"It was here," thought he, "where Father first showed me how to skip rocks." Young Telemachus dipped his fingers into the sand, pulling from it a flat, smooth stone most suitable for skipping. "Here it was that we built sand castles. Here I murdered my first fish, tore through it's innards, than learned how to prepare a fire-based fish meal. " A tear formed quickly, then began its descent down the young man's perfect cheekbones, coming to rest near his cut, rugged jaw.
At twenty years old, Telemachus was a sight to behold. Walking towards the sea, the West Wind gently ran his fingers through the young boy's hair. It wasn't a creepy sort of head-rubbing; really just a tussling sort of thing that was playful and completely, totally innocuous. Seriously, Telemachus should have thanked the kind old wind; he knew not just how hot he looked as the uncreepy, gentle old wind blew his sweet, moist breath through Telemachus' sunflower-blonde hair.
Telemachus scanned the horizon, searching desperately for signs of his father's ship. It was a futile routine, but one that he had practiced daily for nearly twenty years. The wind had gotten harder and harder; it seemed to blow Telemachus with all its glorious might. The fibers of young Telemachus's loin cloth fought back, stretching against the ample constraints of the sweet boy's--what ho? It couldn't be. Telemachus ran into the waves, desperate to get a look at the ship on the horizon. Finally, it became clear: Odysseus was home.
Together, Odysseus and Telemachus walked the long dirt trail from the sea to their mighty home. Telemachus had walked the trail alone, many times; often he would stop and stare directly towards the sun, praying for his father's return. When his eyes began to burn, he knew his prayer had been accepted. Now, with his prayer finally answered, he turned to the sun, and gave it a pretty cute wink. "Thanks, Helios," said he.
Finally, Telemachus turned to Odysseus, and prepared to speak. He had been waiting for this moment for nearly twenty years. "Dad, Dad, you'll never believe what's happened since you've been gone! I played t-ball, and I learned to draw, and there's a bunch of suitors at the house that we need to kill, and plus I got all As in high school, and I learned about wine, and what foods each wine are supposed to go wi--"
"Jesus Christ," bellowed Odysseus. "I've been home for like six fucking minutes! Give me a goddamned break, and you can bother me later!" The boy smiled. His father was home.
Later, Odysseus and his wife Penelope were alone at last. After a tearful reunion, and several glasses of scotch, Odysseus now laid his wife onto the bed, his hand slowly wandering up Penelope's soft, vanilla thighs. He had imagined this moment for nigh twenty years, had ached for her with every ounce of his being (well, except for that whole thing with Circe, but c'mon; that was just a year of gettin' bombed, and gettin' ass...plus, being in different zip codes, it really wasn't cheating). At long last, he was home.
As his fingers crept into her warmth, a clammy, cold hand slapped upon his wrist.
"We need to talk," screeched Penelope. "There are like thirty suitors here. They're partying every night, drinking all of my fucking wine, and eating all of your meat. It can't be a good influence on Telemachus. For the love of the gods, how is he even supposed to sleep? And you don't even wanna know some of the things they've said to me! You've been home for like a half-hour, and you still haven't even--"
"ENOUGH!" cried Odysseus, slamming a mighty fist upon the table. Even as he did this, his protector, goddess Athena, took action. Disguised now as a small girl, she thrust open the mighty bedroom doors, strode across the room, and slapped Penelope across the face. Then, with a wink at Odysseus, she morphed into the majestic sparrow, and flew out of the room.
Penelope stared at Odysseus, aghast.
"Remember, wife," said he, "if anyone asks, you fell." And with that, Odysseus stormed out of the room, went downstairs, and got hammered with the suitors.
This beautiful, oft-cited excerpt from Homer's Odyssey is generally interpreted, in the world of post-modern, deconstructionist criticism, as a passage espousing the necessity--and indeed, hilarity--of domestic violence.
However, for YOU, this passage has only one interpretation: Don't ever ask a man about his business.
Yeah, so I've been gone for like four months. Back out! What have you done in that time period that's so fucking great? Stop right there. If you're so fucking spec--don't interrupt me. Don't you EVER interrupt me! I am the leader of this
I ask the questions around here. Never forget it, lest you suffer the same fate as poor Penelope.
Now that you're firmly re-subjugated, we can get back to business. Today I'd like to introduce a new feature I'll be running from time-to-time: Questions from the Reader!
You haven't noticed, but the comment boxes have been getting pretty full. However, each and every one of you used the space to express your undying adulation towards me, your humble blog author and King. There's nothing wrong with this, per se. I just assumed that some of you would prefer that your hero worship and/or graphic sexual fantasy descriptions were read by me privately, and would greatly embarrass you once you sobered up and realized what you had written. Thus, I did all of you the favor of removing your comments.
In the future, these sweet-nothings can be whispered to incrediblyloudwriting@gmail.com.
