Punk rock dating: Chapters 34-40

Chapter 34: Pink Pineapple...

Barbiturates and Modafinil: The Yin and the Yang:

Marie was born on February 8th, 1985 at the exact moment the final episode of the "Dukes of Hazzard" aired.

It was the end of one era and the start of another.

Marie was born to Edgar and Emma Lansing.

She grew up in a rich neighborhood in Altoona, Pennsylvania. Edgar owned the Altoona Plastic Coat Hanger Factory. Emma was paid big bucks to decode small print.

Not all of Marie's family were wealthy, however. In fact, the Pennsylvanian Lansings were also related to a very poor family who lived in the backwater hills of Hazard, Kentucky. These distant cousins were the real-life inspiration for the television show "The Dukes of Hazzard."

In a bizarre twist of fate, at the exact same moment Marie was born and the "Dukes" were cancelled, the Lansing family of Hazard, Kentucky were killed in a moonshine related incident, which triggered a skirmish that will forever go down in the history books as "The War of the Mountain-Men."

Edgar, Emma, and Marie were not as colorful as their kin. They were largely passionless Northerners whose idea of recreational reading consisted, mainly, of travel brochures, the small print in cryptic, legally-binding contracts, and other such unimaginative fare.

They were, scientifically speaking, the most boring people on planet Earth. The only real fun the Lansing's ever had was on the the 2nd Friday of each month when they would hold decadent fishbowl parties. They would send young Marie to bed before the guests arrived.

Emma would answer the door in a dominatrix outfit, all whips and mixed prescriptions.

"Hello, Mr. E, " she would greet the neighbor, playfully whipping her cat-o-nine-tails, "Just drop your keys in the bowl and you might get lucky! You just might get me!"

Then all the men in the neighborhood would swap wives and antidepressants and screw on the stain-resistant carpet.

But that only happened once a month.

The rest of the month they sat silently in the living room reading "Reader's Digest."

"Can't we get a television, Mom?" Marie would ask.

"Now, Marie," her Mother would warn , "There's no reason for anybody to be that entertained!"

Marie would sit there, staring at the walls, dreaming of other girls who were living normal, exciting lives. She'd fantasize about them watching television, going out on dates, being allowed to grow and have their own life experiences.

Later in life, Marie turned these fantasies into literary works, written in that easy for reader's to digest format.

People praised her works for their "slice of life realism."

For years, Marie was never really sure if that kind of life really existed, until she met Julie. Julie was a Marie Lansing character brought to conflicted life.

As Marie watched Julie lying in her bed watching television, she felt this nondescript terror that Julie might be a bit too entertained for her own health...


Join us tomorrow for later tonight...


Punk rock dating no. 35: Skeleton Nurse...

The Origin of the Missing Page:

"Oh, shit," whispered Dr. Coorgan reaching through his pockets.

The page he had been carrying was missing.

"Theez eez no good!"

..........................................................................................................

The night before Dr. Coorgan's time-slide to February 1st 2009 (where he first met Clement Allsworth):

I was attempting to reason with Docteur Coorgan...This was going to be difficult:

"I know you don't enjoy his writing, good Docteur, but we must put all that aside for just a moment..."

"Oui! I am only saying..."

"Now, Clement's a complex man... It may not seem that way when you first meet him, but..."

"Oui! Oui!" he wee-weed.

"Yes, here...Let me get you his address." I reached into my pocket and pulled out the only piece of paper I had on me...the final page of "Clement Allsworth: Between the Unmade Covers" which I had written my number on for Bernadette.

Hastily, I scribbled directions to Clement's house on the page and handed it to Dr. Coorgan....

.......................................................................................................................

Planet-Bill parked his '59 El Dorado at the thorny throne of Escorpion. He combed his Brylcreem Pompadour with a switchblade made from the still-beating heart of a white dwarf star. The skeleton Nurse unzipped her body bag, crawled out in a poodle skirt and saddle shoes.

"Fool! You approach the throne of the dreaded Escorpion?"

"Ayyyyyy! I thought me and youse was friends! I mean, why else would I have brought ya a gift?"

Planet-Bill held up a handful of crumpled paper.

"What is it?" hissed Escorpion.

"Me and da Billy Boys have right here, da secrets of 'Punk rock dating.' I dunno what you want dis for. Never pegged you as da bookworm type! HA!"

