of the dog that bit her.
Her enthusiastic thumbs down spoke volumes! Everyone applauded the Minx's colorful review. The Escape Goat was not displeased with the book, although she certainly had criticisms.

As for the Mayor...I. I. I'm speechless. Why did we let her get away with such a vulgar rating? Why? Once again, I am reminded of her uncanny resemblance to the Man in Black. Cricket seemed to appreciate the read, but she too took issue with various parts. The Escape Goat was on good behavior and demonstrated her cerebral agility more than once, as did Cricket. I posed some great questions, but I would say that enthusiasm for the text waned.
The Cricket and the Escape Goat are smarter than all of us combined, but the Minx would be the first to go cannibal if we all washed up on an island--so I don't know where that would get them. The Mayor can slip through sewer grates, navigating the labyrinth of the Chicago sewer system like the Minotaur, and I have the backdoor key to Jeannie's bottle and Snoopy's doghouse so we all break even when it comes to credibility.

Despite the rather mixed reviews, I think it's safe to argue that Booklub was a success. The food was delicious, the wine was excellent, and--as seen below--the Minx's amazing ability to taunt me by drunkenly waving the burning ember of her Marlboro "just a touch of menthols" dangerously close to the curtains was impeccable. I think the Cricket's satisfied expression says it all...

Again, take note of the fire hazard that the Minx has become...

At times we neglected the book. I think we enjoyed the food and company more than the book, and became ensnared in the viselike grip of Digression. This was not so bad--of course--because the book is ensnared in the viselike grip of Digression so why would it mind?



The evening was going smoothly, until the Mayor and I became listless and started playing with stamps in homage to The Crying of Lot 49. We applied stamps to the Mayor's forehead, and also on the walls, with a magical adhesive that fuses the stamp to any surface. We were going to mail the Mayor to Japan, but the Escape Goat said that wouldn't be prudent. "Just because Waldo Jeffers did it doesn't mean you guys can!" was her terse response.

I think that the stamp incident sparked our dissent into the downward spiral. Shortly thereafter the Escape Goat appeared donning a t-shirt which posed the timeless question, "Who Killed Laura Palmer?" The Mayor feverishly screamed, "BOB! It was BOB!" To which I replied, "It was Leland!" Cricket muttered mysteriously, "Only the log knows--ask it--if you dare, Agent Cooper." The Minx shouted, "Whatever. Can we get some hummus up in this piece?"

I thought the stamps were to blame but Cricket pointed out that "When the Justin t-shirts came out it was all over." Justin t-shirts. Indeed. As evidence in the Mayor's potent expression below, there is something empowering about seeing Justin on your breasts. The Mayor did--in fact--party with Justin. Although her account is spotty, I am sure she can produce photographic evidence if pressed.

The Escape Goat also loves Justin. Below you will notice both the Escape Goat and the Mayor sizing up the other's respective shirt. Typically, the Mayor wants whatever she doesn't have, so I am certain that this photograph captures her hatching a plot to trick the Escape Goat into swapping shirts. Predictably, the Escape Goat would decline any such offers. She would never swap her plastic beads for a pox-infested wool blanket. It should be noted that--in this exact moment--"Rock Your Body" played loudly and proudly in the background. If I were tech-savvy enough, I would spare you no details and it would be on repeat as you read this post. Fortunately, I don't know my ass from fat meat. Foiled again!

After the Justin shirts, the Mayor commenced to share her latest interpretive dance. As seen below, the dance started out with clenched fists, and shouts of "FIRE! FIRE!" At this point, the Minx was the only one who took any interest. Note the look of concentration on Cricket's face. The average viewer might assume that she is doing her best to blink in time with the snap of my camera's shutter--not so. She has actually been caught in the act of sending telepathic messages to her spy, Theo. She later confirmed the rumor--started by none other than the Minx--that Bartelby ran into a bit of a dilemma when the slab of ice on his glacial lake began melting at an alarming rate. The Mayor danced on...



And on...



And on...



And on! Suddenly, chaos erupted as the Escape Goat began seizing control of all things electronic. In the background you will notice a case of CDs in her hands. She simultaneously commandeered the iPod, stereo, and digital camera (at various points). You will also notice that the Minx and Cricket are readying for their moment of liberation...



Cricket commenced to align a rendezvous point on her cell phone while the Minx began regressing to an embryonic state. An ostrich may hide it's head in the sand as a defense mechanism, but Minxes enjoy curling up in the fetal position while clicking their heels and shouting, "There's no place like home, Auntie Em!"



Before the two departed, however, we had time to enjoy a poetry reading. We decided to pay homage to Emily Dickinson. Upon request, the Escape Goat sportingly read "My Life Had Stood a Loaded Gun," to the tune "Yellow Rose of Texas." She happily informed us that Dickinson's meter allows most of her poetry to be read in synch with "Yellow Rose of Texas." Thanks for the trivia, Escape Goat!



Despite the fact that she was wearing an "I Partied with Justin" baby-tee, the Mayor listened respectfully, and cupped a glass of wine under her chin in a rare moment of pensive contemplation. Clearly, she was missing Lil' Homey in his absence, and was fondly recalling how he does so love an Emily Dickinson reading.



We raised our glasses aloft to honor another successful Booklub, and reminded the Cricket that she will be hosting the next event...



As the Mayor triumphantly cracked open the doomed bottle of wine that would seal her fate, she flexed her rippling biceps for the camera, and commenced to dance on while the Titanic sank...



