Sinister: purple prose or is it a pose?

[mike windisch]

hello sinister,

(despite the introductory disclaimer, i put some thought and some heart into 
living the true stories contained herein)

it's been some time since I posted.

in fact its been some time since I read any list messages.

There's been some changes, don't you know.

First off, for some odd reason, I stopped listening to our feted group of 
minstrels for about ten days.

the result: depression, a loss of feeling who i know myself to be, and the 
distinct feeling of not being beautiful anymore.

It took a long drive from my new town to my home town, with ample amounts of 
judy and the dream of rollercoasters to bring me back around.

don't let this happen to you. keep those records spinning.


As we all know, that rascal stuart often includes some religious content, 
twisted as it may be, into those pesky lyrics that he uses to carry that 
divine touch of voice beyond the everyday all too familiar and into that 
realm of poetic rapture.

I too have had some skewed religious occurrences of late that are amusing 
enough to share.

(Musical gifts aside, the main difference between me and stu is that my 
voice warbles when it talks the sense that takes the heart to hear.)

Round one: nothing illuminates the wrongs like guilt

Night in a supermarket.

Mix of art students and urban poor.

Me with a power cord and some amber bulbs in the express lane.

5 percenter empowered black Moslem ahead of me. He clean headed with big ass 
goatee.

The clerk, a greasy kid from the italian side of the spectrum. His friend, 
coolly lamping by the register is vaguely asian, but more definitively city.

"You look familiar," says the brother.

"Really?" queeries vaguely asian.

"You go to church?" Moslem again.

We all stand there silent. I can tangibly feel the collective conscience 
question when the last time was, and what interim wrong was done.

In that pause is something serious.

"Well, my moms goes and I think about it now again," vaguely asian answers.

This next silence is wholly consumed by the shit eating grin of the 
righteous one as the clerk bags his purchase.

Then the Moslem says:

"Well, maybe its too late?"

and he's gone.

We all stand there silent, shocked, and thinking seriously about our 
everlasting ends.

Emboldened by my own sense of utter damnation, I asked the grease and 
vaguely if they've ever heard the likes of that bullshit before.

"I thought it was all about forgiveness," the grease repeats.

(he had said it before to the bad ass righteous one, who simply laughed and 
left)

He bagged and I grabbed my lightbulbs, content that I had bought some food 
for thought.
------------------

Round Two: An holy threat:

- Excuse me sir, can you say how to spell your last name.

"Sure thing," he says. "Father Anthony V-e-r-d-e-l-o-t-t-i."

- Thanks

"If you write anything bad about me in that newspaper, I will hunt you down 
and shoot you."

-Really, I never expected a priest to say that to me.

"It's only because I mean it."

-------------------------------
Round Three: B&S hook with local shout out:

True, it has been some time since I first heard state that I am in, and 
tacitly gave myself to sin; but it's only been in the past month and 
relocated to Providence.

But, needless to say, never has my peculiar little life so coincided with 
the lyrical content of that song as the tour of this tiny town that tommy 
jolt provided for me just a week ago.

Our agenda included new spots and harlots, indy film and late night 
responsible drinking. There was never the appearance of impropriety, but for 
the entire night i did my damnedest to entertain my crippled friend.

for you see, tommy was limping. because he, injured his knee, falling from a 
barstool with glee.


Well you all know now, here in the new sinister proper, why the likes of me 
posts so seldomly.

because no one appreciates an indulgent fuck, with so little to say, as he 
himself, on each and every of his praise me days.


your pal,

mike windisch



post scribble

if any all made it to the end of this post, and enjoyed, give yourself an 
attaboy and drop me a line of feedback on these true to the last stories.

pushing it post scribble

If you'll have me i'll go to the nyc picnic and bring the b&s placemats, 
along with a gangload of cheer.





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