"Where did you get this?! Answer me , Clown!" Escorpion roared from lying mouth number four.

"Relax, Boss... We got our ways, if ya know whud I'm sayin'! Now where's my reward?"

"Yes. You have done well, " Escorpion conceded. "You shall be my favored servant in the Sacred Grove."

Planet-Bill flipped up his collar.

"Dat's very generous of you and all but I was finkin' maybe some, ahhh...monetary compensatin'! Y'know for my troubles and whutnot..."

"You lowly nebulons and your insatiable appetite for material gain! Yes. I shall see that you are rewarded extravagantly with useless money! Enjoy it now...for when the Sacred Grove arrives, we shall once and for all end this cycle of greed that is so emblematic of this corrupted plane..."

"Yeh...can't wait," said Planet-Bill, zipping the Skelton Nurse back into her body bag and driving off in his Pink Cadillac...



Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we read "Punk rock dating no. 36: On the Move..."


Punk rock dating no. 36: She's the One Hundred...

Slow Night Armaments:

Bernadette's black eyes: the gleam of bone glinted in the half-moon light. She contemplated giving me the answers to the universe but opted to say something filthy instead. She tapped her knives on the table impatiently; double-dare in the way she stared. Conversations on life and death and what's on TV.

I was blunt. I informed her I was here to save the world.

"I don't know about that," she tied a seductive noose with her tongue, "I always say when all has gone wrong, start over..."

"I dunno..." my eloquence slipping with the drink I was sipping, "I don't think everything's necessarily gone wrong..."

Her faith in everything was shaken, but I have found this a common ailment.

"I think you're alright...and I'm pretty sure I'm alright.. and we're both here tonight.."

I felt the unmistakeable glow of a slow night where everything clicks just right. I was in a different time-stream at this point. Syrupy minutes. Measuring moments in yardsticks.

I could see in her face that time was racing. She had the demeanor of a clock running fast. The people breaking their necks to keep up in this world had always bored her. She read "Breed" because it was a quick read. The meaning of life under five minutes.

"Breed" was unusual in the oeuvre of Clement Allsworth. He usually strung an unforgettable moment across hundreds of buttery pages.

Clement understood that every moment was so full of information that even the world's greatest writer (not to be confused with Flannery O' Conner, who was the greatest southern writer but not the world's greatest writer...Which I must admit, can be a confusing distinction) could not convey the true essence of your average minute in a billion written pages, let alone a lowly paragraph.

This was why he struggled so with haikus.

Clement was surprised when he wrote "Breed" that the answer to the BIG question was so brief.
After all, it took him 800 pages of "Portland Memories" to convey a meaningless look Marie had shot him.

I tried to explain this to Bernadette, but she was a big picture girl, the pocket portraits only became appealing after we had a child....



Tomorrow we learn more about Orion and Bernadette's child and the mystery of Channel Zero...



Punk rock dating no. 37: Mass-Mind Control, Maalox Commercials...

Sister Cathode:

September, 15th 1984:

My daughter, Dorothy, was born in 2093.

She was only seven years old when I brought her and her mother back to 1979.

Her memories of the 22nd century were distant. As far as she was concerned she was a 20th century girl.

In the early 80's, I relocated my family back to the south. Hazard, Kentucky, where I had grown up as a young reptile. Home of the Kentucky Lansings.

I wish I would have been around more, but the late 70's and early 80's were an extremely busy time for me and as a result Dorothy grew up with her father largely absent.

I am sorry Dorothy.

Dorothy was eleven years old on this morning in 1984, bowl of Cap'n Crunch in hand.

It was one of those Saturday mornings that you accidentally wake up too early and instead of rotting your brain with a good cartoon, you find yourself watching the local Agriculture Report.

Dorothy tried as hard as she could to find it the slightest bit entertaining but it just wasn't working. Now, these were the dark days before cable slithered it's way into every home. There were three channels : 5, 6, and 11 but on this particular day when Dorothy ka-chunked the dial there was a new station: Channel Zero.

Channel Zero: The waterfall. Every transmission in the known universe in an endless, entertaining rain of 10 second clips, interspersed with subliminal commands.

Perfect for folks like Clement Allsworth and Dorothy...Folks who's favorite show is the changing of channels.

