The Daily Parker

Politics, Weather, Photography, and the Dog

Fiction: E.M.F.

"Jessica!" Her name, screamed so close in that small place, brings them both back to earth. He pulls out, startled as she jumps and sees the man standing above them. His face is purple, raging; his eyes bulging, bloodshot, manic. The man in the stall knows something is very wrong. As she gasps "Pete!" and moves in her nakedness to placate him, somehow, the man with her dresses hurriedly. "Pete" is motionless for a long moment, eyes unbelieving. But as "Jessica" tries to deny what he's just seen, he stirs. Quick backhand—"Lying slut!"—and she is thrown against the stall, her head making a loud, sickening crack. Her eyes roll back and she slumps into unconsciousness. "Pete" reaches behind him and looks the other man in the eye. "Who are you?" he asks in a surprisingly calm voice. "Alex." "Well, Alex, I just caught you fucking my wife. I don't like that. I'm gonna show you just how much I don't like it." And he pulls a large black gun from behind him. "Say goodbye, mother fucker." Gun starts to find its target, the finger starts to tighten.

But these stalls are not very private, and the walls between leave a big space between them and the floor. And Alex, thin and agile, rolls under the wall as Pete brings out his gun. Under the wall into the bathroom proper and he jumps up to make his escape. Hard to push through all these people but he must, and as Pete roars in anger behind him Alex makes his desperate way outside.

The night is cold and damp, and outside the safety of the club's lights the shadows offer no cover. He dashes away from the club—no time to find a cab—and looks for a place to hide. Pete is right behind and Alex knows that he must find somewhere to dodge him—or someplace to find a weapon to protect himself. His eyes light upon a large abandoned steel factory nearby. Run to it, around to a fire escape, jump up and climb three steps at a time, up to a higher level. Pete loses a moment making the jump. Alex gains precious time, smashes a door window with his elbow, inside the building. The door groans open and he is in, down dark halls in his run.

Pipes cover the walls and ceilings, dripping water or hissing steam; steel doors and safety glass windows; old machinery lying forgotten. A few wires spark as Alex runs past. There is the dull hum of great electrical power, dark foreboding in the cold, moist air.

Down a hall through a steel door to the stairs, down two flights to a large landing. Pete yells from not far enough behind. Alex checks the doors on the landing—impulse prefers one certain door but it's locked. Pete can now see Alex, though Pete is still two flights up. Alex feels the terror rise in his throat and his limbs stiffen for a heartbeat, but the sound of Pete's footsteps clanging on the metal stairs breaks the paralysis. Alex dashes through the only open door he can find on that landing.

He enters a large room in the shape of a "T"; his door is at the right side of the T's top bar. It is 60 feet to the opposite wall down a 15-foot-wide "hall;" the room's extension ahead to his left is maybe 25 feet across and 40 feet deep. There are pipes of varying sizes running along the walls and ceiling, dripping water and hissing steam like the rest. The extension to his left, as he scampers further in, contains some steel lockers in the center and to the right of the room-several lockers are bashed in, as though football players have attacked them. There are showers far ahead to the left, shrouded in darkness, urinals to his immediate left, and toilets between them. But the toilets have only partial walls between them and no doors or walls in front for privacy. That missing section is propped against the lockers and partially draped with grey workcloth. Other cloth sections hang around the room, moving slowly in a silent breeze. The far end of the extension is dark but the red flickering of an "EXIT" sign barely shows another steel door with a large safety-glass window, a panic bar to open it from this side, and a large padlock preventing that panic bar from ever working again.

Alex runs to the side of the room opposite from his entrance, past old broken metal folding chairs, dead fluorescent bulbs, coat racks still with a few ragged coats, safety glasses and hard hats, and shelves of discarded tools and assorted junk. But the door he reaches—its window a tiny safety-glass peephole—is also locked securely. Alex is trapped in this place.

He darts back to the open area again—hears Pete's footsteps almost at the entrance. There must be somewhere to hide, and quickly, or some weapon to find, or some way to elude Pete. But even in desperation Alex can find nothing—this is it, the chase will end in this room. All is lost. Alex sinks into the shadows of the farthest toilet stall, awaiting the inevitable. His thoughts fade to his damning tryst with "Jessica" in the club. He never knew she was married! Revelation too late, far too late. The experience comes back now, strong, flooding his mind against what's coming...