Please continue to fill up the "Comment" sections under each blog entry, but be forewarned: I shall henceforth allow any and all "Comment" correspondence--no matter how blubbering--to be displayed on the mighty Internet!
There was one comment that I allowed to remain, and it serves as the impetus for "QFromtheR." This question (though the box is clearly marked comments) comes from your fellow peasant, Duncan.
A.M.--I have enjoyed reading,seeing, and hearing your blog entries to this point. Is there a way I can also smell these amazing bits of entertainment?
Incredibly yours,
Duncan.
I'll give you all a moment to stop laughing.
Alright, that good? Seriously, stop, we've got things to do. Yeah, yeah, ha ha, what an assbag, I know. Really, let's all calm it down and get back to--is that gum? Are you chewi--give me the gum. Give me the gum, now. If we can't all be responsible, we won't have treats next week. Alright, back to work.
Duncan, I'd like to begin by thanking you for your thoughtful question. I appreciate your patronage here at Incredibly Loud Writing, and as I used your question in the blog, you'll be receiving a FREE "Incredibly Loud Writing" baby-tee, as well as a cassette tape single of the Darrel and The Groundhogs smash hit, "Three Groundhog Cocks." You pay only $7.95--American currency ONLY--in shipping and handling. Now Duncan, I'd like you to go ahead and skip forward five lines. With your hard work, you've earned it! Go on, skip ahead! We'll catch up there. Start now.
What a fucking idiotic question for real, huh? Alright, let's laugh a little more. There you go. That's good. Wow.
Welcome back, Duncan! I hope you enjoyed the vacation. Make sure to note it on your timesheet. Now, to speak directly to your insightful query: Of course Interactive Internet Smelling Devices--or I.I.S.D--exist! As a licensed blog owner, I was required to pass a six-month course on general Internet knowledge (one I recommend to you), as well as pay the hefty Internet Portioning fees.
Here's the skinny: The International Council of the Internet, who administers these devices of control, has the technology. It is being fine-tuned, and when ready, will be shipped directly to Bill Gates, who has the daunting task of inserting it into Windows (a construction process that generally takes up to a year, requiring several man hours, and impacting urban traffic negatively). Once this process is complete, the new version of Windows will be loaded into a flat-bed truck, and shipped across the country. At this point, you'll be able to smell more Incredibly Loud Writing than you ever thought you'd hear or taste.
So thanks for your question Duncan. I'm sure at this point that you've got another one (Duncan, go to the next sentence), because you're PRETTY FUCKING SLOW! Hi again, Duncan. You're wondering where the I.C. of the I. gets all their money for smellology. A simple question, from a simple mind. The answer is right in front of you, and indeed ubiquitous in the land of the Internet: Copyright Fees!
While the dues from new Internet owners keep the 'net spinning, advances in tech would not be possible were it not for the heavily regulation of Internet content. The Council receives a cut of all copyright fees paid for reproducing copyrighted materials on the Internet. As such, the Council dutifully monitors ALL Internet content, ensuring that copyright laws are never broken!
Beyond the monetary benefits, this process serves as a method of control. Imagine an Internet where anyone could have a website! That's not an Internet I'd want to visit. Additionally, things like movies and music could be shared using user-to-user technology, with no money changing hands!
Needless to say, the Council performs a truly heroic deed in protecting us all from the horrors of an unregulated 'net. However, this does make it a bitch to access copyrighted work for this blog! It took me the last four months to collect the $25 fee for the rights to rebroadcast--well now, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Thanks for the questions, Duncan!
--AM Chenowith
Together, we join arms and celebrate: We've come to the end of all this reading! Well, almost to the end. Hang in there.
In 2006, I was working as an intern at Independent Radio Iowa. My first assignment was to chronicle local musician Thad Taylor, who was making a splash in the burgeoning music scene in Solon, Iowa. IRI's top reporter, Brock Rosaleb, conducted several interviews with Taylor, which I recorded, then pieced together, as I discovered an affinity for digital editing.
But I paid the aforementioned $25 to reproduce this copyrighted (damn you, Independent Radio Iowa) material not to display the genesis of my audiogenius--no, this is to introduce you to a kindred spirit.
Thad Taylor personifies the ethos that typifies the mantra that represents my art. He'll teach you more in these ten minutes than I have during the three hours it took you to read this post. I'll step aside now, and let this brilliant man speak for himself.
Check back soon for more Incredibly Loud Writing.
You're welcome.
From Independent Radio Iowa, circa 2006: A young audio editor named AM Chenowith successfully documents a moment in time with musical legend Thad Taylor. Take 10 minutes now to listen to it, or recover from all of that reading by taking a nap, getting high, going to the bathroom, or watching football, or something like that. But then, come back and take 10 minutes and listen to the god damn piece.
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