American Fez

Stephenesque's Thursday Almanac

In the North, an overnight frost across the fields will make it seem as though a woman has applied too much deodorant to her unshaven armpits, and black ice should be expected in those regions where people scribble on the ice with black pens. Western areas won't experience any weather at all because God will forget to switch the clouds on, but he will make up for it later by sneezing all over the Eastern sector. So bring an umbrella with you, preferably one that can withstand a good deal of punishment. The South will be enclosed in a snow globe and severely shaken up by a bratty child called Candace Marie who simply can't learn to behave herself properly. Later on she will try to push the South into the dog's bum, so you may want to remain indoors at around six or seven o'clock this evening. All moose hairs will be wet and smelly everywhere.

Golden Rumpus

I am often astonished and amused by how little confidence Christians often seem to have in their own ancient creed. Although the religion has persisted for over two thousands years, some disciples are still concerned that exposure to a typical fantasy film called the Golden Compass might direct impressionable kids away from the fold. Heaven forbid that God-fearin' kids should be entertained with other ideas, eh? I thought their famous mountain-moving faith was supposed to be stronger than that. Apparently not. At least not when there happens to be a cinema on top of the mountain anyway. Once again it seems that the "Light of the World" simply isn't as bright as a movie projector bulb.

The Monday Verdict (Is Always Final)

Frank Sinatra: a croaking toad turned crooning prince when kissed by the greasy lip smacking machinations of both mob and media. Personally I would rather listen to the inchoate scratchings of an actual rat than the mind numbing drawl of the so-called Rat Pack, but alas, during the holiday season there is apparently no escape from having my ears clogged by the lyrical waxings of Sinatra and his equally inebriated cronies. Every department store seems to echo with the lazy low frequency rumble of 'Dean" or 'Frank" drooling on and on about how they have embarked upon yet another dreary sleigh ride with some chestnut devouring floozy. But the worst is when, with a greasy application of counterfeit sincerity, they attempt to disgorge the words of a Christmas carol from their martini flooded throats as if they were most devout choirboys ever to refrain from guzzling down communion wine. Absolutely unlistenable.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Being  rather Anno Domini-centric creatures, we often forget what a relatively new-fangled religion Christianity actually is. An ancient Sumerian, for instance, would no doubt consider the story of Jesus to be somewhat Post-Modern, and Jerry Falwell to be a variety of Bible thumping Michel Foucault. In fact, comparatively speaking, the Christian God is so young that I would be surprised to learn that he had any hair on his chin at all, never mind that long, flowing white beard he is so famous for.
But what was really revolutionary about Christianity was that it was nice. "Somebody up there likes you," its disciples preached. Pagan religions, by contrast, taught that their Gods really didn't give a Minotaur's turd what happened to humans, unless they could use them for their own deviously divine ends, which isn't a very reassuring message. Furthermore, Christianity slashed the Pantheon down to a single, manageable unit of deity. In a volatile world, with the established order of the Roman Empire crumbling, Christianity's simplified and streamlined version of an old idea made salvation accessible to all. As long as you followed a few mundane rules then everything was going to be okay forever. It was similar to, and continues to be like the latest fashionable diet fad in that respect. Life is a lot weirder than a mere two thousand year old death cult would have you believe. At least I hope it is.

Excerpted from my forthcoming Meditations on Alain , published by Unreadable Press (2008)

Fletcher Christian on Presidential Election '08

Enlightened and successful foreign policy has always been based on trade: spices, tin, whiskey, tobacco and disease amongst other interesting and valuable commodities. Democracy, however, is rather like that stinky old pair of uncomfortably wooden clogs from the Dutch East Indian Company that don't fit properly and nobody actually wants.  And so I think it highly significant that a diplomat called "Rice" is the person currently trying to offload this most worthless political product into the sticky hands of suspicious natives. It's a deceptive move to sell a bum deal.
After all, which makes more sense: Sitting in an ugly civic building listening to some platitude spouting democratic candidate lie though his freshly bleached teeth, or sprawling around on the beach with a bottle of fire-water and a busty island queen whilst paying close attention to the rumblings of your local volcano God? Personally I'd pick the wisdom of the smoking mountain every time ... in fact I'd trust practically anything but the bovine boasts of a professional politician.

Thanksgiving, Italian Style

Probably the most photographed vehicle in Rome is this tiny truck, rather Italianately parked in the charming Campo de Fiori. Much as the Pope across the river has his bulletproof mobile, so do these pumpkins, gourds and other harvest ephemera have their own limousine. And why not? No doubt our more organic ancestors once worshipped vegetables  (and obviously certain foreign peoples still do.)

Personally, taking my Roman excursion in account, this year I shall be giving thanks that my Visa card is not quite as crippled as I had expected it might be, and I so shall be thanking Cybele, the Great Mother, pictured here in all her damaged splendor in the Palatine museum.

And, of course, you surely know about this exciting Palatine discovery by now.

Photo credits: Me

Ode On A Grecian Funerary Urn

Since epicene poet John Keats has provided me with so much merriment and mirth over the years, when in Rome I always visit the house in which he drew he died, which is now a modest museum. Of course, these days, since they overlook the famous Spanish Steps, these rooms which echoed with Keats' last tubercular breath are prime real estate.