Picks her up on the dance floor-a little smaller than he's used to, but so hot! Such a beautiful, elegant face. Such a beautiful body! "Jessica," she calls herself. "I'm Alex," he replies. And it starts. She keeps right up with him, dancing with no inhibitions, clinging to him like wet clothing. The music slows and swells, he leans down for a quick, furtive kiss. Her lips open and her hands dig in-the kiss locks and tongues meet in the hammering of blood and lust. The world disappears as hands slide and grope; the primal, hungry kiss. He finds a breast with his right hand and her moan sends steam across his chest. Knead, knead, gnaw on her face; this cannot continue on the dance floor. He breaks off to maneuver them into the bathroom—doesn't matter which one—and into a private stall. Back to the feeding frenzy. Clothes melt away, his mouth slides down to the breast—suckle like a baby, nibble around the nipple—his hands stroke her ass. Her back arches, her teeth grind; she starts to shake. He leans her back against the door and she lowers herself a little. Her hands cup his balls and tickle them; his breath catches and he clamps down on that breast. She grabs his shaft and slides from scrotum to head, back, up, back; tug and tug and tug to swollen erection. He spreads her soft, dark legs and finds the hole under her mound with two fingers. Her hands move harder, more violently; he grabs and fondles and teases her insides. Juices come quickly, he can barely hold her-or hold himself back. No more waiting—frantic, hungry kisses and licking; he grabs her ass and lifts her up and to him. Her legs wrap around the small of his back as he slides into her-so hot, so tight, so wet. Oh yes! Yes! Pump away, grunts, flesh slapping, moans, devour each other. (No notice of the man peeking over the stall, of the fury burning his eyes as Pete recognizes his beautiful wife fucking another man.) Alex, his eyes closed, can see the light, the rush of Paradise roaring towards him. The light, so strong! The sounds, so loud! He groans to welcome it...Ecstasy, mother fucker!



All is dark.

Copyright ©1992 Sean Pearson

Joke: Programming

Jesus and Satan have an argument as to who is the better programmer. This goes on for a few hours until they agree to hold a contest with God as the judge.

They set themselves before their computers and begin. They type furiously for several hours, lines of code streaming up the screen.

Seconds before the end of the competition, a bolt of lightning strikes, taking out the electricity. Moments later, the power is restored, and God announces that the contest is over. He asks Satan to show what he has come up with.

Satan is visibly upset, and cries, "I have nothing! I lost it all when the power went out."

"Very well, then," says God, "let us see if Jesus fared any better."

Jesus enters a command, and the screen comes to life in vivid display, the voices of an angelic choir pour forth from the speakers.

Satan is astonished. He stutters, "But how?! I lost everything, yet Jesus' program is intact! How did he do it?"

God chuckles, "Jesus saves."

Submitted by reader S.P.

Joke: the Pharmacist

A man walks into a pharmacy, buys a condom, then walks out of the store laughing hysterically. The pharmacist thinks this is weird, but, hey, there's no law preventing weird people from buying condoms. Maybe it's a good thing.

The next day, the man comes back to the store, purchases another condom, and once again he leaves the store laughing wildly. This piques the interest of the pharmacist. What's so funny about buying a rubber, anyway? So he tells his clerk "If this guy ever comes back, I want you to follow him to see where he goes."

Sure enough, the next day the laugher is back. He buys the condom, starts cracking up, then leaves. The pharmacist tells his clerk to go follow the guy. About an hour later, the clerk comes back to the store.

"Did you follow him? Where did he go?" asks the pharmacist.

The clerk replies "Your house."

Submitted by reader C.K.

Humor: Worst Opening Lines

The Edward Bulwar Lytton prize is awarded every year to the author of the worst possible opening line of a book. This has been so successful that Penguin now publishes five books' worth of entries.

Some recent winners:

  • "As a scientist, Throckmorton knew that if he were ever to break wind in the sound chamber he would never hear the end of it."
  • "Just beyond the Narrows the river widens."
  • "With a curvaceous figure that Venus would have envied, a tanned, unblemished oval face framed with lustrous thick brown hair, deep azure-blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, perfect teeth that vied for competition, and a small straight nose, Marilee had a beauty that defied description."
  • "Andre, a simple peasant, had only one thing on his mind as he crept along the east wall: 'Andre creep...Andre creep...Andre creep.'"
  • "Stanislaus Smedley, a man always on the cutting edge of narcissism, was about to give his body and soul to a back-alley sex-change surgeon-to become the woman he loved."
  • "Although Sarah had an abnormal fear of mice, it did not keep her from seeking out a living at a local pet store."
  • "Stanley looked quite bored and somewhat detached, but then penguins often do."
  • "Like an overripe beefsteak tomato rimmed with cottage cheese, the corpulent remains of Santa Claus lay dead on the hotel floor."
  • "Mike Hardware was the kind of private eye who didn't know the meaning of the word 'fear,' a man who could laugh in the face of danger and spit in the eye of death—in short, a moron with suicidal tendencies."

And the worst line of all:

  • "The sun oozed over the horizon, shoved aside darkness, crept along the greensward, and, with sickly fingers, pushed through the castle window, revealing the pillaged princess, hand at throat, crown asunder, gaping in frenzied horror at the sated, sodden amphibian lying beside her, disbelieving the magnitude of the frog's deception, screaming madly, 'You lied!'"