Where else can you watch The A-Team, the '68 Olympics, and a very special episode of Matlock that naturally occurred when television waves first erupted from the cosmic womb in the Big Bang, all in the span of 30 seconds? These were usually interspersed with subtle psychic commands, courtesy of SCORPIO's E.S.Pies.

"The Abandoned Radio Station," it beckoned, "52nd and Main."

Dorothy stared dazedly as  Cap'n Crunch defiantly succumbed to the Soggies.

"Midnight tonight," Channel Zero subconsciously insisted.

The killer in my home...



Join us tomorrow when Dorothy meets the agents of SCORPIO and how this is responsible for "Thriller" topping the charts...


Punk rock dating no. 38: The Temptation of Dorothy...

The Liar?:

0:00 hours. September 16th, 1984

Hazard County , Kentucky

Corner of 52nd And Main:

Dorothy stands in the desiccated city center. Tombstone glow as the Kentucky moon haunts the landscape. Bluegrass emerging victorious through the decaying concrete.

No telling how long she was going to be gone so she packed her pink backpack with the usual runaway kit: Peanut butter sandwiches, a compass and a fistful of Tiger Beat magazines.

The abandoned building she approached was once home to WKOR, a long defunct radio station that used to be the cry-in-your-Pabst favorite of the white line trucker set.

Dorothy turned the dusty knob, to her surprise it was unlocked. The floor was a porcupine of hypodermic needles. She stepped carefully over Zen vagrants and emptied bottles of Thunderbird. Broken Merle Haggard records crunched beneath her feet.

"Dorothy, daughter of Orion. We have been expecting you," said the hooded man.

"You have?"

"Yes. What we are about to ask you may seem upsetting, but your mission is going to save Planet Earth."

Dorothy's face was blank.

The hooded man with the scorpion's sting continued, "Your father...if he is not stopped...is going to destroy the paradise that's coming. You believe in Peace on Earth, right?"

Dorothy nodded her head.

"Then you must not speak our name and you must not reveal our mission to your father. I am the leader of SCORPIO, a world peace organization. In the coming age we will see the Sacred Grove. When all needless, greedy, man-made 'progress' is abandoned in favor of the clean slate. Your father does not want this. He wants the planet to continue it's long descent into debased debauchery. The system that encourages the piggish businessmen and shit-fisted lawyers to continue their manic grab at the once-plentiful resources God had granted us. Gorging ourselves until our Earth lies stripped...wounded... debased. You can be the second Lion of the New Age. "

Dorothy shook in silent fear.

"The first Lion did not come through for us. Orion still lives. That is why you have been chosen. You are now the closest one to your father. It is unfortunate, but you must be the one to stop him. He would never suspect his own daughter. By completing your mission you will usher in the Sacred Grove. The Eden Eternal. Do you understand your mission?"

"MOMMY!" Dorothy mommied and sprinted past the gathering werewolves, the soul-sapped bindle stiffs, and discarded "Johnny Paycheck" sleeves.

"Kill her!" commanded Escorpion as he pulled off the hood obscuring his seven heads and serpent eyes.

The werewolves gave chase. She could feel their hot breath, hear the snapping of their hungry jaws and the unmistakeable cackle of questionable ethics.

The death chill ran down Dorothy's spine...

...For this would be the day that "What's Love Got to Do with It?" topped the charts.

I pulled up to the curb in my '83 Pontiac Trans Am, Tina Turner blasting from my car stereo, when I saw Dorothy running in wide-eyed panic down 52nd Avenue.

"Get in!" I yelled.

Dorothy leaped into the passenger's seat and we raced off into the autumn night.

"Won't they follow us, Dad?"

"Yes, but they won't catch us, " I explained, "The werewolves are notoriously bad trackers. All the blow they did in the 70's has irreparably damaged their senses. "

"How did you know where I was?" asked Dorothy.

"Please. You know nothing escapes your Mother. She heard you sneaking out and had me follow you."

"I'm sorry, Dad. I don't know what happened...I was watching TV and this voice told me to go downtown and I didn't want to do it, but it was like I had to... and then this guy told me I had to kill you and he almost made me believe it!" Dorothy started to cry.

"Channel Zero, " I whispered to myself.



Join us in an hour as the All -day Sunday "Punk rock dating" marathon continues...


Punk rock dating no. 39: The White Horse...

