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Paprika
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
- Hits: 975
"Paprika", this was the name me and Chris decided was the name of Ken's magical wing(ed accent on "ed") Stallion that he rode upon on his many adventures and campaigns.
Except, as I discovered, or was revealed to my by the divine revelation that is reddit, "Paprika" was probably not the name of the Magical Winged Steed, no, "Paprika" was the name of Ken's alter-ego, "Paprika" was Ken.
We had all, at work, all been dead-naming him.
I didn't know. Or understand. The fault is mine.
I immediately sought to correct this - Ken, Ken, Ken. No, Sorry, "Paprika, Paprika, Paprika".
I introduce him to the concept gently: The Horse Burlesque: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JHnHIkiqvAc
He neighs approvingly. This is the ideal of Pony Play. He likes this video, these girls.
The realization, of course, is a little grimmer: https://www.reddit.com/r/Cringetopia/comments/ng79vp/these_people_self_identify_as_horses/
I work on adapting the work environment to accommodating him. At work, we pride ourselves on our inclusive and tolerant work environment. We even have an anti-bullying stipend which somehow in all the 5 years that I've been there I've neglected to sign, but I take these values to heart. Gender is a construct and Ken, Ken (oops, I meant to say "Paprika"!) can be whoever he/she/it wants to be. I even floated the idea of "Ken, the Human Tardigrade" to him, which he acknowledged, but there are no reddit videos to validate this. So "Paprika" it is.
First off, we change the "Rush" button on the computer to say "Giddyap".
Ken will like this.
I mean "Paprika" will like this.
I then try to make the work environment more inclusive by making "clopping" noises in the background and neighing when customers come in.
I tell the bus-girls of the magic-halter which if they brandish above their head will bring Ken (oops, "Paprika") neighing to their side.
I take to referring to him as, not chef, but "The Galloping Gourmet".
And I compose mighty verses of his epic deeds:
"Paprika, Paprika, who dost chariotest thou thy mighty steed
Onward Valiant Pony, to ever more Valiant and mighty deeds!
For never was a nobler pony led to magic halter
trotted, whinnied, whose gambols and gentle prancings,
lewd and merry cavorts more subject to fair ladies fancies,
..."
It doesn't need to make sense, only needs the flowery language to make Ken stomp and put him in a lather.
He will be grateful when business picks up...
History belongs to the world
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Ideas & Questions
- Hits: 987
This, in the news a fair bit, museums across the world repatriating items of questionable provenance. But it raises the question - at what point does history belong to the world? Are the great pyramids "The History of Egypt" or are they part of the larger history of the human race? And, in politically unstable countries - such as Afghanistan, Egypt, Iraq, etc. - where conflict and change of government frequently threaten collections of importance and interest to the world - is it not them better off in an environment where it can educate more diverse audiences of global backgrounds? Consider the damage done by the Taliban, Looters in the Egyptian riots, etc. - does not their history - or - arguably OUR history - deserve better conservation and stewardship than said nations have provided? Would the Elgin marbles really have survived if left in the Parthenon?
Merely an argument in favor of larger thinking beyond geographical borders when it comes to the world's historical and artistic treasures.
Stormy Scrolls, $5.00 Clock
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 1345
Monday, day one of an unexpected 3 day "weekend" - Unbox Stormy Scrolls. There's a shit load of scrolls and assorted other rubbish, including (but not limited to):
- - A guardian "Travel" angel statue
- - 2 withered beyond repair Xmas oranges
- - Small bag of cashews
- - 2 lollipops.
- - Some previously enjoyed chewing gum
- - 1 Sweet Potatoe
An unbelievable amount of unreadable books, a travel bag filled/coated with jam, (presumably for ease of dining, sadly no crackers provided), and - of course - the obligatory scrolls.
This is all rubbish. Not scrolls.
Partially done. Rubbish and scrolls.
Just the scrolls, please. Rerolled.
In the end, very little worthwhile - 100+ scrolls of cartoon women with big bazooms looking like they'd been steamrolled, like what happened to Coyote with Roadrunner, bazooms aiming east and west, quick sketches, no real effort, he just has to get it out. These I will sell in the "Stormy Gift Shop" for the very reasonable price of $10-$20.00 Apiece. While it doesn't look like much it takes hours to look at each one and reroll it - and separate it from the rubbish - the garbage to be returned (and he will tell me "but it was Marilyn's favorite...." or "It was for Noah/Eve/Ms...".) Bollocks - I drop it off at his place, he can take it back to the free pile from whence it came, only - and I'm getting a phobia of calling round - there's more rubbish.
I'm getting smarter, I pick out the scrolls, leave the rest. Bloody hell. That's almost an entire free day gone going through his "art".
Finish the day with a quick trip to the thrift shop - discover an antique mantel clock - Belgian - $5.00 - "It doesn't keep time" they tell me, why it's so cheap.
I hate the dial, but love the case. From the innards and case I can do something interesting, but first to wind it and make sure it's not working. I'd hate to destroy a perfectly good clock on somebody's say-so, or for one of my many ho-hum art projects.
Wind it to discover that the clock is working fine, chimes "Oranges and Lemons" or some such very recognizable melody on the hour, out perhaps 10 minutes per day - a minor adjustment, and now I'm stuck with it. When it winds down I'll pull the face, paint over it, give the clock some life and color, and then live with it.
And that's Monday. 2 days off left...
The Most Fucked Up Dream
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 2158
***(Yesterday, let off from work early, bonus day off today and so had a short nap to peculiar affect...)
I'm at work, looking into the men's room - the door is open, and there seem to be a bunch of homeless people in it - one, a short, shirtless bearded guy giving me scowls, others, they're using it to store their stuff, grabbing and stashing their possessions under the sink...
A couple of girls come out of the bathroom, green short-sleeved blouses, big black scarves, and they're talking to one another, working behind the bar, and I understand that the owner's son has hired them and will train them tonight...
Peculiar they were in the men's room, but I shrug it off, I'm off early and I'm thrilled.
Off, and I take a nap, and wake up - in the bar, the same, but not the same at all.. Old wood paneling, cupboards everywhere, like in a mall or arcade, close and claustrophobic, ...there's a regular at the bar, I don't know him, never met him, he's had a couple of drinks, a meal, I can't find his bill - on his seat another waitress - Brie (??) has his bill mixed up with her table, I can't figure out what stuff is his, and he keeps talking to me..
Exploring the bar, old wood paneling, cupboards, walls, curios everywhere, there's an old gold lighter that when you snap it open expands, a little jewel, I want to know who's it is, want it, someone says it belongs to Mildred (Who's Mildred?), and I'm trying to get the regular his bill, trying to sort it out, there's a guy with half his face all fallen in, distorted, disfigured, and he's telling me how fucked up the new computer system we have is, he owns a bar, it's the same for him, and he turns and gets up like a Picasso, melting away like a bad acid trip, he's completely out there...
The regular, he's showing me some loft beds behind the bar, climbing into the upper bunk, a fine place to crash if you've had one too many...
And this bar, it's so far from anyplace I've known or seen and then I realize that I took a nap after work and so I'm dreaming and that explains it...
The regular tells me, no, I'm not dreaming, I'm dead, I've crossed over, and it all makes fucking sense now and I think I've got to tell someone, my children, let them know, and then sit down, having just figured out that there is no communication from here, I'm dead...
And I'm taking comfort in the fact that all this, the whacked out bar and people, they are all somehow extensions of myself and if only I can get my thoughts in order things will start to improve and make sense...
***(A completely whacked out dream-within-a-dream, filled with people and places I don't know. Vivid. Blech.)
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