Photo of the Week

They look like fancy chocolates, don't they? But really these are foil-wrapped condoms. They're designed for people who want to keep their love gloves ever-ready on the bedside table without being too obvious about it. As it says on the box these come in, "Casual observers will simply think you've been eating bon-bons in bed.... Not for internal consumption."

Actually, I just made that up. This is the box of candy I won for being the "most dapper man" at the recent Kentucky Derby Party/fundraiser I attended. I won for the second year in a row. Apparently all you have to do to win is to show up in a jacket, tie, and a hat that's not a baseball cap. Click the pic for a mouth-watering close-up look.

Head Rattle

I.
Somebody was just reciting a lot of Lost plot details, and I realized I've forgotten most of what happened in the latter episodes, when it got very convoluted. Yes, I've lost it. Strangely, I don't feel any desire to rewatch the series at this point. Maybe that will change in a few years. I don't think it's another Twin Peaks, though, maybe because there are too many episodes to keep the whole thing straight. And something that went on too long may be less appealing than something that got cut too short.

II.
Strange how I can enjoy a novel in which not much of anything happens, at least so far. About the most dramatic plot development is that someone's pet iguana died. Other than that, it's mostly a character study in which a 400-pound sociology professor decides to interview a twentysomething homeless sex-offender -- who is still a virgin. They become friends. Opposites attract. And their stories about how they got to be who they are have me hitting the old page-refresh button. It's Lost Memory of Skin by Russell Banks, if you're curious.

Word of the Day: prognathous

prognathous (adj)

Having a protruding lower jaw. (Thanks to Worthless Word of the Day for this one.)

"But he cuts no ice. If your business is big, you get behind him and find a prognathous Westphalian with a retreating brow and the manners of a hog."
--John Buchan, The Thirty-Nine Steps

Ick. If you click on the word/image link above, you'll see that this word mostly applies to Neanderthals and insects. And bulldogs, I suppose.

As a kid, I was the opposite of prognathous. I had an over-bite, and had to wear braces for a few years on my top teeth to pull them back a bit. Not fun. My dental dilemma was complicated by the fact that I'm missing two upper adult teeth for hereditary reasons -- thanks, Grandma! -- so some adjustment was needed to fix the spacing between my upper choppers too. And I had to get a couple of false teeth -- otherwise, I would look like a hillbilly or maybe a crack head every time I smile.

Later this week, I have to get a root canal. Pray for me.

Disclaimer

The information contained in this website is for mental fermentation purposes only. The associated bemusement and disorientation is provided by Twists and Turns, and while we endeavor to keep the information waggish and facetious, we make no representations or warranties of any kind, puckish or pokerfaced, about the surreality, inanity, inscrutability or dementia experienced with respect to the website, or the wonderment, randomness, provocation, or jocularity contained on the website, for any purpose. Any reliance you place on such skylarking is therefore strictly at your own risk.

In no event will we be liable for any smirking or guffawing, including, without limitation, indirect or consequential, any giddiness or inspiration toward tomfoolery, or any loss or damage whatsoever arising from mental confusion or beguilement arising out of, or in connection with, perusement of this amusement.

Random Acts of Poetry

Waiting Room

We sat in fixed positions,
he and I

so that we wouldn't disappear.
Our day had fled through the window.

This waiting had the quality of enamel,
like a souvenir plate spinning in place.

Most of the furniture was vacant
and the radiator spat in the corner.

The chair had a frayed edge,
and the receptionist used bad grammar;

she had a problem with her larynx.
I felt a sensitivity

to her wrenched voice,
as she gargled into the phone.

Then my leg fell asleep.
So I made ambitious circles

with my feet
like a nervous orangutan

while the man across from me
pretended to be blind.

I was inclined to disturb him,
ask what was so fascinating

about his year-old Newsweek.
It might have inspired

a ping-ponging argument
to smash the tedium

of that afternoon room.
But the dull lines of his face

revealed no devilry,
not a single urge

to step forward
though the door of living

until his name was called.

Search Party

Here are a few recent search queries that brought seekers to this temple of scribomania. This time around, it appears I've had quite a few visits from surrealists, or maybe A.I. programs spitting out random keyword phrases.

animal planet monster week mermaid fins

I can understand liking Animal Planet, and especially their "Monster Week" episodes, and I get the fascination with mermaids. But mermaid fins may be a step too far in the direction of esoteric fetishism.

scrap metal like Halloween

"Like, let's go punk and decorate with junked car parts this coming Samhain."

broken doll face

You've given me an excuse to post one of my Lynchian photographic masterpieces:



insane people clipart

What do you need clipart of insane people for? Are you the editor of the Creedmoor alumni newsletter?

ultrarealistic pencil

This is the only type of pencil I feel I can depend on. Nonrealistic pencils are pointless, and simply realistic ones have always lead me astray.

a glass of beer poem summary

A poem about a glass of beer? I'd rather just read the summary, too.

chemical meth drop pitcher

I'm guessing this is a crossword puzzle clue. I'll help you out: coffee break.

dirty noir

Sounds like you've defined a new film genre. I must admit, I do like a certain amount of filth in my noir.

