Fling Springs

Spring finds us, up twin waters way, tuning our cosmic aeolian radio to frequencies most exotic, even as does metastasize the looniest runaway trainwreck metaphor of all time which seems to have a terrible sense of humor which seems only fitting and also there is this barrel of flying creatures... well, they were in the barrel, but I guess they horned their way out. So goes it in these waters which are a little rushy about now, but that's the snow from the Blues. Also, it never hurts to be reminded of the repercussions of sister twisting, particularly in the case of one's twin, doppelganger, past or future iterations of oneself, or whatever other disturbing permutations on that theme one might stumble upon in the practice of over-imagining. One could stop over-imagining, but what is trapped seeks release and becomes ever more wack in the process, so it's probably best to let things take their due course. Now, off to the tumbleweed races.

Not Un-Amenable to Bling -- Cookie Carnivale

Self-Creeped, Inspookarated, Bestranged

Such is the Mise-en-scène †, grandly undefined to much confusion, but that's to be expected in this tricky waters way of blustery, glittering noir. The Witch Doctor, long in attendance, is having a fine time with the conjured ball of confusion, which we are heretofore calling "hilarity," brings tidings of great greatness. Don't worry. It will all be fine. It will be all kinds of lit because. I know you are, but what am I/rubber-glue, etc. Watch the pretend-logic rubics cube of absurdity, because it's a geometric chameleon, Lulu. That's what the phone call is about.