With the door closed it was impossible to see a damn thing in the little holding cell.  The prisoner was completely deprived of any sensory experience but his own internal thoughts; his consciousness hovered there in the blackness.  And the blackness bled into his consciousness, altered it, made it think bad things.  In his training in Pakistan the prisoner had always been tough, always come through.  He had never thought for a moment that he could be made to give up his mission or comrades, even under the worst of pressure if taken captive.  But now he was captive and now he wasn’t so sure.  Partly it was just because it’s obviously more stressful when it’s not just in theory.  Partly because of who had caught him.  The guy was huge.  Maybe 6’5.  Definitely 250 lbs.  Certainly packin’.  He didn’t know the guy’s name of course.  He had asked during his transportation and immediately realized how out of place such little chit chat was when you’re being held on terrorism suspicion.  His captor had just laughed a little and said “well you can call me Grabbs…  or Grabby…  Grabby-Grabbs” then returned to his seemingly normal, cold silence.  That was just before he’d been put in this holding cell.  How many hours ago was it?  He had no way of knowing.  The room had been completely empty when he was pushed into it.  It was still almost empty but he was slowly but surely filling it up with his own shit.  He’d had to designate one corner as the restroom.  Four times and counting.  Shouldn’t have had that double-down, but the temptation had been too great.  They would almost certainly have to re-carpet.  Then he heard it.  Heavy, deliberate footsteps.  Only one man, which would have been a relief, but his footsteps rung out loud enough to have been a whole squad.  They set off alarms in his brain.  US news stories about waterboarding and genital electrocution and man-piles.  The kind of stuff you might choose to do on a Saturday night, but wouldn’t want to have done to you by a stranger in an opposing army.  But then Grabbs wasn’t in the army.  He had claimed to have dropped out “when the Geneva Cunt-vention was signed.”  Now they just used him in special cases.  Apparently he was a special case.  He cursed the Iraqi ex-guardsman who had turned him in as the last heavy footsteps came down outside the door.  He and the guardsman had been drinking together and were raising a little hell with the girls in the village.  Well, raising a LOT of a hell.  Just as they were finishing one girl, the Iraqi, Gadot, had pulled out and run away.  He’d been grabbed from behind that instant.  Grabbed…  by Grabbs…  Grabby-Grabb-Grabb-Grabberton.  Grabbed.  Now here he was.  Waiting in terror…  yes, he, in terror…  for what would be behind that door.  It opened.  Slowly.  The huge American stepped in.  The prisoner couldn’t believe it but all the American held was a yellow whiffle ball bat and a semi-large freezer bag.  He sighed out loud in relief.  He had been expecting electrodes, a torture rack or a judas seat.  Here it almost seemed like Grabby just wanted to play.  And in a sense he was right.  Grabber threw the baggy down on the table.   White powder spilled out everywhere.  A LOT of white powder.  Cocaine.  “Why…  do you have a wiffle ball bat and…  cocaine?” the prisoner nervously asked.  “Because I plan on doing a lot of batting,” said Grabber with a smile.  “Look,” said the prisoner “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”  Grabber took a long, long pause.  18 minutes.  Dramatic as hell.  “That’s the thing,” he said, “I don’t want any information from you.  I don’t give a F*CK.  At least not about your little schemes.  But what I am curious about is how long it’d take to beat a motherf*cker to death with a whiffle ball bat.  I’ve been wondering that since I was about nine.”  The last thing the terrorist heard was Grabber yell out that no “head shots” were allowed.  Then it was just the flurry of activity and pain raining all over his body.  At 30 minutes he was almost totally numb.  But a painful numb.  The bat made a funny plastic fwappy sound.  At an hour his clothes had caught fire and disintegrated.  At 3 hrs Grabber had hit a home run with one of his balls.  At 37 hours Grabber had his answer.  At 37.5 he had hit the showers and shared that answer with Gadot.  They had slapped a wet high five.  They were always on the same team.

Betty White’s family moved from Oak Park, Illinois to Los Angeles, California during the “Great Depression.” Unfortunately their depression was not alleviated by the move because Betty came with them.

Even before her most famous tv show, White referred to her breasts as the “golden girls” due to their thick, blonde hair.

