Magic (real magic) Travels Faster than the Speed of Light

This is wilkravitz talking. The egg laying has subsided...actually it's disappeared all together. Honestly, I do not miss it. I mean what am I supposed to do when it happens on the bus? You can't hold back with a thing like that. The egg pops out when the egg wants to pop out. And considering the orafice 'chosen' for this miraculous occurance, the physical sensation can be very confusing. Lost a couple good ones down the toilet at Micky D's. Once, when I was feeling a bit playful, I gave a couple to a bum on the street. He thanked me for the goose eggs and proceeded to roast 'em over a can of sterno. And don't worry. He didn't get salmonella. They were fresh.

I guess the spell, or whatever it was, just wore off. Edith says magic can be like that. It's mostly just illusion anyway. They can't create actual matter out of Elizabethan rhymes and pastel colored talcum powder.......BUT, Papa says they CAN transport things (and most things are made of matter) from one place to another. So like on Bewtitched, when Samantha made yadda yadda and conjured up an elephant, that meant there had to be one less elephant in Africa, or India or Wild Country Safari. Unless it was just the illusory type of enchantment. Then, we'd look at a spider, or something and just THINK it was an elephant. So maybe I never actually laid any eggs. Maybe what I produced was a more ordinary bodily product.......Yeeeech!.......Only if that was the case, how come Edith was able to cook 'em?   They smelled all right, a little beefier and gamier than chicken eggs. That's what made 'em special.

I called that number, the one written on the back of the paper the witches gave me. Only instead of hearin' their phone ring at the other end, I picked up what sounded like a gale force wind tearing across the Antarctic ice fields. Could a been the Siberian ice fields too. I don't know. It's hard for a layman like me to discriminate between the two.

Papa says magic travels faster than the speed of light, because when conjuring folk suck a live, screaming, baby lemur right out of the air it all happens instantaneously. Ain't no 'wait' time. Not like Domino's Pizza. So maybe, according to the latest report, magic has something to do with neutrinos, those little sub-atomic particles that race through the omniverse at faster than light velocities. I asked the kid at Radio Shack if they had any neutrinos. You know. Not individual ones, but a whole bunch of 'em, in like a plastic bag or something All he knew about were the AA and AAA batteries. I told him that wasn't it, but he gave me one a the coupons anyway.

I have to go to sleep. The neutrinos in my brain are startin' to coagulate

HEADLESS TOMMY TELLS US ALL ABOUT THE GHOSTS OF NEW JERSEY'S FORGOTTEN PLACES

My name is Tommy. I guess I'm a ghost. They twisted my head round and round till it got all wobbly and fell off. Then they burned me up and ditched the greasy, ashy remains in The Little Egg Harbor River. Ain't much of a water way, just a bitty stream sneakin' through the edge of The Pines. If you take County Road 561 (I think it is) from Route 73 to The Black Horse Pike on your way to the shore, you seen it. Probably drove right by where they did the deed.

I  would tell you why it had to happen, but my family is still in the area and it would kind a make them shit themselves...All at the same time too. So, just know I did somethin' real bad. That's why I been wanderin' the late night South Jersey highways all these years. They killed me in nineteen fifty eight. I been 'ghostin'' for fifty three years.  But that's not why I want to talk  to you. I got other stuff to share.

Ever notice how some of the smaller shore towns almost close up completely right after Labor Day. Sure, a few try to tack on an extra weekend or two. Maybe some bar owner wants a few more bucks. But September's dying, so those days are over. Soon it's gonna be like an empty bowling alley rounnd most a these places. I could roll my frozen-in-pain-and-terror head down all those Ocean Avenues and Atlantic Avenues without hittin' a soul......Well, without hittin' no living soul.

But a lot of 'funny' stuff starts to happen right after the Harvest Moon and by the time of the Hunter's Moon, the Dance Macabre is in full swing. Take a ride down some day. Park near the luncheonette. All the towns got a luncheonette, or a submarine sandwich shop, or a pizza joint. During the day, everything looks OK. Kinda like the movie set where they filmed Jaws, a collection of weather-worn summer cottages creakin' in the orange, autumn light. Maybe some forgotten bike layin' by the side of some street...a dead doll ...a dried up, smashed pigeon....some twisted up old salt water taffy wrappers.....metal sign on a Five & Dime scratchin' out a rusty dirge, as it swings in the wind. Even the seagulls know somethin's up. They just stand around in tight, little gangs with their heads pulled in and their wings all folded up, like a bunch of avian bums settling in for the cold months.

