Saturday, April 01, 2017
The Thinker on a Block of Ice
Roark luckily reached a human.
Robots never assured him.
Even though Mr Chance quoted
the robot, Roark worried less.
“It says don’t fret about a temp
of 136. Start getting concerned
around 150.”
In the meantime he was to seek
every opportunity to cool down.
In the Non-Radiation Zone he had
permission now to enter, courtesy
of Mr Chance, he could sit on a
block of ice.
The gossip there pointed to young
women wearing clothes again.
The doctors saying on All-Media
that it was unhealthy.
“But, aesthetically,” Roark remarked
to a paunchy Lillian on the closest
block, “adding a bit of color?”
She’s firm, though, in calling
them whores.
Labels: fever, future, future medicine, Medicine, mores, nudity, radiation, sex, social norms, standards, war, whore
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Shock of Art
Facets of Aesthetics
-After the divorce, I met Rosette. Did you ever...?
-You don't remember drinking away a few weekends?
Her and you, and my Chloe and me?
-I don't remember much of anything from that time.
That's the point. So, Rosette and I decided to change.
Instead of booze we studied painting in a night
course at the Academy. Both proved mediocre, but
we loved it even better than the giggle juice.
-Chloe and I are breaking away from it too.
Maybe we'll take a course.
-She's so beautiful it's a wonder some slickster hasn’t
stolen her away!
-I stay ever-vigilant. Besides, Rosette is no slouch. She...
- ...resembles a small gaudy dumpster. Let's not sugarcoat.
-Whereas you...?
-Even worse.
-I'd say Wooly Mammoth.
-No tusks.
-You come damn close.
-Okay so we're not Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie!
But we found each other--as some fuckin song
must go. But anyway, I called you about
Lindy, from Sales.
-Organized. No nonsense.
-Not really given to hallucinations?
-Hardly.
-That's my problem.
-How so?
-Well Rosette likes the light in my office, you know?
-It streams!
-She also likes to paint in the nude, and have me pose
the same way.
-This will intersect with totally not-artsy Lindy?
-Everybody supposed to be gone for holiday weekend?
And she hops back Saturday afternoon for sales folders.
-And into massive nudity?
-Exactly.
-What...?
-Faints dead away. We get dressed, like, immediately.
And when she comes to, I give her herbal shit my ex
had me buy the day she left...then phoned me here and
told me to stick it up my ass.
-Anyway, back to the victim?
-Rosette tells her of terrible virus going around!
-Let me guess. So awful it even imparts hallucinations?
-She looked so battered, I think she bought it.
-But what's the difference? It's your company!
You do what you please.
-Once upon a time. But we're part of a halfass
conglomerate now. And up for accreditation.
I mean they got heavenly standards. You'd never
think it was business. Besides, some of our
oldest stockholders run Church investment plans!
-So, if a certain eyewitness blabs as to behavior that other members of the conglom-a-nonsense, plus
traditional bluenoses, think is not exactly moral...?
-Hey! I could go it alone again, but lose a lot
of benefits for myself and the whole crew.
-You want me to talk to her! You devious, hairy bastard!
-Could you?
-Should I stay with the vision story?
-Use your own judgement.
-Well, if she's gone off half-wacky, I will.
-Hell, we really didn't do anything wrong!
-Was the shock! Besides from an aesthetic viewpoint
you both surely did. Do.
-Like, YOU'RE handsome?
-So I've been told...once even by...Lindy.
-I knew it was right to bring you in!
-This will cost you.
-Name it.
-She was so stressed out! The mind can do anything
to you. A few French dinners will soothe, methinks.
And then an equal number to assuage my Chloe.
-Balance!
-My middle name.
Labels: art, business, conglomerate, nudity, painting, Puritan