White’s first marriage to an Army Pilot named Dick Barker ended in divorce when Barker called out “Janet” in the bedroom. White assumed he was having an affair, failing to remember that it was their agreed upon “safety word” for when her activities grew too rough.

During the span of her career, White has been a frequent visitor on game shows such as “To Tell the Truth”, “Password” and “I’ve Got a Secret” (the latter was also a game she played in real life, concealing her massive credit card debt from her husbands, family, and fans).

When World War II broke out, White was quick to join the American Women’s Voluntary Services.  When that group disbanded, White continued to provide hundreds of American soldiers on leave with her voluntary services, often servicing four or five a day.

It is often forgotten that White began her career as a model but the few who do remember are still puzzled.

On “Boston Legal” White played a calculating, blackmailing, gossip-monger, a role that she had played in private throughout most of the 1980’s.

Hello, loyal LBS Fans – This post is to announce and remind you all to check out founding Lowbrow, d.r. monroe’s comedy show appearing every other Tuesday at El Paseo Bar dowtown Santa Fe! The first two have been a whopping success and May 18th will showcase TEN new comics, 4 of which are veteran Albuquerque funny people! So come down and support the show and the site. And check out the videos:

The Lowbrow Sophisticates are pleased to announce our new corporate sponsor: Aunt Bekham’s Spicy Face Jerky. Premium edible jerky pulled from the finest of ALL animal faces. Try one of the seventy one different flavors!

Good evening, friends.

I’m quite pleased to be here with you this particular night as I would like to answer for the state of people’s spirits! Who’s you may ask? Well mine of course. I was doing ghost push-ups earlier in the day and the exertion I felt, in some manner in which I cannot quite explain, forced a wonderful memory into my mind space. I ran up the steps and into my room, straight to the journal and turned right to page one hundred and seventy one. Much to my glee, there it was – a short but most favorite of my memories.

July 4th – 1888

An American strong man by the name of William “Cronus” Duggard was staying in my home, put up by the state while he performed for three weeks at a trade show that culminated on America’s independence day. He was a nice-a-nuff chap, constantly practicing his calisthenics which included, but was not limited to; sit ups, top twists, up tops, arm swings, jumping jacks, blurp sworts, bottom lifts, neck pops and ankle whips. It wasn’t the exercises themselves that pecked at my nerves, but the grunts and shouts that accompanied such acts. William Duggard was a tall muscular man lacking all hair on top of his head and more than was necessary beneath his nose. He wore one piece suits most days whose name at the time was unknown to me and most on the island. He spoke in a high voice around the home; a voice that became much lower when guests arrived – a fact that I found to be ridiculous yet bone twistingly amusing. One afternoon I witnessed “Cronus” riding the most peculiar sort of bicycle with one preposterous large wheel in front and a foolish, small one in the rear. I often wondered how he was able to climb atop such a machine.

I learned very little of the man, to be quite honest, he bored me painfully and the only thing that remotely peaked my interest was the fact that he journeyed from the beaches of New Jersey a place of great interest to me inflamed only more so by yearning to see more silly large wheeled bicycles. Regardless, I had planned my fright on the last day of his stay and everything was set precisely; I was set to scare him with mirrors, creating a series of illusions, magnifying my presence by dozens, inflicting the victim with the sense of an overwhelming attack, crushing his lungs with panic until he flees the premises, wailing, never to return… you know… ghost stuff.

I attacked in the morning before William was to perform when he approached from his quarters in his signature top of tanks if you would. I foolishly misplaced the first mirror causing a most silly misstep. You see, William saw my uncovered ghost face killing him instantly with a terror shock. Now granted, those who say things about these matters would document that William “Cronus” Duggard tripped over a mirror above the steps tumbling downwards neck over bottom, breaking his top spine from the crushing pop of the bottom step. But I, as most ephemeral presences know, know that he died instantly from a terror shock brought on from seeing my face.

Happy Independence Day.

Sincerely yours,
Seth

Jack Grabber sat relaxed (or as relaxed as Jack Grabber actually gets) in a cabana that he had paid 63 dollars for exactly four hours earlier. As his eyes followed the lines down to his toes, wriggling in the sand, he was surprised: he was wearing more clothes than he thought he would have by now. He was pleased but removed his swimming shorts, revealing a quaint pair of racing trunks; this was still more than he wanted to wear, but he felt like following the rules this particular day. He hadn’t been in the water in a while so the sand barely clung to the soles of his feet and the frog-like pads of this toes. “Knock, knock.”

