I Have Seen the Future and it's the Bee's Knees

Art by Bob Lavin. Cover illustration for Hunt Collins' (aka Ed McBain's) "Tomorrow and Tomorrow."

The Time Traveler and his Wife pop into the future from the Roaring Twenties. Their Time Machine resembles the offspring of a Flivver and a Van de Graaff generator. They gawp at the inhabitants of the shiny, candy-colored city of the future.

Mr. Time Traveler: The future’s the cat’s meow, I tells ya!
Mrs. Time Traveler: Oh, but darling … so much pastel!
Mr. Time Traveler: Tell me about it. And not a straw boater in sight!
Mrs. Time Traveler: And the women are so … so overdeveloped. 

Mr. Time Traveler: Well, it’s the future, ain’t it? Evolution or whatever. By future standards, these dames might be flat-chested.
Mrs. Time Traveler: Oh, these chippies are shameless! I think we should go back to your time machine!
Mr. Time Traveler: You know what I think?
Mrs. Time Traveler: No, darling. 
Mr. Time Traveler: Howzabout you go back to the time machine? Set the dial to 1929 and take a powder. Meanwhile, I’ll snag me a pastel shirt and reconnoiter on the QT. Get the lowdown on the moral depravity. Hearst'll eat it up, know what I mean? 
Mrs. Time Traveler: No. How will you get back? 

They walk over to the Time Machine.

Mr. Time Traveler: Let me worry about that. Here, doll. Take a seat.
Mrs. Time Traveler: OK. I love you. 
Mr. Time Traveler: Sure you did. Twenty-three skiddoo, baby.

Mr. Time Traveler pushes a button. The Time Machine disappears with Mrs. Time Traveler in it.

Loudspeaker: Sexual fulfillment exercises begin in five minutes. Interested parties, please gather at the Orgasmic Interociter for further instructions.

The depraved Futurians squeal with glee and run.

The Time Traveler flings his straw boater to the sky and joins them.

My First Cryptid Alphabestiary

A is for "Altie," a sturgeon or plesiosaur. He likes rivers in Georgia, and eats yuppies on tours.

B is for "Bunyip" who lives in Australia. He's a government secret. If you blab, they will jail ya.

C is for "Chupacabra," Trump's nightmare come true. He won't take your job, man. He hungers for you.

D is for "Dookie." He's no monster, he's shit. But so are the rest. He's the one perfect fit.

E is for "Ent," a tree without roots. He stomped Marvel Studios, pissed off about Groot.

F is for “Fir Bolg,” the Bigfoot of Ireland. I’m stuck for a rhyme, ‘cause I’m feeling tired, man.

G is for "Gremlin," who torments Bill Shatner. If she falls from the wing, you know it'll flatten her.

H is for "Half-Elf," a miserable bum. The best you can say is he's better than none.

I is for "Id," the monster within. He hates Leslie Nielsen, but likes to see skin.

K is for "Kraken," who lives in the sea. Don't release him, you moron. Take it from me.

L is for "Loch Ness Monster," (Nessie for short.) His true name is "Cecil," I'm glad to report.

M is for "Manticore," a Persian monstrosity. ELP is his groove. He digs the pomposity.

N is for "Nü Gui," a ghost hit-girl from China. The spirit of vengeance flows from her deepest inner self.

O is for "Ogre," a creature of dread. He grinds Englishmen's bones to make gluten-free bread.

P is for "Pixie." They're cute and resent it. If you have a new car, they'll fly out and dent it.

Q is for "Qliphoth," a shell of the dead. According to Pynchon, it lives under your bed.

R is for "Roc," a big honking bird. He feasts on fat surfers, at least so I've heard.

S is for "Skunk Ape," who lives up to his name. You'll smell him in Florida. Yeah, we get the blame.

T is for "Troll," malign and online. (Visit www.troll.com to have a good time.)

U is for "Undine," elemental and watery. Like Druids, she's fluid, and likes to spoil pottery.

V is for "Valva," she's translucent and pink. A spirit of nature, it's not what you think.

W is for "Warg," a Buick-sized wolf who ravages fortresses. Not to be confused with the Direwolf, for copyright purposes.

X is for "Xenomorph," a chest-bursting bitch. A sure-fire cure for the space-faring itch.

Y is for "You," try not to feel blue. We're all monsters inside, you know that it's true.

Z is for "Zombie," and you can see why. The corpse, like the trope, refuses to die.