Dialogue scene:

September 16th , 1984:

"What the hell, it's Sunday night," the Supernatural Proctologist said to himself and loosened his skinny tie, using his VISA Gold card to chop the coke. "These Huey Lewis records sound so much better after a few lines..."

I burst through the door.

"S.P, " I proclaimed, "Escorpion is in town! We've got his location! He just tried to kill my daughter."

"Oh, hey...Orion, " he said smiling at himself in the mirror.

The Supernatural Proctologist's cocaine habit had grown since last I saw him. He now spoke at an incredible clip, half to me/half to himself.

"Escorpion, eh? Tch. Why doesn't that dude get a life, y'know? Hey! How do you like the office? I bought this place with the money you paid me for the Studio 54 gig? Swank, huh? Hey? Have you heard this Huey Lewis and the News record yet? I'm telling you, it's gonna be a hit! Here! Let me start it over! You gotta hear this song, 'I Want A New Drug!' Hey, I wonder if next time you go to the future if you cold get me some of those new futuristic drugs? I bet they've got some good shit, eh? Eh? Eh?"

Unconsciously he transmitted a telepathic command that gave me no choice but to enjoy the song.

"Well, I'm gonna give you another chance to earn some money," I said. "I have a new plan. Now that I know that Escorpion is hiding in the old WKOR building, I'm getting together a militia to take the fight to him! Finally! We'll catch him off guard!"

The S.P. was conflicted. He knew it was a dangerous mission that could potentially cost him his life but there was no disputing the argument that more money = more drugs.

He gave me a clammy handshake that let me know he was in.

I had been forced to resign from LIBRA. I could no longer use their resources and manpower.
I had to build my own guerrilla army.

The Supernatural Proctologist, drug habit aside, was one of the most promising and affordable telepathic bloodhounds money could rent. Dr. Coorgan had already let me know he was with me and I could always count on the Commissioner to secretly assist me in the coming war, but were we enough?

That night as I watched the Supernatural Proctologist die in my arms I knew the answer was "probably not..."



Join us tomorrow for honest to godness action! Look! Exclamation points!!!!!



Punk rock dating chapter 40: The Calico Pony...

Action scene:

The S.P, Dr. Coorgan, the Commissioner and Icrashed through the front wall of the old WKOR building with my Trans Am...

We were instantly swarmed with Werewolves and Billy Boys.

"Zut Alurs! I surrender!" shouted Dr. Coorgan as he ran away at the first sight of trouble.

The Commissioner cursed through gritted teeth, chomping his cigar in half:

"Goddammit, Orion! Why did you have to bring a Frenchman to the battle?"

I fired a few well-aimed shots at an attacking werewolf. "Now's not the time for unfair cultural stereotypes! We must stay focused!"

I squeezed off another shot, blowing the helmet and a decent amount of scalp off the top of a marauding Billy boy’s head.

At this point the three of us had to have been facing at least 10 assorted minions and who knows where the hell Dr. Coorgan had gone!

As if all this wasn't bad enough, in walked Escorpion himself: cape made from human flesh. 14 serpent eyes fixing on us.

"Well, if it isn't Orion," he snarled with one of his lying mouths,"My favorite enemy! Tonight is the night you die! But not before you watch your friends perish!"

With that he threw a jagged shard of a Slim Whitman album at the S.P.

The spray of hot blood, a garish red against the black vinyl.

Escorpion laughed with seven slavering mouths.

The Commissioner fought on bravely as I cradled The Supernatural Proctologist in my arms...

The Supernatural Proctologist coughed up blood, "I- I see... a calico pony...coming for me...I see...long dead relatives...they all want to ...borrow...money....You should see it Orion!"

His eyes widened with cosmic awe, "It's beautiful...all...all..all the coke you can snort..."

S.P's pupils dilated, this normally meant he was in the midst of a month long bender. However, this time it meant he had, at last, left this Earthly plane...

"C'MON!" the Commissioner screamed, AK-47 stuttering. "WE"RE DYING HERE, MAN! HE'S GONE! DO SOMETHING BEFORE THE REST OF US JOIN 'IM!"

Ghost rising from the hot barrel into the cool night....

I gently laid down The Supernatural Proctologist's lifeless body and calmly picked up my rifle....



Join us tomorrow as Orion battles Escorpion and don't miss the memorial service for our dear friend, The Supernatural Proctologist...