It was well known that jack Grabber didn’t read. He could read, he just wouldn’t – it was rumored that he even refused to lay an eye on a menu. Samir Godot, Grabber’s only friend, thought he had seen a novel once in Grabbers messenger bag although it certainly could have been his journal. “Knock, knock.”

Grabber stretched a kitty stretch, being careful not rustle his toes from the salty grains of the Hawaiian sand as he rubbed tanning lotion on the back of his thighs and the tippy tops of his ears. Grabber’s lotion was a special concoction that he mixes himself in his kitchen sink: baby oil, mayonnaise, old bay seasoning and gold flakes. It consisted of a few other ingredients but those were more for show than anything else. The sounds of the Pacific Ocean rapped soft ghetto island tunes in Grabber’s ear, lulling him in and out of a napping state. Grabber never napped but he enjoyed very much the exact moment before an ordinary human would slip into a nap. It was as exhilarating as a hearty sneeze to our ex-army ranger hero, who was never known to rest for more than three hours a day, but somehow, some way, this was Jack Grabber on vacation. “Knock, knock.”

Even though Grabber couldn’t nap, he would pretend. He liked the idea of napping, but detested the practice. Grabber reached his gorilla arm up over his head and flipped up the white flag that was connected to the bonnet of his cabana. Within one minute a young Hawaiian man approaches and pulls out a pad and paper. “Mahalo. What can I get you?”

“Ah, yes, Senor. I’ll have a margarita.” The Hawaiian man, puzzled, adjusts, “Sir, we have rum drinks, Mai Tais, Lava Flows. Mahalo.”

Grabber is obviously confused. “Hmmm, what about taquitos? Can I get some taquitos?”

The cabana waiter sighs, “Don’t worry, Mr. Grabber, I’ll bring you something you’ll like.” Grabber nods and hands him one thousand dollars. “Knock, knock.”

Grabber’s golden mayo scented body glistened as he examined his skin. “You can really see the gold flakes.” Grabber says out loud. To his left there are 11 empty Mai Tai glasses. Grabber confused the bartender by referring to them as Mexican Yum Sips, but after six, the waiter had figured it out. “Knock, knock.”

Grabber put the flag up. When the waiter came back, he informed Jack that they weren’t allowed to serve single patrons more than 16 Mexican Yum Sips a day. Grabber understood, “That’s fine, Actually I wanted to discuss the coconuts.”

“The coconuts?” the man asked. “Yes… the coconuts.”

Every single person that knew Jack Grabber knew that he hated coconuts more than anything. He despised them and often referred to them as a “cocky fruit” and had been overheard in his sleep asking, “who do you think you are?” the “you” of course, being coconuts. He hated the taste, the smell and the sound of them knocking together. He explained to the cabana ‘tender that the knocking was single-handedly ruining his vacation. The cabana thing pointed over to a grassy hill next to the hotel pool. A luau was being set up and three heavy set Hawaiian men in authentic tribal garb were bellying up to microphones; two holding ukuleles and the third holding two coconut halves, knocking them together. “Knock, knock.”

By the time it turned around, Grabber was gone and the man with the sweet milky, hairy Hawaiian nuts was wincing in pain as Grabber had given him a coconut bra without the straps… without any straps. There was no more knocking. And Grabber enjoyed the rest of his vacation, although as I’m sure you all can assume by now… there was more to this trip than vacation and as Grabber walked into the Hawaiian horizon in his horribly tight racing trunks and nothing else, he passed a banquet hall. He stopped to look at a large poster that was perched on a stand and in big letters it read: TOMORROW ONLY – LEE CHILDS SPEAKS AND BRINGS JOHNATHAN REACHER TO LIFE. Jack Grabber smiled, the only time he had ever smiled without killing someone minutes before.

Mahalo.

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I suppose you’re wondering why I have kept track of all of these stories… these things for all of this time. My understanding would seem to stem from what I did in my life before it ended. I was a writer. Not just a writer. No. I was more than that. I lived in this very place. I held grand galas and such were held for me – in honor of me. I was revered for years and these feelings of admiration that infected me were reflected and expelled in the literature I produced, so I suppose that what I do now is merely some cruel extension of that life. Perhaps by retelling these stories it reminds me of what it was to be who I was. It’s been two hundred and eleven years and I fear that perchance if I stop writing these tales down… if I stop telling what has happened, I just may forget how.

