Wicked schemes and butterfly screams
One of my earliest childhood memories involves a boyhood blunder when I poked a stick into a cocoon, not knowing what is was, only to understand later from a local Sunday school teacher that I had killed a bunch of butterflies-to-be and could expect hasty retribution from Above. I was petrified: This was back when I had a tangible image of God (white beard and mouth poking out of the clouds) who would crush me for destroying his beautiful creation. And this is how the biotech industry should feel today if they don’t stop experimenting with our biosphere. I read recently that research suggests genetically engineered corn can be toxic to butterflies; just another wonder of life that big corporations would destroy for profit margin (Nabokov is rolling in his grave).
I attended the CN&R bowling party and can say there were enough bloopers for a one hour Dick Clark special. Without naming names, one woman in slick pants slid off her chair onto her butt (saving her Budweiser), another went to roll the ball and let it fly backwards like a grenade into the crowd, and, in classic form, a man fell face-first with a 1-2 thud onto the lane (note: fouls occurred courtesy of members of the sales dept.). The Synthesis and their over-worked editor might actually be able to beat us at bowling—although they’d get something broke off on the basketball court since the Reverend likes to dunk and throw weak shit out. But I digress; the comedic errors at the bowling party were fantastic enough to pull me out of my waking mental dreamscape (visions of nighttime tango in the snow-decorated, geometric fantasia of Moskva, aside a female Russian sculptor with a penchant for Borges, Labradford and lace thongs).
Local man can’t recognize anyone in the bars
A Chico man was shocked and disoriented last Friday when he entered his favorite bar on Main Street and couldn’t recognize anyone in the packed room.
“It was like an episode of The Twilight Zone,” he said. “There were no bloated regulars or stone-faced lushes at their favorite stools. … It was like the dream where you wake up naked and are sitting in your car in the high school parking lot, and you know you have to go inside to class. It freaked me out.”
Official sources contribute the scarcity of recognizable bar patrons to the so-called “summer crowd” in the Chico area, as well as tourists from Oroville and Orland.
“Although there’s always the possibility the guy just has no friends,” said the bartender. “Or that he may be experiencing signs of early Alzheimer’s.”
1. Bustolini’s for lunch
2. Asskickers album
3. Pop Secret
4. John Lee Hooker R.I.P.