Shakespeare’s top ten horror plays

“A Midsummer Night’s Scream”
“A Comedy of Terrors”
“All’s Hell that Ends Hell”
“Zombie Wives of Windsor”
“Nuclear Winter’s Tale”
“Taming of the Rabid Shrew”
“Thirteenth Night”
“Troilus and Suspiria”
“Cthulu and Juliet”
“The Mutant of Venice”

Joyce Chicken

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
—as told by James Joyce

“chickenrun, past Colonel and Sanders, from extra crispy to chicken combo, brings us by a breadpandough kick of cluckulation back to KFC. Sir Chickenheart, poulet d’amores, fr’over the thirteen spices, had dropencre clucked the bucket from his Old Kentucky Hume (Gonna lay my bourbon down!) on this side the cooped funhouse, hunhouse, henhouse to peckerfight his cockamamie war: nor had Marilyn Fired Childrens ripped the recipe: nor had Colonel Mauders kicked the bawket and braised the deads: nor had Leghorn the Foggy planked the arse of the doggy (Ruff! Ruth! Roof!): nor had Gilbert O’Shelton set the chickens free (while surprise lust) dizzydriving Cadillacs and Caddyshacks everywhichway drunkstonedbrilliantdead (mind the fowl, Mr. Kenney): nor had Superchicken heard the caul: nor had King Chicken viced his evile plans to Duckman, (Mwah-ha-haa, bawk bawk bawk!): nor had Chickmagnet aligned him’s ironyfiled AC-DC poles: wrongstory shite, the Cock of the Walk was rightbawk where he started: i.e., to wit, to what, may the feathers fly, the wing itself, in sum, in same, the rude road. Fowl circle! Joke the chicken! What too due? Cross it he must, did. (For avoidance of shame, behold peacesign tracks all the assfault way.) Ask why? No, not, nyet. The bawk stops here. Aye. When all is shed and dumb, he’s a dimbulbbirdbrain feckless fecking foul, in’t he? (Feck!) Yet, still, apparently, inerrently, in dumbness of dimness, even so, morcel of cerveau in his noggin or not, pecking and puckering roadwise in rightangled fashion, this poultry fella (our hiero!) had a dejavoodoo fritzfeeling he’d been herr befire. Just on. Tit of tongue it. Was. Memberberrying along the lions of …

chickenrun, past Colonel and Sanders, from extra crispy to chicken combo, brings us by a breadpandough kick of cluckulation back to KFC ...”

Cheech and Chong's "Buzz Killer"

INT, RATTY, CLUTTERED OAKLAND FLAT - DAY 
Cheech and Chong, sitting at home, stoned. Then a drug delivery drone buzzes in from an open window. They take awhile to react. Then… 

Chong: What the hell's that buzzing noise? 
Cheech: I dunno, man. Some kind of bug flew in. 
Chong: I told you not to leave the window open. 
Cheech: No, man. I told you … remember? 

Drone buzzes around, bounces off walls. 

Chong: Wow, look at it go! It’s like a Roomba with propellers. (giggles) It’s a big mother***er. 
Cheech: It’s a dead mother***er. 

Drone buzzes around. Cheech grabs a fly swatter from a filthy kitchen counter. 

Chong: You’re gonna need more than that, man. 

Cheech grabs an iron skillet. He runs around, swatting at the drone. It tries to avoid him, knocks over most of the glassware, bongs and lamps. Cheech finally corners it and smacks the hell out of it. The drone goes down. 

Cheech and Chong walk up to it. 

Tarantino point-of-view. A fish-eye lens, looking up at Cheech and Chong looking down.

Chong: So what the hell is this thing? Like an alien?
Cheech: No, dumbass. It’s a delivery drone, like Amazon or whatever. 
Chong: Yeah. That makes sense. There’s something strapped to its back. See? It’s like clown makeup or something. 
Cheech: No, man. That’s not makeup. 

Cheech reaches down out of frame, comes back holding a brick of white powder wrapped in plastic. 

Cheech: It’s a shitload of cocaine. 
Chong: (giggles) Somebody up there likes us. 
Cheech: No, pendejo. Someone other there got the wrong address. We better kill this motherf***er.
Chong: It looks dead to me, man. 
Cheech: That’s just the flying shit! It’s still got a robot brain inside. There’s probably GPS or something. Maybe even a camera. 
Chong: How would it hold a camera? 
Cheech: No, stupid. Like a built-in camera. Like an eye. 
Chong: Hey ... That black ball on top kinda looks like an eye. 
Cheech: Yeah, it does. Like the ones they put on security cameras in the grocery store. 
Chong: Wow … so it’s watching us? 
Cheech: No. The guys who sent the cocaine are watching us. 

Chong waves. 