My name was Seth Katz. No one has called me by my nom de plume in over two hundred years. I still cannot comprehend why I did not go on to that more beautiful something or that much darker somewhere for that matter, after all I wasn’t righteous, although I wasn’t a scoundrel either. I still cannot comprehend why I am chained to this domicile, unable to leave its bounds – all I know now are the reminiscing of the living mortals that I have frightened out of my home or have killed in my attempts to do so and until someone new comes to decorate my home as their own, I will share them with you.

For the sole purpose of my right to creative license, I will not start from the beginning, but rather with one of my favorite memories, a precious remembrance following my death.

Christmas Eve, 1952 –

The seasonal incidents always stand out the most, pressed against the forefront of my brain, begging to be released. This one sticks out due to the steadfast Christian beliefs of the Stanbury family. Please do not assume that I have anything against Christianity or any religion for that matter. I practiced Lutheranism in my living days. The Stanbury’s moved in on October ninth and I had refrained from making my presence known until December 24. The family left for mass that evening which gave me sufficient time to prepare. I suppose I should inform you of some of the particular attributes that are unique only to celestial bodies such as myself. For instance: With practice and sincere concentration we can take on any physical form that we have seen, in person, while we were of the living. For example, I saw the Mona Lisa on a summery afternoon in August while vacationing in Paris to finish a series of essays; I even stroked the frame (long before it was uncouth to do so). With this being so, I could, theoretically, present myself as this beautiful image, although I believe doing so would instill little fear to those who set their eyes upon it. As a matter of fact, I assume it would produce quite the opposite reaction. Another such attribute is in reference to the subject of our waste – as wraiths, we do not defecate or urinate; we do collect waste however. It may be easier to think of it along the lines of weight. We collect weight; dust, skin, particles, even UV excess, and at a certain point our weight becomes too much to carry. This conundrum can be learned in the teachings of metaphysics, a complicated explanation that I will circumvent for the sake of time.

As apparitions, we must shed our excess weight roughly every nine days (depending on our activity level). This shedding more or less leaves little trace, unless of course you collect them in cheesecloth as I do. One would be quite surprised how much ectoplasm one can accumulate in three months time… it’s quite a shit load. I suspected the Stanburys to be weak in the stomach and I certainly did not wish to haunt them as intensely as the family before them, which was… well… too much. I had devised my plan and cached a calculated level of fear. The exciting truth about the deeply religious, at least the religious West, is that they believe very severely in the construct of the devil. I wish not to ruin any person’s surprise, but as someone in my particular circumstance, I can say that “the Devil” does not, nor has ever, existed. This does not mean that millions of individuals do not believe this is so and because of this fact; the experience becomes infinitely more pleasurable.

In the Stanbury’s absence, I emptied the contents from my cheesecloth in the front entry way as well as its adjoining room entrances, creating quite a pungent mess. Although the smell does not resemble that of feces (that is if I recall the odor accurately), but believe me, the odor is quite offensive. That reminds me; we retain all of our senses in the life after life, excluding touch, although that does not mean we cannot touch. Where was I?

Ah, yes. I scattered the plasm and then I waited. A distant cousin of mine ran a farm when I was alive; it was quite large and specialized in the procurement of goats. I used this specific physical experience in order to manifest myself as something frightening. The Stanbury’s were to arrive at any moment. In minutes they would walk through the door and enter into a domain of debilitating fear, paralyzing terror. If I possessed the moisture to wet my lips, this is what I would do to pass the time.
I heard the Stanbury’s pull up. As I sat atop my thirty stairs and watched the matriarch enter the threshold, I actually felt anxiety; an emotion I haven’t felt in decades. As the Mister stepped through the doorframe, he was so frightened by my excrement strewn about; he collapsed in horror, as did each other family member as they followed. It was a domino effect of terror. I was never as proud of my work as I had been that evening. For a moment I thought I heard angels — the voices I were certain I would never hear again. I actually thought I would not be necessary to transform into my goat apparition, but as it did not feel as overkill, I transitioned regardless. They were so chilled to their bones that all they could bring themselves to do was force me into the basement with a broom as they made the most ghastly sound, a sound so silly that it could only be in response to their absolute hopelessness. As they “SHOO, SHOO’D” me … ha… I apologize but their frightened squeals make me guffaw until this day. Where was I? Ah, yes, as they forced me down the steps of my bottom lair, I smiled a goat smile, my beard tickling my chest. I had not only won but I had triumphed.