But alas, all the period furniture in the museum has been kindly donated by modern admirers, and so the small bed wedged into a corner is not the actual divan on which the puny author of Dale Williams' favorite poem, The Eve Of St Agnes, expired. There is, however, enclosed within a series of well-dusted glass cases, an interesting selection of letters written by members of Keats' circle in scratchy ink pen, together with an assortment of watercolors and sketches by his friend and acolye Joseph Severn, including a death bed study of the poet's weary head.
After snapping this photo, I bought a Percy Bysshe Shelley fridge magnet and then set off towards San Crispino's to supply myself with some more chestnut and rum flavored gelato.

Piper at the Gates of Dawn

Originally decorating the floor of a country villa belonging to Marcus Aurelius, or so they claim, this mosaic of Pan now hangs in the Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, which is where I photographed it.
No doubt it is extremely difficult to render subtle elements of your subject's character in mosaic form, but still, I'm not sure that the ancient creator of this example was especially successful.

There is, for instance, a vague resemblance to the goofy moose Bullwinkle from Rocky and Bullwinkle, and it is hard to imagine this particular creature could put the wind up Ratty and Mole in the willows. In fact, he looks more like a cuddly cartoon Woodland Friend rather than the Great Horned God; a kindly little chèvre provider rather than a randy old goat. Mind you, he was made for the house of that nice Marcus Aurelius so what can you expect?

Vidi

As promised, and as if anyone cared, here are three of the photographs I took during my recent sojourn in Rome.
The first is of Roman rooftops as seen from the Capitoline Hill. Those funny smudges in the sky are actually flocks of birds, once employed by Roman priest (augurs) as a means of interpreting the will of the Gods; a ceremony known as "taking the auspices."

Below is a section of the Cryptoporticus of Nero on the Palatine Hill, which once connected former Imperial residences with Nero's new palace, the Domus Aurea or Golden House, on the Oppian Hill.

And finally, one of the world's first shopping malls, this is Trajan's Markets in the rain. I wonder if the lark's tongues in aspic were any good in the old food court there?

Perhaps one day, when I don't spend all my money on hotels and airfare, I will invest in a camera tripod. Maybe I will post some more pictues tomorrow.

The Cryptoporticus of Memory

Returning to Rome I am always amazed by how much larger the various archeological elements of the city are than I remember: the Forum Romanum, for example, is almost twice as big as I recall; and the Palatine Hill is far more expansive and rambling. No doubt this mental geographical compression is due to the vast number of such sites requiring reduction so that they can all be comfortably encompassed in the mind as a comprehensible experience. In other words, I suppose it is possible to say that memories of Rome are like those simplified and illustrated souvenir maps where latitudes and longitudes are conveniently distorted, allowing tourist destinations to be magnified at the expense of less interesting streets and buildings.
For me, the highlights of this trip were wandering around the rooms and over the cobblestones of Trajan's Markets  in pitch blackness and misty rain; Nero's Domus Aurea which I had never visited before since it is usually closed; and having the antique statues and frescos of the Palazzo Altemps all to myself one bright morning. Then there was the congregation of riot polizia and caribinieri in Piazza del Popolo on Sunday night after an SS Lazio fan was shot dead. But best of all was slobbering over a cone of Baci flavored gelato while sitting outside the Basilica of San Clemente listening to the distinctly pagan John Barleycorn Reborn collection of folk music from "dark Britannica."
Perhaps I will post some of my photographs later in the week, if I can find the time.

Via Aeroporte

My taxi driver, apparently dispatched from central casting in his dark pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, shades and slicked back hair, raced crazily through the Roman streets and along the Autostrada as if Vulcan himself had applied a red hot poker to the man's backside. He seemed to spend more time furiously punching the cab's klaxon, cursing and flipping off other motorists than he did to steering or observing the speed limit. He was the undisputed King of the Road in his own very Italian mind. So much for "Arrivederci Roma" I thought, as we zoomed past saner traffic at breakneck speed, I'm going to die before we get to the airport.
When we did finally screech to a halt outside my departure terminal at Fiumicino, the maniacal driver went to remove my bags and I was amused to discover that he was actually only about four feet ten inches tall, and rather reminiscent of the proud tap-dancer in the music hall sequence of Fellini's eponymous paean to his favorite city. I gave him forty-five euros; a small price to pay for such operatic entertainment.

Fasti

I am domiciled in Rome from roughly the nones until roundabout the ides of November, so it is unlikely that any new writing will appear here until the middle of next week. I'm staying at the Hotel Palazzo Palace in Via Palazzo, quite near Piazza Palazzo.
Every occupied building in Rome either is or was a palazzo at one time or another. And if it isn't or wasn't a palazzo, it must be a church (unless it's a crumbling ruin covered with weeds, in which case it's obviously a fashionable restaurant).
Here is my quick quide to Roman architecture for tourists: if it has more than two rooms and doesn't have a nave or a chef, then it's a palazzo. A motor home is simply a portable palazzo on wheels.

