Monday, February 15, 2010
Gentle screwballs of the universe...
Though all signs point to the contrary: Welcome! Allow me to walk you backwards over the blind cliff of history. That wasn't a question.
The year was nineteen hundred ninety and nine (though it often masqueraded after hours as Waylon Flowers --sans Madame, mind you-- in order to boost its social cache --misguidedly, mind you-- and gain entrance --unsuccessfully, mind you-- into area hotspots) and the country was gripped with an exquisite fear of the approaching Y2K. I, Werner von Bounce, in cahoots with my cohort, Pierre DuPop, were taken ill with a hare-brained scheme (aka: "Rory"). In preparation for the inevitable incineration of the social contract that would undoubtedly take place when the whole of personhood was plunged into the second stone age at the stroke of twelve on 1st January 2000, DuPop and I unrepealably volunteered our extremely suspect expertises (patent pending) as curators for the restoration and reboot of all arts and literature as we were to know it. [Bring the car around... keep the motor running. Provided, of course, you can start the engine.] Enter the Rubber Bomb.
On 2000's first tick of the clock, a goose fatted with nonsensical ramblings was dropped upon to the internet (aka: "Ol' Pickle Puss"). The Rubber Bomb's online premiere was timed to the instant of the anticipated implosion of the digital universe. The rules had changed! (read: were firmly in place and simply ignored.) Finally, coherent thought tossed aside for chaotic tangents. Concise discourse dumped for confusing drivel. Narratively arbitrary, linguistically ambivalent and grammatically anarchic. [It's all right... the bad man is gone.]
Since our launch at the dawn of the double doughnut, the Rubber Bomb has drifted in and (more often) out of activity. Blame it on our youth (hell, it's long gone... hit the bricks with the seed money for our money-printing operation. Just can't trust people these, er, THOSE days). Well, I'd say I don't doubt there are several renaissances yet to come but I've been wrong before. Why, just yesterday I told DuPop to box France Don't Dance and Chiclets Adrift in the sixth at Woodbine. Oops. Look at it this way... who knew we were even here? Our stretches of precision dormancy notwithstanding, there's a lot of garbage to sift through here. My advice to you, pick up a shovel, sweet cheeks... and enjoy.
Yours in absentia,
Werner von Bounce (aka: "2-for-1 Omelet Thursdays")