Word of the Day: rantipole

rantipole (n, adj, v)

A wild, reckless person.

"This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes."
--Washington Irving, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"

In the Bizarro universe, I suppose I would be a rantipole. As it is, I'm the opposite of wild and crazy, at least in my outward behavior. My interior life is a bit more rambunctious. About the wildest thing I do (and I don't do it often) is to scream into a pillow when feeling especially frustrated. I recommend it. It's quite cathartic and doesn't alarm the neighbors. A few decades ago, there was even a psychotherapy technique built around screaming, called Primal therapy. (There was a popular book about it, The Primal Scream.) John and Yoko took it up, and the result was a great easy-listenin' album (or two) called Plastic Ono Band. You don't hear much about Primal screaming these days, though, and it's too bad, because the world has plenty to scream about. Grab a pillow, I say....

Much Ado about NOTHING

Hawaiian Shirt Day

Friday at work was "Hawaiian Shirt Day" -- the theme for the weekly Friday afternoon beer blast. Shocker: I happen to own a Hawaiian shirt. That's because I was once invited to a friend's mid-winter "beach" party and so went out and bought a cheap, very loud one with a hibiscus and palm tree pattern. That was the only time I ever wore it, I swear.

I took it with me to work in my backpack on Friday, rather than wearing it, because I suspected that everyone would chicken out -- and I didn't want to be the only one wearing an asshole shirt at work. To my surprise, however, quite a few guys showed up wearing tropical togs. (Women don't seem to own Hawaiian shirts, probably because they have better taste.)

So, at lunch time, after some prodding from co-workers, I changed into it. It felt weird doing work while dressed like a character from Miami Vice or Hawaii Five-O. It probably seemed even weirder to people who weren't similarly attired. As our producer, Scott "Sugar" B., said, "It's Hawaiian shirt day at the office and it looks like I'm surrounded by assassins who are trying to blend in."

Fish Food for Thought

Agree? More clip-art philosophy by me (and Haruki Murakami). You can catch the BIG fish here.

The T&T List

Liquid Phase Coalescers
Supermoon
zombie ants
Croatoan
The Scream
Benedict Cumberbatch
multi-tiered haptics
The Calusa
I Am a Pole (And So Can You!)
Kioi Sinfonietta Tokyo
burr grinder
Sound Graffiti

Brain Dump

Consider the reason for resistance to this: The text is not a book and the book is not a text. The size of the text is only limited by the size of one's physical (or, indeed, mental) library. Reference is infinite – and cannot even be limited by the capacity of the world, or of the limits of reality or being, and is not (especially) subject to the concepts of "same" and "other". That is to say, history and the "real" world cannot place limits on the text, which is always, in any case, a symbolic rendering of a symbolic (“unreal”) concept. Thus the movement toward interpretation and contextualization always incorporates a network of differences, and therefore referral to an "other" – the implication being that alterity (difference) can never be reduced to mere apples and oranges. Discuss.

Head Rattle

I.
Yeesh! Too many things coming back in the past week.... In the tempting fate department, how about that Australian billionnaire who's going to build an exact replica of the Titanic? What else will it be but a ghost ship? And what sort of morbid sickos will want to cruise on it? How many lunatics or terrorists will see it as an opportunity to repeat history? One could ask the same question, I suppose, about the new One World Trade Center, still unfinished but already New York's tallest building. And the space shuttle Enterprise landed at Kennedy Airport a few days ago, on its way to becoming a museum piece -- an obsolete spacecraft named in memory of a 1960s TV show landed at an airport named in memory for a slain 1960s president. It's all too much nostalgia for lost glories and might-have-beens for one week, surely.

II.
I am attempting to read a book on my e-reader (Russell Banks' Lost Memory of Skin) and listen to an audiobook on my iPhone (Kevin Wilson's The Family Fang) at the same time -- not simultaneously, of course, but in alternating sequence. Two very different books, but it's creating the weird effect in my mind of conflating the two. I'm confusing which characters and plot points belong to which book, as if it's all one long, bizarre story. Maybe multitasking is not the proper strategy for imbibing modern fiction.