Ain't No Telling

As some of you have likely noticed, tqrstories is re-running some of Lalo Telling's greatest Terminal hits. To those who don't know why tqr would be doing this, the simple answer is Lalo succumbed to a brain tumor this past year 3 days before Christmas. As curator and head honcho of tqr, you'da thunk I would have known one of my best capital managers had split the scene for that mysterious hereafter. Alas, I didn't find out until Lalo's absence the Spring quarter raised my suspicions enough to start my own private investigation. I actually think he'd begged off the responsibility in an earlier correspondence, but mentioned nothing about any problems healthwise or any other 'wise' and so I let it slide.

I'm wondering now if I shouldn't have been more perceptive then ... but Lalo is a slippery kat, coming first into our midst an intelligent machine patterned after the cold calculas of Kubrick's 2001's Hal9000. Being the creative geni that I am, (and averse to copyright infringement to the tune of sooner-than-later discorporation) I named the avatar he'd inhabit Hal3000, which was later shortened by Lalo to the catchier and 0-percent-lawsuit-risk friendly H3K. But due to the great crash of 2010 (or 2009 I can't be recall) all Terminal archives of H3K have been wiped clean. Sometime during his decadelong run with us, he became a Fox (Lalo Fox, shaken, not stirred) which morphed into his final nom de plume, Lalo Telling.

None of these were/are his "real" name. Lalo, it seems to me, lived in many worlds. In the world of flesh and bone and bodily tribulation he was someone else entirely I never had anything to do with, which was in keeping with his desire. In this world of contrived personae and limning the relative merits of those fantastic worlds coming into our e-mail inbox in the form of others' stories, Lalo, no matter what avatar he happened to be sporting, was solid as ... a fox, as sharp as a blade forged of tungsten carbide steel and certain as death and/or ultimate discorporation.

And so the world out there turns a little lighter for the load. But here, in this world of goodstuff, VC and cracked capital managers, he is forever, and never was. Until we meet again, Lalo. Ain't no telling...

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Ground control to major Ted. ... Ah, the vacuum of space. I just had to dodge the pod sent hurtling outward bound from the Discovery by Hal9000, well-preserved astronaut's corpse intact. So, in fact, outer space is more populated than this place!

Unless, of course, it's some spam promising to turn my Peter North and then some. Not saying I couldn't use some enhancement, but of the (e-)ma(i)l variety, sans final 'e' yo. Do you know what the cock is cooking? Just saying, I wish someone would throw me a bone and comment on this here venture so that I know I'm not pissing into the void. Hello! or (as Alexander G. Bell first thought would be an appropriate way to answer his new invention the tallyfun) Ahoy! What is wanted?

Gimme, gimme some love, people!

Cafe break or total wig out?

[And boy are his arms tired, having held them there for days whilst the two gladiators stand in their respective corner, unmoving, unloved and definitely unmitigated]

Well for God's sake! Whatcha gonna do?

[And so, the Rorschalk lets his arms drop to his sides and he walks to the bar where Otto stands motionless and somewhat fat to face his adversary. As he nears, the Rorschalk notices how the light reflects off Otto's stone face as if reflecting off a photograph on glossy paper and then, upon his arrival, knocks the big man over with sneeze...]

God bless you, sir.

[The Rorschalk steps back in horror as the once 3-dimensional simulacrum wafts to the floor of the Rump, pirouetting as it falls, revealing the corrugated brown backing that is the representative cardboard cutout which is now flat on the ground, almost invisible blending with the dulcet earth tone stone flooring. Doubly amazed, the Rorschalk wheels around to the bar and faces the good Santino...]

What ... did you speak?

[Santino spits out a sunflower seed casing and continues to polish his glass with a sodden bar rag, perhaps nodding imperceptibly in his fashion]

Nay! Can't be, or not be, eh? I am left here facing phantoms in an ethereal reality that percolates like twice baked grounds in the Mr. Coffee of haute illusion.

[Turning to the camera, the stricken Rorschalk pleads, almost whimpers...]

Where have you gone Joe Dimaggio?[

Wond'ring Aloud

Beware the Tides of May! Errr. something like that. Anyhap ... the months roll on like the beauteous guitar chords of an acoustic Jethro Tull song over too soon. Ahh, that Ian Anderson is a pip! Pardon my use of the exclamation mark!

But what is the point?

RADIATION still dominates with grace the masthead, which is a positive result of my inability to publish anything for the present quarter. My first mate in the Terminal has departed this world for the next ... whatever that means, entails or whatever (I would like to think it is a far better place than I have ever been, a la the late great and immortal Sid Carton). And I am stuck here to wander 'pon this desolate Bardo plane wond'ring aloud and in my own skull, pond'ring, as if staring into the twin voids of Yorick's own.

Indeed, tis better sweet than bitter, but is often human nature to dwell upon the latter, and thus do I. Late of the Rump, I have narrowly avoided an ugly situation wherein my life may have been at odds with the intentions of those present. The continued incorporation of this profitless corporation may not rely upon a corporeal Rorschalk, testing the bounds of virtual and corporeal reality. Concocting a plan on the fly as it were, I've set the assassins at the others throats for the time being, and slipped away. Although I cannot really ascertain whether these assailants are anything more than cardboard cutouts that pose no real threat.

Alas! We create these passion plays to fill the vacuum that will otherwise drive us all mad and blast us off into despair. Were it not for these fictive flights of delirium, we all would be moping shrouds withering away in deceptive doldrums. And insufferable louts, too boot. So, we create them for your general consumption. And if you can relate, then you'll know you're not alone. The struggle is the thing, as is the play, as is the dumb show, and all of it is not all that stupid.

I await and crave collaboration. For without it, this one trick Shetland must retreat onto an island of mis-shat ploys, until my Mr. Spock shall ride in on his iceberg to rescue me. Now, I walk upon the trails of velvet green, desiring upon an empty canvas. Please don't be long!