Where the Pyramid Meets the Contact Lens

I take great comfort from the indisputable fact that there is a parallel universe where this blog receives over a million hits per day. Mind you, the stuff I post on that particular plane of existence is far superior to the semi-literate diluted bilge you find here. But then this is your third-rate level of reality that we are currently experiencing, so I suppose we shouldn't be too surprised by the low standard of content and presentation. At this stage of conciousness it's more like American Dunce than American Fez. Perhaps you ought to attempt transcendental meditation or something, if you want to gain access to the mind expanding entries that I post on the other internets in time and space. And if you can develop your mental powers to such a high frequency that you reach my higher planes of blogdom, then please don't even think about leaving a comment unless you understand the Master Therion hieroglyphic alphabet.

Washington Wishes

Condolollapalooza Rice was just on the radio bleating on and on about democratic process again. As I have repeatedly illustrated, there is absolutely no point in maintaining the pretense of a democracy when there are no candidates worth voting for. Surely we would all be better off if US State Department policy was dictated by a coven of fat, naked writhing hags shrieking dire prophecies though foaming lips to the incessant accompaniment of human thigh bones being drummed against dried animal skins? Personally, I would take a much more active interest in politics if the Capitol building was demolished and replaced by a sacred grove where a bearded Augur would only introduce new legislation if a flock of birds flew across the sky in a favorable formation. After all, that is how the Romans used to do it for centuries.

The New Guy

He is dressed in what I can only describe as "Woolworths Business Casual" or perhaps even "Men's Warehouse Starter Kit." At any rate, he looks as though he might be the over-eager assistant manager of an electronics chain store in a very small and dreary backwoods town. He has a beard, also; not cut into any particular style, mind you; just your average conventionally groomed and unadventurous beard.
We are supposed to be a vaguely creative company, for Heaven's sake; most of us wear the easily identifiable creative uniform: Diesel jeans, Converse All-Stars and trendy European shirts. So what does the new guy's suburban sartorial mediocrity say about the direction our ever dwindling talent pool is heading in? Yet more mind-numbing computerization, apparently.
But should I judge on appearances and first impressions? Yes, absolutely, especially when our business is all about presentation and appearances.

The East Twatford Centering Center Newsletter

This week's Crystal Phallus Focus introduces readers to new Centering Center member Roger Wirthluss.
Roger is a local chartered accountant, vegan, model boat builder, shaman and healer who will be conducting our regular tantric enema groups using the sacred name Boring Elk. And those of you with credit card difficulties will be interested to know that Roger will also be employing his professional expertise by sponsoring a financial guru workshop and pow-wow every Tuesday night in the second floor wigwam. Students will explore their credit card debts via body painting and anal play. Ask for Big Chief Crunching Number on extension 693 for more details
Please note: Roger suffers from chronic asthma and finds it difficult to breathe when ritual feathers get stuck up his nose. Therefore celebrants should refrain from bringing anything feathery into the wigwam. Smoke inhalation is also a problem for Roger, which means incense and candle burning is strictly prohibited as well. Furthermore, Roger has an acute allergy to most herbal oils, consequently the application of patchouli, sandalwood, jasmine and other scents should be avoided during massage sessions (Roger can supply an odorless lubricant for interested parties for a nominal fee). And one more thing, Roger's nose is highly sensitive to the smell of feet, so socks or slippers should be worn at all times inside the wigwam. Apart from these specific footwear requirements, total nudity is enthusiastically encouraged for the duration of each of Roger's healing and financial workshops.

Stop Press: Roger's Financial Guru class this forthcoming Tuesday night has been canceled because he has a bad cold.

East Twatford Centering Center is an equal opportunities employer.

This week's Crystal Phallus Focus introduces readers to new Centering Center member Roger Wirthluss.
Roger is a local chartered accountant, vegan, model boat builder, shaman and healer who will be conducting our regular tantric enema groups using the sacred name Boring Elk. And those of you with credit card difficulties will be interested to know that Roger will also be employing his professional expertise by sponsoring a financial guru workshop and pow-wow every Tuesday night in the second floor wigwam. Students will explore their credit card debts via body painting and anal play. Ask for Big Chief Crunching Number on extension 693 for more details
Please note: Roger suffers from chronic asthma and finds it difficult to breathe when ritual feathers get stuck up his nose. Therefore celebrants should refrain from bringing anything feathery into the wigwam. Smoke inhalation is also a problem for Roger, which means incense and candle burning is strictly prohibited as well. Furthermore, Roger has an acute allergy to most herbal oils, consequently the application of patchouli, sandalwood, jasmine and other scents should be avoided during massage sessions (Roger can supply an odorless lubricant for interested parties for a nominal fee). And one more thing, Roger's nose is highly sensitive to the smell of feet, so socks or slippers should be worn at all times inside the wigwam. Apart from these specific footwear requirements, total nudity is enthusiastically encouraged for the duration of each of Roger's healing and financial workshops.

Stop Press: Roger's Financial Guru class this forthcoming Tuesday night has been canceled because he has a bad cold.

East Twatford Centering Center is an equal opportunities employer.