new to luxury? take a tour January 15, 2004, 23:25 [NOTE:] For the past week I have spent my time in the paradox that is Sunday, January 1st. The following is an attempt of documenting the events that have occured as well as details from shocking recent developments. Friends of Vienna, your time has come... ------------------------------------------------------------ [VIA INTERNATIONALE NOVA SUPER-COMPUTER:] Right at once, Caesar enlisted the aid of the great Alex Vienna and the virgin astronomer, who advised him to do away with the lunar cycle entirely and follow the solar year, as did the Egyptian spiders of Braille. The year was then calculated to be 365 (universal) and 1/4 days. Caesar then grew a hyper-realistic moustache and decided it would be quite a grand self portrait to add 67 days to 45 B.C. making 46 B.C. begin on January 1. After a long stay at the cleavage crabclaw, Caesar then decreed that four poisons a day be added to Federal makeout parties punchbowl, thus theoretically keeping his calendar from being digested in time. Shortly before his assassination in 44 B.C., Caesar signed over the copyrights of his linear year to myself (which I now keep in the breast pocket of my mint green tuxedo.) I then juggled ten lamps with Fulgencio Batista, who was, at the time, fleeing Cuba. Inside a panic from Broadway to Bombay, We decided to assist disgruntled members of new york city's branch of the ADNVYOPEL-CWAXIMOTHO's Transportation Workers Union by going on strike. Batista burned his bra but we both decided it was ahead of its time. Winston Churchill then told me the reason for my constant arrival in January 1st was that Caesar and I failed to calculate the correct value for the solar year as 365.242199 days, not 365.25 days. Thus, a 11-minute-a-year error added seven days by the year 1000, and 10 days by the mid-15th century. Less talk, why not? --------------------------------------------------------- (my return) (told in non-linear chronology) --------------------------------------------------------- Exhibit A: Sean Magee’s shooting gallery of ex-lovers We raced in dual carts for garden cigars and silk playing cards The billiards and billboards screaming: ‘RE-ELECT THE BLIND BRIDES’ Those worms, die you atoms Later, we burned hospitals down so we could read in the dark. Jarhead looked. Licky looked. The Skunk blinked. SEAN MAGEE: (wearing a trend setting aviator getup)“Henchmen! My pips and corks, whyfore…you were saying…” Word on the street is Brandy Warhol is planning something big. Last time the corkscrews were wasted, completely wasted… BRANDY WARHOL: “Bye for now, cubs. Evergreen itch, orange foil” It was at this moment that I was given a city hall invite; that is an invitation to Salvation City Hall, so it’s great people can rejoice in true aesthetic spectacle. It was a wondrous call to arms and I gladly accepted and signed on as spokesman. Exhibit B: …and did glow that night In fungal victories… Anne Frank’s wedding: as overrated as the New York sun. The stripes invent math and the telephone booth. Like eating the falling angels; ripe and wriggling. Wine is red and a mouth is a hole. [Office bulletin from the morgues missing sheets:] Toupee for a thinner sinner. The no go tricks with nuclear physics. Past and future playing chess with echoes just outside the coral reef. Tomorrow we will be able to smile under our sideburns. They were, of course, the style at the time. Blushing architects fly like maggots; memories that perfect themselves. A well knit turban unraveled from rips sustained from jumping the ruins of hollywheel trapeze teeth. Limbs get boring… Manta Ray sold his blue but the hitchhikers escaped from their skin. EVERYTHING MUST GO Oh, but lost in the caesarian scar garden without a care… {IMAGE REMOVED by UbuZip} REPORT: Seventeen Salts make for the straight of Gibraltar While I, found the land getting fatter; sat up knitting concave beauty duvets Was there nothing more beautiful than pre-packaged untainted toothpaste? many could change sinners to lovers and scoundrels to gentlemen. They call it pheramone… Exhibit C: L-train vs. the hi-fi (dead) internationale solid gold and brains on fine china. I mean pounding on the shackles! I (re) discover Donna Dear’s distant daughter in a waiting room dinner party… Exhibit D: fish dinner with Tim Burton, Paul Buxton, The Spiders of Braile, A.V. Vienna, Lungs Lafayette, The Duke’s narcissistic debutantes and world class brass Anne IV (aka dopple pheramone) Paul Buxton: “Vintage is dead, we must now robe ourselves in the finest of the non-linear furs.” (Buxton disappears behind a cloud of the spiders in braile) Lungs Lafayette: “’Right or wrong?’ I asked and she replied ‘This highway has ended’. And I sat there for a real, a real new york minute just sitting. Sometimes you’ve got to do that. Sit. And think. just what did it mean?” Kerri Desousa’s first kiss: “clearly it was just so the princess could undress herself with a double grenade that was straight army surplus.” A.V.: “and if you traded your skull it just wouldn’t feel like home.” (Organs elastic, ecstatic) I then followed Anne IV down corridors of sinus pressure. I finally caught up with her around a copper turnstile. I was gripped with complete dementia when I commanded her to apologize for purposely spilling her luke warm clasp of flu all over my green envy afghan. She unsealed her lips while her skin snagged on the Asian couple sitting due west. They desperately pawed at the skin that was now obtructing their periphery. Yet the skin. never. forgets. and it enveloped them both; the woman’s muffled shrieks accompanied by the man’s systematic kicks until a flat lull; every flap, every fold knocking over filing cabinets, devouring racks of outdated issues of ‘Simple Living’ I then noticed I had been screaming for what felt like several fever pounding moments “these hands are claws, ms. St Pierre” I snarled in a nasal slap. “We’ve known it was you who poisoned the Hi-Fi Internationale, we’ve known it was you who planted the bear trap in the lips of the makeout party! We’ve known about it and nothing can erase your lipstick from the files and nothing could taste sweeter! you swollen strand of degeneration.” She glances at her train, luggage in hand, wiping the sleet from her parakeet bleached bouffant. I'd like to Divide and conquer those veins from blues. "Red Herring Dragnet addresses your return vs. the skirt." Exhibit E: XR-8 Liquid Nitrogen Refrigeration They knew the rasping throats of their fathers and they feared it. The cats elegantly lick their lips: “Like hyenas and vultures we’ve hunted. And waited like pawns. We’ve danced with that fear and rejoiced like the bladder of a tortured dog. The shadows keep on falling, oh and how we’ve waited” [Czech List:] I was later poisoned at my generic shift at The Tape Worm Farm. It was an casually orchestrated plan involving nearly a dozen of the farms low profile employees and the manipulation of Silver City's centralized climate. It is my belief that my poisoning was brought on by the widely publicized topic of the priceless “Wisdoms of Vienna”. Both The Duchess and Brandy Warhol have sent their finest bodyguards to my aid. More importantly there has been talk of the raising price of my head, as well as my adopted brother Sean Magee, as we are the heirs to the throne of the exceptional. [NOTE:] A recent telephone wire from the virgin urchin astronomer has hinted that the enemy has many "isms" deployed: Moths, Dust, Road Villains/Nocturnal Insects, Asthma agents to crooked Karma police, The Portuguese Widowmaker to the rumored Gangrene, The Cats from the Japanese Flag to…Pheramone? [END VIENNAGRAM:]