Submitted by reader J.H.

Joke: Lawyers at Lunch

Two attorneys went into a diner and ordered two drinks. Then they produced sandwiches from their briefcases and started to eat. The owner became quite concerned and marched over and told them, "You can't eat your own sandwiches in here!"

The attorneys looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and then exchanged sandwiches.

Submitted by reader C.K.

Joke: Duck Hunting

Five doctors went duck hunting one day. Included in the group were a general practicioner, a pediatrician, a psychiatrist, a surgeon and a pathologist. After a time, a bird flew overhead.

The GP reacted first. He raised his shotgun, but then hesitated. "I'm not quite sure it's a duck," he said, "I think I should get a second opinion." Of course by that time, the bird was long gone.

Another bird appeared in the sky thereafter. This time, the pediatrician drew a bead on it. He too, however, was unsure if it was really a duck in his sights and besides, it might have babies. "I'll have to do some more investigations," he muttered, as the creature made good its escape.

Next to spy a bird flying was the sharp-eyed psychiatrist. Shotgun shouldered, he was more certain of his intended prey's identity. "Now, I know it's a duck, but does it know it's a duck?" The fortunate bird disappeared while the fellow wrestled with this dilemma.

Finally, a fourth fowl sped past and this time the surgeon's weapon pointed skywards. BOOM!! The surgeon lowered his smoking gun and turned nonchalantly to the pathologist beside him. "Go see if that was a duck, will you?"

Submitted by reader B.O.

Antigone Rising at the Bitter End

Note: This article was linted on 14 July 2013. It originally ran 10 July 1998.

Antigone Rising after Bryant Park A couple of friends called up on June 1st because Sarah McLachlan was playing Bryant Park that evening for free. We got there a little later than I expected, so as we shuffled slowly through the crowd, McLachlan's first opening band started. We couldn't see them; we didn't know their name ( Antigone Rising ); but we heard them quite well. By the time McLachlan thanked them we had actually squeezed out a postage-stamp sized patch of grass half a mile from the stage.

Within a week two thirds of us had copies of their debut CD, She's Gone a Little Mad , and I began digging through the Internet to find out when they would play again. I found them just two blocks away last night when they played at The Bitter End on Bleecker Street.

An hour before the performance the line stretched dangerously close to Terra Blues, so close that Terra Blues' bouncers threatened us with garden hoses to get us to stop blocking their entrance. As it turned out, I waited in line with a group of rhythm guitarist Kristen Henderson's friends, who during the performance sang along with the band and seemed to know every song within the first three chords. They weren't the only ones. The house seemed packed with the Antigone Rising Fan Club, and their enthusiasm infected everyone else.

Cathy HendersonThe fans seemed perplexed by the group's setup at first. Only Henderson, her sister (lead guitarist Cathy Henderson), and newly-recruited lead singer Agona Hardison took the stage, leaving bass guitarist Teri Avella and singer Suzanne Obolsky sipping beer back in the house. Kristen explained that because the stage set for them at Lilith Fair (they perform Thursday July 16th [1998] at 3:30pm on the Levi's Village Stage) is "a cinder block" has no room for their drums or amps, they decided to go all-acoustic, and I were the guinea pigs for the "new" sound.

That means we didn't hear Avella at all, and Obolsky stepped up only for Kristen's "Bitter Song," just to remind everyone why she's vital to the group's sound. Obolsky's voice blended perfectly with Kristen Henderson's, even if her outfit did not. That's not a criticism, by the way; even Kristen made fun of her for coming straight from her day job.

What about their music? Antigone Rising reminds us of Indigo Girls, but more melodic, and less angry. They're probably sick of the comparison, but their music owes a lot to Amy Ray and Emily Saliers: listen to the echoing vocal lines and flowing parallel thirds on Cathy's "Lonely Tonight," for example.

It's refreshing when a local band masters concepts like three-part harmony and 6/8 time and outstanding when they bring it all together with perfectly-blended voices and competent playing. They're not writing fugues, but few bands ever do, and just as few ever master the more esoteric elements of harmony and voice-leading that for now are just over Antigone Rising's horizons. But it's unfair to compare Antigone Rising to an average garage band, because they're way beyond being a garage band.

Just listen to Kristen's "Someone Said." Most weekend bands have trouble counting to four, but here's a group with an alternating 5/4-6/8 groove that fits the angst-filled lyrics perfectly. Kristen's writing has a slightly different sound than her sister's, balancing it, giving the group the kind of depth required to go all the way. She's the George of the group, if you will. (Fortunately they don't have a Ringo: all of Antigone Rising have bona-fide talent.)