Cheech: Don’t wave, you idiot. These are not nice guys. They cut off your face and shit. 
Chong: That’s scaring the shit out me, man. How do we kill it? 
Cheech: Not by talking to it! Give me a hammer, stupid! The toolbox is right behind you! 
Chong: OK, here. (hands tool to him) 
Cheech: That’s a screwdriver! 
Chong: Sorry, man. 
Cheech: Gimme the f***ing hammer! 
Chong: OK! (hands it to him) You don’t have to shout, man. 
Cheech: Yes I do. It’s the only way to get your attention! 
Chong: Hey. You think that's really a camera?

Cheech bends down, holding hammer and looking into camera. Smiles evilly.

Cheech: Goodnight sweetheart. 

Smashes hammer down. Go to black. 

Cheech: (OS) And close the f***ing window.

Henrik Ibsen's "Pulp Fiction" (an excerpt)

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INT. APARTMENT (ROOM 49) – MORNING

Jules shoots Roger on the couch. Brett reacts with horror.

Jules: (to Brett) Oh, do forgive me. I appear to have broken your concentration. I assure you, that was not my intent. By all means, please continue. Something about “best intentions,” I believe? Oh … Is something the matter? Ah, I see! You have completed your apologia! Very well. With your permission, my retort shall be a query.
Brett: I fail to grasp your meaning!
Jules: Then you are clearly not from this country.
Brett: Your meaning is still opaque, sir!
Jules: Opaque? Opaque? I’ve never heard of such a country! Do they speak Norwegian in Opaque?
Brett: Norwegian?
Jules: Yes, you Oedipal afterbirth. Norwegian! Are you fluent in this language?
Brett: Yes! 
Jules: Ah. Then you do grasp my meaning. 
Brett: Admittedly so.
Jules: Then please describe for me the physical appearance of Marsellus Wallace.
Brett: Excuse me?
Jules: No, sir! I will not excuse you! I will repeat the question—and caution you of dire and dreadful consequences if you respond with an “opaque” reply.
Brett: Sorry. What was the question?
Jules: Please describe for me the physical appearance of Marsellus Wallace.
Brett: Oh. Well. His head is entirely devoid of hair.
Jules: Ah. Does he by chance resemble a female dog?
Brett: Excuse me?

Jules shoots Brett in the shoulder.

Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam

Repetition is the sincerest form of flattery. In this art world, this is especially true. Because repetition is the sincerest form of flattery in the visual art world. Live any lover, in the throes of passion, the artist cries, "Do it, again! Do it again!" And so, the artist does. Again and again. The history of visual art is replete with obsessive examples. Monet had his mountain, Slab had his cheese danishes, Jacques Halbert had (and has) his cherries. But these pale in comparison with photographer James Mackay.

In the early 1970, Spam became Mackay's obsessive subject. (It is to this day, but we refer to his peak period.) The photographic artist-photographer captured more than 10,000 images of this now-iconic symbol of consumerism and processed pork shoulder meat.

None is more iconic than "A Study in Spam." (circa 1973). It is, to use a pedestrian term, a wonderful image. So wonderful, we can only wonder what we're wondering about. Let us do so now.

What do we see when we see what we see? A monochromatic image, a photograph created in a darkroom, no ones and zeroes involved. We have entered a world without color, a world defined in shades of grey. Within this world, a tin of SPAM rests on an indeterminate planar surface. Asphalt, perhaps? A badly-maintained badminton court? The tin itself is in harsh focus. Harshly lit from the side, casting a long linear shadow to the viewer's left. Behind it, we see the blurry images of palm trees, the lumpy suggestion of human dwellings, and a contrail in the sky. Or perhaps a darkroom mistake.

At first glance, the image is simple. At second glance, it remains simple. At third glance, not so much.

The figure-ground discordancy of this image creates a fugue state which leads the viewer to question the validity of their own perceptions. The biomorphic indeterminacy of the background creates a subliminal frisson of cognitive dissonance when juxtaposed with the foreground image — the seemingly benign, mechanical/inorganic mass-produced, consumer-oriented geometry of a tin of SPAM (emblazoned with its own lifeless "art" proclaiming the indeterminate "meat" within). Is there, in fact, a Caravaggesque sense of drama and lurking threat within this image? No, there is not. But the question was well worth asking.

I should be called to task if I neglect to mention the artist's use of chiaroscuro. He indeed uses it. A lot. But this pales in comparison to Mackay's use of Spam. His fixation on this subject matter is no less than monomaniacal.

But why? 

According to the artist, "affordability."

Special thanks to the meatpackers of Austin, MN - whose ingenious inclusion of "meat byproducts" — helped to make the purchase price of the subject affordable to the protean artist.

According to the Artist's Statement: "If 'classic' attributes of an image can be correlated to its 'timelessness,' then the Sodium Nitrite and Sodium Nitrate preservatives ensure that this image — and the very contents of the can of SPAM — are relevant to today's artists (and viewers.)