Mini fiction and micromusings about internet life, books, sex, food and red-headed girls.

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  • Duchovny, You Bastard
    Friday November 30th 2007, 6:12 pm
    Filed under: Television,Time travel

    It’s a slow day in 2007. I get in my time machine and fly to 1996 to watch television with myself. We’re at our parents’, sitting on the gray couch, the one we’ll throw away two years hence. My ’96 self has the remote. I had it last time.

    “So what do you watch in the future?” he asks. Fran Drescher is nasalating and the audience finds that funny. A self-content butler smiles at himself. Niles? Giles? What’s his name?

    “Not much,” I say. “Not much. Although I did watch this thing that was–but… no. You wouldn’t like to… no.”

    “Come on,” he says. “Tell me.”

    “No,” I say. “No. Okay. It’s this show where… This is funny. Gracie Sheffield has sex with agent Mulder and punches him in the face. You know, for kicks? Yeah. And later…”

    The smile withers on my lips. My ’96 self looks at the TV as the Sheffield girls fight about some prom date or a secret they were supposed to keep from Charles Shaughnessy. “Please tell me that you mean Maggie,” says me.

    “No, man,” I say, and suddenly I understand why you must never, ever, bring news of the future back in time. “I’m sorry. Madeline Zima.”

    “And David Duchovny,” he says.

    “I’m sorry,” I say. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off.

    “What’s it called?”


    “The show,” says me, looking away. “What’s it called?”

    “Eh… I… Forget it,” I say.

    We watch the rest of the show silently. Only the recorded audience laughs.

    The Eilam Heritage
    Thursday November 29th 2007, 2:05 am
    Filed under: Bibliphilia,Fetish,Seriously Now

    Kedarlaomer (watch out for Hebrew) ponders the difficulty of paper, the love for which he claims to have inherited from his father. This makes me wonder: can you inherit, literally inherit, a fetish? The rustling sound of paper, this titillating dryness of the page: is there a gene somewhere in there which compels these pleasures upon us? Perhaps a long forgotten mutation, spawned eons ago from a gene which made us cautious at the sound of feet approaching or had us long for the touch of skin — useless, but stayed in us by the forces of randmoness that govern all life?

    You sit down with a book and sigh and inhale: there are faint smells of trees crashing to the ground and shredded with a thousand metal teeth. Ancient genes, insane by mutation, dream up mammoths brought down and teared apart by hand and eaten raw, and they release this cloud of contentment inside of you. You say, ah. Books. How cultural.