And listen to former lead singer Penelope Kokines and Cathy's "Turn to Me," which opens their CD. Great energy, great hook ("Have we been here far too long now?/Don't you tell me that we're wrong/Turn around...turn to me"). I realize after ten seconds that the group should get something more than a $7 cover at a local bar. They should get something that starts with a C and rhymes with Contract.

Sure, they have some bits that don't quite work, but so did Sarah McLachlan on her first album. They're not professionals, they just love performing. The music will improve as the band keep playing together. Bands either grow in complexity and musicality or they disappear, and Antigone Rising seems positioned squarely in the first camp. It's easy to hear why McLachlan tagged them for her June 1st performance, and why I will eagerly wait for Antigone Rising's next gig.

Photographs Copyright ©1998 Antigone Rising. Used by permission.

Puns: the Japanese Banking Crisis

According to inside contacts, the Japanese banking crisis shows no signs of ameliorating. If anything, it's getting worse.

Following last week's news that Origami Bank had folded, we are hearing that Sumo Bank has gone belly up and Bonsai Bank plans to cut back some of its branches. Karaoke Bank is up for sale and is going for a song. Business at the First Bank of Hiroshima has completely bombed, and the Okinawa Bank remains an island unto itself.

Meanwhile, shares in Kamikaze Bank have nose-dived and 500 back-office staff at Karate Bank got the chop. Analysts report that there is something fishy going on at Sushi Bank and staff there fear they may get a raw deal.

The Kyoto Bank remains, as always, the garden spot.

Submitted by reader C.K.

Letter: to Bill Gates

The following is probably apocryphal, but so what?

At a recent computer expo (COMDEX), Bill Gates reportedly compared the computer industry with the auto industry and stated: "If General Motors had kept up with technology like the computer industry has, we would all be driving twenty-five dollar cars that got 1000 miles to the gallon."

In response to Gates' comments, GM's Bill Welch issued a press release in reply, saying,

If GM had developed technology like Microsoft, we would all be driving cars with the following characteristics:

  1. For no reason whatsoever, your car would crash twice a day.
  2. Every time they repainted the lines on the road, you would have to buy a new car.
  3. Occasionally, your car would die on the freeway for no reason, and you would just accept this, restart, and drive on.
  4. Occasionally, executing a maneuver such as a left turn would cause your car to shut down and refuse to restart, requiring you to reinstall the engine.
  5. Only one person at a time could use the car, unless you bought "Car95" or "CarNT." But then you would have to buy more seats.
  6. Macintosh would make a car that was powered by the sun, reliable, five times as fast, and twice as easy to drive, but would only run on five percent of the roads.
  7. The oil, water temperature, and alternator warning lights would be replaced by a single "general car fault" warning light.
  8. New seats would force everyone to have the same size butt.
  9. The airbag system would ask "Are you sure?" before deploying.
  10. Occasionally, for no reason whatsoever, your car would lock you out and refuse to let you in until you simultaneously lifted the door handle, turned the key, and grabbed hold of the radio antenna.
  11. GM would require all car buyers to also purchase a deluxe set of Rand McNally road maps (now a GM subsidiary), even though they neither need them nor want them. Attempting to delete this option would immediately cause the car's performance to diminish by 50% or more. Moreover, GM would become a target for investigation by the Justice Department.
  12. Every time GM introduced a new model, car buyers would have to learn how to drive all over again because none of the controls would operate in the same manner as they did in the older car.
  13. You'd press the "start" button to shut off the engine.

Submitted by reader D.C.

Joke: the Love Doctor

A doctor had the reputation of helping couples increase the joy in their sex life, but always promised not to take a case if he felt he could not help them.

The Browns came to see the doctor, and he gave them thorough physical exams, psychological exams, and various tests. He then concluded, "Yes, I am happy to say that I believe I can help you. On your way home from my office stop at the grocery store and buy some grapes and some doughnuts. Go home, take off your clothes, and you, sir, roll the grapes across the floor until you make a bulls eye in your wife's love canal. Then on hands and knees you must crawl to her like a leopard and retrieve the grape using only your tongue."

"Then next, ma'am, you must take the doughnuts and from across the room, toss them at your husband until you make a ringer around his love pole. Then like a lioness, you must crawl to him and consume the doughnut."

The couple went home and their sex life became more and more wonderful.

They told their friends, Mr. & Mrs. Green, that they should see the good doctor. The doctor greeted the Greens and said he would not take the case unless he felt that he could help them; so he conducted the physical exams and the same battery of tests.

Then he told the Greens the bad news. "I cannot help you, so I will not take your money. I believe your sex life is as good as it will ever be. I cannot help."

The Greens pleaded with him, and said, "You helped our friends the Browns, now please, please help us."

"Well, all right," the doctor said. "On your way home from the office, stop at the grocery store and buy some apples and a box of Cheerios..."

Submitted by reader S.S.