Sunday, March 25, 2012

Bonding of the Musical Variety

This is a largely impersonal blog or a highly impersonal blog or however you want to view it. Essentially, it's just an overblown, somewhat frequently updated collection of short stories, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't be friends. That's the beauty of the internet. The barrier between author (artist, filmmaker, musician, or what have you) isn't as extensive as it would have been centuries ... even decades ... prior. And while it might be bold to declare myself an author when I have only this blog to my name, I still believe that barrier between us should be torn down. Or, at the very least, I can stab a few holes in it.

So I like music. Unless, you are Satan or Hitler or Stalin or Satan-Hitler-Stalin's evil, immaculately conceived love child, you probably like it too. Here's a brief write up of the bands that have had the the largest influence on the stuff you have and will read on this blog. (Previously published here: 5 Favorite Bands) Enjoy! ... more short stories to come!

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

The Factory


The cold steel in his hands feels awkward as he grips it. He pulls it up to his eyes and examines it. A good one. And he sends it down the assembly line. He watches it as moves down the conveyer belt. He did not know what the item was or what the item did. He knew what made the item function, and how to tell if it was good or not. That’s all he needed to know for his job, and that’s all he knew.
            When the work day concludes, he hangs up his gloves, goggles, apron, and rubber boats into his locker. He walks outside with his hands in his pockets and makes travels home. He did not own a car and did not desire to. He did not travel often, only to work.
            He enjoyed it most when he was inside or on the porch of his house with a book he saved. It was safer that way. A level of comfort lingered around his house.
"A bad one."
            The next morning, he is watching one of his machines travel toward him. He gets ready to grab it and extends his hand toward it. He looks it over. Once. Twice. A bad one. He chucks it into the bin behind him. If he fills the bin, he will toss it into the oven and watch the bad ones burn. If he did not, he will wait for day that he did, which was probably coming soon. He generally gets to burn faulty machines every day. This is his favorite part. It helps to drown out the monotony of pick and look. Pick and look

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Cedric Lloyd Dies in the Apocalyspe

Somehow, I had convinced myself that Carrot Top would somehow bring about earth's demise, and when I learned that that would not be the case, I was oddly disappointed. I realized then that the world's greatest prop comedy bit would never be performed, could never be performed, and I started to cry. Damn it! I actually teared up. Imagine it: Carrot Top walks across some stage, any stage, and begins the set up to some joke, any joke, and for the punchline of that ... he blows up the whole, God damned world. Actually blows it up, and in one instant makes human existence both meaningful and meaningless whilst redeeming his entire career. But alas, that was not to be.

No, eventually I learned--and I suppose this bit of information disappointed me the most--that I, Cedric Lloyd of Beaumont, Texas, would bring about the end of existence. I know. Sucks, right?

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Sid-Vicious Cycle and Hope for the Human Race

Some bathroom art strikes you immediately, impossible to remove your eyes from it. So much so, that you briefly consider spending the rest of your life on the toilet, forever locked in a staring contest with the "Mona Lisa" of hastily sketched stall pictures, but then you get a waft of that bitter atmosphere, that pungent scent of waste, and you return to reality, forcing yourself to reconcile with the truth: you can't live on the toilet, no matter how good the stall art is. Most bathroom art, however, diminishes your faith in the human race or, at least, in your respective gender, makes you wonder what muse inspired this stranger to draw his genitalia for every person who stops by the men's room at the truck stop off I-35.

In front of you, you spy the words,

"Women Humans are good for:
>F
>C
  >C,"