The following day, I floated as a sheet of nothing above the lower floor. I could not have expected such a defensive response. The family had invited strangers into my home in what appeared to be a final act of desperation. One man had cleaning supplies and he mopped and swept up my ecto – ambuscade, easing the families fears with the tales of overt condensation. The father, embarrassed by his lack of bravery in front of his brood, tells the man with the mop that he had slipped on the floor. When I knew he had, of course, lost his footing at the sight of my terrifying subterfuge.
Later, a manish woman arrived – she presented a haircut resembling my Aunt Kurt’s. In her right hand she carried a long rod with a loop in it. I had to follower her around in order to deduce her purpose – you could not imagine my delight when I discovered she was at the home to capture the goat. Not only did my presence as a Billy frighten them to banish my being there but also they had paid a large woman to take me from the house. Needless to say, they never found the goat. The only disconcerting part of this grand show was that as debilitating an effect my act had on these weak wasps, they did not move out. I knew I had conquered their psyches, yet they refused to move from the premises. My only explanation for this was that they were truly mad. So, out of the kindness of my non-beating heart, I allowed them shelter for another forty-five days. I know that even though I overheard the woman telling her elderly mother that husband had to transfer his employment, I knew that my horrific displays of genius (if I may boast) mental tactics had finally settled into their craniums and their fear had truly sent them on their way.

Truly,
Seth

This day in History – 4/6/2010

1830 – The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints was organized by
Joseph Smith when he was visited by God and Jesus Christ who
told him where to find a part of the bible that had been left out,
written on gold plates. But don’t worry, it’s not as crazy as it
sounds, you see, angels told him how to translate the text using a
special language that only he and the angles could understand.

1862 – The Battle of Shiloh in the American Civil War began – giving
inspiration to hippie parents everywhere to name their sons one of
the stupidest names ever.

1875 – Alexander Graham Bell was granted a patent for the multiple
telegraph, which sent two signals at the same time. Bell called it his
DP Telegraph.

1896 – The Olympic Games, a long-lost tradition of ancient Greece, are
reborn in Athens 1,500 years after being banned by Roman
Emperor Theodosius I after the participants wanted to wear clothes.
At the opening of the Athens Games, King Georgios I of Greece and
a crowd of 60,000 spectators welcomed athletes from 13 nations to
the international competition beginning a long tradition of Indian
losers.

1916 – Charlie Chaplin became the highest-paid film star in the world
when he signed a contract with Mutual Film Corporation for
$675,000 a year. He was 26 years old. It is said that when he
discovered his salary he said,

1953 – Iranian Premier Mossadegh demanded that the shah’s power be
reduced. “Shah right,” they replied.

1983 – Interior Secretary James Watt banned the Beach Boys from the 4th of
July celebration on the Washington Mall, saying rock ‘n’ roll bands
attract the “wrong element.” Watt was worried that this “wrong
element” would be a bad influence on the racists, bigots and
homophobes that encompass the Republican Party.

1985 – William J. Schroeder became the first artificial heart recipient to be
discharged from the hospital. He died in the parking lot.

1998 – The Dow Jones industrial average closed above 9,000 points for the
first time. It could only go up from here!

1999 – Carmen Electra filed for a divorce from Dennis Rodman. They had
only been married six months. Court documents revealed that
Rodman wanted out because Electra wouldn’t share her gowns with
him. Also, her penis was bigger than his.

2009 – Michael Jordan was elected to the basketball Hall of Fame for
cheating on his wife with more women than any other professional
basketball player.

Tell us who to taunt and we’ll do it! Remember, these are unmerited, so no easy targets!

Due to its devout Catholicism, Ireland is consistently cited in scientific polling on sexuality for having the least amount of sex acts going on per day per household.  And, of course, the most in churches.

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