Her dancing was a contagion; it didn't take long for the fancy-footed Pied Piper to peel off some devil's horns and ensnare the Escape Goat in a merry jig.



Capable of resisting anything but hot gossip and delicious snacks, the Minx pressed on. "I don't think so!" she shouted, "We're out!" The Cricket confirmed this sad fact and they made a hasty retreat. Unfortunately, the Cricket was leaving behind the wounded!



Off in the corner--collecting dust--sat her magnificent bocce balls! Disaster struck. We quickly made a coordinated effort to contact the Minx and Cricket.
Finally, through a channel of complex phone calls
we reached the Trystero, who put us in touch with
Cricket, and all was right in the world. Now was a time
for healing. Minx and Cricket returned to much
fanfare, and as Escape Goat and the Mayor ran
the set of bocce balls down the stairs, the Mayor fell
AT LEAST three flights, but landed on her feet (thanks to her cat-like reflexes). She is still recovering from a set of bruises whose pattern unmistakably resembles Mother Teresa in profile. (We are currently in contact with the Vatican as this appears to be a saintly manifestation--anything to speed up the beatification process.) Bocce ball, anyone?

After her spill down the stairs, the Mayor was incapable of recovering from the depths of a deep and dark psychological hangover. Predictably, her spontaneous decision to mix white and red wines came back to haunt her like a wraith. Dear brave Mayor! She decided to stake out some prime real-estate on the couch and wallow in misery while she shouted, "Peaches, I'm dying in here. Assholes." We took her pulse to determine if she was, indeed, dying and after affirming the fact that she was simply drunk, continued to troll through the archives for a movie that might distract her. She writhed in pain, and covered her eyes with a wet towel, complaining that someone had, "Popped a cap" in her ass.



Clearly, the Escape Goat was in no position to express sympathy. She could barely get a sense of equilibrium. But once she saw the Mayor in her weakened state, the Escape Goat knew she would never have such an ideal opportunity to pounce. Indeed, it was time to channel all of her powers, and muster up the strength to align the coordinates of the detonating cupcake. "I think you just need some sugar" she announced with confidence...



The Escape Goat retrieved the bogus cupcake and commenced with the dastardly deed; witness the aftermath below. Now the Mayor found herself teetering dangerously between unconsciousness and reality while the Escape Goat enjoyed a cheap thrill at the Mayor's expense and let the Fickle Feather in (who arrived just in time for more hyjinks).



The Fickle Feather surveyed the scene and immediately realized that he had stumbled into a macabre lair of madness. "Did you guys mix up a batch of crystal meth in the tub too?" he asked suspiciously.



Of course, the Fickle Feather promptly gravitated to the ball and chain; a mighty weapon indeed. He took the opportunity to test his strength and agility on a series of enemy puppets--worthy opponents all. After he bested all of the puppets, we toasted his skills and encouraged him to try his hand at the samurai sword (a weapon that I have mastered along with the bow staff). Clearly, he needs more tutelage before he masters the samurai sword, but all present agreed that his skills with the ball and chain remain unsurpassed.



At this point, the Mayor appeared to have been grappling with a fit of temporary insanity and sat cackling maniacally in the corner. So brilliant was her grin that the Escape Goat had to wear aviator shades just to see the clock on the wall.



On the bright side, she discovered that the floor provided an excellent photographic vantage point.



The Fickle Feather was in rare form. He even donned the mystical Goggles of Truth. It is common knowledge that anyone wearing the mystical Goggles of Truth can see a lie as it is spoken. To see a lie is a harrowing experience indeed. Most of us are familiar with speaking a lie, or hearing a lie, but to actually see what a lie looks like is not for the faint of heart. They are wretched and ugly beasts. All lies have a triple nipple.

Although I warned the Fickle Feather that the power of the goggles might force him to implode, he did not heed my warning. Fortunately, he survived
the experience, but his hair turned as white as the top of a Q-Tip and he is currently experiencing a stint of temporary (?) blindness. The Escape Goat is nurturing him on curds and whey as you read this. There must have been plenty of lies lurking in the corners to debilitate the Fickle Feather. (I instantly suspected the Mayor's claim that Johnny Cash's blood pulsates through her veins, but--then again--there is the photograph.) Below the Fickle Feather attempts to restore his sight through standing meditation, a technique highly recommended by that beloved idiot savant of the American collective conscious, Dr. Phil.



All the while the Mayor mutterd an onslaught of slurs and slanders before suddenly becoming sullen and camera shy. As you can see, she scorned the lens and demanded--none other than--a green shamrock shake made by the hands of the great Satan himself,
Ronald McDonald. Everyone knows where that creepy clown lives, under the golden arches where billions and billions get served. The Mayor could not be convinced that wandering into the belly of the beast for a shamrock shake was a poor decision. She would hear of no such thing. Finally, for her own protection, her demands were heard and her request was granted. (She was dragged out to the Escape Goat's get-away hearse where she was promptly duct tapped, stuffed in a trunk, and gagged with an oil soaked rag. I am not at liberty to transcribe exactly what happened after that, but I assure you that you need not shed a tear for the Mayor, or express any condolences. I guarantee that she will be able to walk in time for my next post.) In closing, I leave you with this image of a worn and ragged Escape Goat after a long evening of debauchery. She personifies the mood of Booklub for the night. As the Proud Peacock pointedly remarked upon hearing the story of our Pynchon-inspired evening, "Dude. That shit would have never happened if you just would have read Night."