Lurch's Video Vault

He's alright.

David Foster Wallace and the lady's two glass eyes

Wallace, moments before the riots.

Recently, a woman ran up to me bursting with pride and joy. She had just received the two prosthetic eyes she scored on e-bay for less than the price of a yearly subscription to Mojo Magazine.

“Two for the price of one,” she beamed holding out the orbs for me to see.

“What will you do with your two new eyes?” I asked kinda grossed out. 

“Oh, that’s easy,” she cooed. “I’m going to read infinite Jest again!” She then dashed off madly directly into the path of a school bus which narrowly avoided her by swerving violently, striking a man on the sidewalk, pinning him against the wall of Dongo’s Dry Cleaner’s, the impact popping his eyes  out. 

I first read I.J. sometime in 1994 1995 after someone bought it for me as a means of corporal punishment; a means for me to atone for all sins brazenly committed since the glorious day of my birth, October 1^st, 1968. It was a dry birth, if I remember correctly, not a lot of blood and mucking around. I came out holding six serpents and a travel mug of coffee, while smoking twelve cigarettes. There was dust, ashes, and a small fire way off in the distance - a typical smoky autumn birth. 

I love the ominous girth of I.J.  It could be used to kill a person, crush a spine, or break easily through a pane of plate glass. And that was just the physical tangibility of the tome. The words contained were heavier. But I read it. I have to admit that this was not Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. This was not a one-hitter. Being diagnosed with I.J. was like living through a nasty bout of encephalitis for a few months. The book crippled me temporarily, hampering my daily routine. I grew muscles where I didn’t have muscles before. Mushrooms sprouted from dank corners. The plot confused. It depressed me. It made me laugh. Yet for months there was no light at the end of the tunnel. But it wasn’t terminal after all. Like Gloria Gaynor, I survived indeed. Then Wallace hung himself from the rafters in his kitchen. But don’t fret, dear reader, as it was a load-bearing rafter. 

The news of his death was akin to a kick in the throat. So, I read it again. I.J. as a toast to Wallace. I was going to sing Danny Boy at his funeral and say the Lord’s Prayer, but I had nothing decent to say and nothing decent to wear. Reading through I.J. again was like a mild reoccurrence of encephalitis. Naturally with Wallace, now safely underground, I.J. read like an exquisitely penned, if not a tad self-indulgent, suicide note. Jesus H Christ, my copy, scoffed and tattered from being lugged around a second time, can still be used to kill a person, crush a spine, or break easily through a pane of plate glass. It now leans against other books by notoriously dead authors. H.S.T, Hemmingway, Wilde, Vonnegut, and Johnny Thunders.

Read Reed Reid Wreed

Hey. What are you reading? What are you planning on pleading on the four counts of gross weeding and nefarious cloud seeding? Oh yeah, and what are you reading again? If you don't plan on cloud seeding or gross weeding and do plan on some holiday reading but you don't want to bother asking Oprah as she is a hideous monster, may I humbly suggest the following four books. They are real good and full of words that alone make very little sense, but when strung together makes for a real good time.

Notice how all the covers are left justified? That's some cool blog shit layout right there for you. You're welcome.

MR BERUBÉ GOES KABOOM IN TWO PARTS

Part I
P R E - B O O M

“I think I can fix it.”

“Oh, I don’t think so honey.”

“No, Shirl, really. I don’t think it’s that big a deal.”

“That’s what you said about fixing the filter for the pool.”

“No, this is different. This will be a piece of cake.”

“Please, Earl, come on. Let’s just call the guy to come and have a look at it.”

“For this? Are you kidding me? That guy's a flake. It’s just this little thing right here.”

“You don’t even know what that little thing is.”

“It’s a regulator. I Googled it goddammit!”

“Jesus, Earl, you have no idea what a regulator is. Please, let’s just call the serviceman and have it done right the first time. They’re licensed to work on this.”

“You know how much those guys charge? Here’s pass me the soldering iron and a few of those paperclips. Okay, now see this wire here? I think that’s part of the problem, too.”

“This is not a good idea. I’ll be in the neighbour’s bomb shelter.”

“Your faith in my capabilities is really touching.”

“Earl, please don’t.”

“I’m sure it’s just this part here that’s a little bent.”

“The regulator, right?

“Exactly, so if ―”“I’m leaving before you blow us all to kingdom come.”

P A R T II

P O S T - B O O M

“Mrs Berubé, you’re husband Earl is a very lucky man.”

“No doctor. Actually, my husband is a very lucky idiot. Can I go in and see him?”

“We’ll he’s still smouldering and pretty heavily sedated. He also smells something awful. Now, his face is swollen and he will have a grotesque grimace for the next few months, but all things considered his condition looks worse than it actually is. From what I understand, the force of the explosion actually was such that he was blown skyward, whereas the huge balls of flame were blown outward. His injuries could have been much more severe. And as the explosion tore off his clothes, the burns are actually quite clean and should heal, leaving, hopefully, very little scar tissue aside from his face and buttocks.”

“He blew up the basement.”

“He needs you now. Go to him.”

“We just bought a pool table.”

“He’ll need all your love and support.”

“My ceramic workshop was down there. All gone.”

“Yes, by all means, go to him, Mrs Berubé. You can help him get through this trying time. He may be depressed for a while but you must be strong enough for the both of you. Mrs Berubé? His room is that way. Mrs Berubé? Where are you going? Mrs Berubé?”

Remember when music was interesting?

The Crowning of a Queen

 Bangus County, ON — The inaugural Miss Google Eyes Pageant was held in plush Palomino Lounge in beautiful downtown Bangus. The brainchild of local optometrist and convicted serial arsonist Wayne Chills, the pageant brought out the local celebrities as well as the near sighted, farsighted, colour blind and the curious. Inside, 6 contestants competed in such events as Jenga, nude darts and drinking beer through a funnel. Outside a small group gathered to protest what they claimed to be the perverse and crass objectification of the visually impaired.

“It’s disgusting, barbaric and just plain ridiculous” one woman told Bangus Magazine. “Bad eyesight is serious.”