Then, when the sun starts floatin' out over Pennsylvania and the sky gets all Maxfield Parish looking, go into one a them luncheonettes. Sit down, jus not too close to the one or two locals who practically live there. Don't wanna spook 'em. Gotta leave some room, so they can discreetly give you the snake eye.  Order somethin' simple....a burger....some fries.....nothing that spoils too fast. Don't know how often they replenish in the 'off season.' Then jus listen to the talk. If you want, tell 'em you're out collectin' stuff for the next issue of WeirdNJ Magazine. Won't be no lie, 'cause alls you gotta  do is send it in when you're through. Pull out one a them midget tape recorders. That'll impress 'em. And sit quiet listening to all the gruesome recollections of murders long gone (mine too, I hope), or sticky-clawed giant spiders scrabblin' out a the marshes, or just plain mentally deranged hairless, albino killers. One a them families of hairless, albino killers is real good singers too. The fat one strums a  mean 'parlor' guitar, if I remember right.

After, when it's dark, go out and wander around. You won't be alone. Listen to the plump, crunchy cave crickets chirpin' away like crazy people. Look for them sqinty, little hot red eyes shining back at you in the dark. Don't expect much in the way of artificial illumination . Tax cheap bastids take care a that. Listen for the whispering, mournful song of the seasonally homeless drunk driftin' out from behind some rotting garage. Better hope he ain't got no straight edge.  Be nice to the wide-eyed, grinning little girl starin' at you from the shadows back a the church yard. She won't hurt ya, not if you have a friend with ya. She's just dead. That's all. And don't make no eye contact with them two or three twisted, naked mutants they got wanderin' 'round from the closed up experimental hospital over on the mainland.

Just follow the rules. Use common sense. You 'should' be all right.

Sorry to intrude on your vampires and crap, but I thought you'd like to know. And let me thank Papa for settin' this up for me.......

That's all..... Nitey-Night.......Gotta go scare some speeding shithead too-rich-for-their-own-good teenage f**k ups over on Delilah Road. Look for the rain soaked teddy bears and store bought artificial flower covered crosses tied to a tree by the highway. That's how you'll know I was there. Guess it's the headless part that gets 'em.....

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OUR VAMPIRINA, BAYLAH, PLAYS WITH HER FINE, HOT MEAL, DOWN IN A SECRET, HIDEY-HOLE, CARVED OUT BENEATH A WELL KNOWN WATERING SPOT (one of Nucky's favorites) IN ATLANTIC CITY

Baylah loves the shore in the autumn time. All the loud-mouthed 'look how fat my wallet is' turds go home. The picturebook strrets are quieter. The restaurants less crowded. And the fresh, clean sky seemms even prettier. But do not think that it is dead down there, for the home owners are still in evidence. It's merely the renters who leave.

This makes fall the perfect time for coastal vampires. The pickings, while not overwhelmingly bountiful, are still adequate. You might say the offerings have  been refined. Evil doers, unfortunately, are rarely in short supply. So our Beyonce look-alike sat by her dressing table, perfecting her make-up. Not that she needed much, but her human companion told her it quiets the razor keen, electric brilliance of her exquisite face. She played a bit with the rich, creamy ungents. She brushed a pinch of microscopically fine gold dust onto her well-formed cheek bones and dabbed a moist, buttery deep orange gloss upon her luch, pouty lips.

Her dress fit like a coppery, metallic skin, showing off more than enough of her long mocha legs, yet keeping secrets up above via a shoulder-bearing, halter neckline. The shopgirl said it was called a 'kiss me now and f**k me later' sheath. At least that's what they said in Elle Magazine. But believe me, our  girl, Baylah, needs no such help.

Her banker, honeybunch, quite the dashing specimen in his own right, came up behind her and brushed her hair. She enjoyed that. It relaxed her. It made her purr (a phenomenon observed in certain preternaturally sensual life-eaters). She got up and turned to face him, smoothing the crisp, expensive, sea-isle cotton fabric of his white dress shirt over his strong, warm shoulders. Quite the couple. Let me tell you.

A discreet, little table awaits, tucked away in a cozy, club-like, woody corner of the Knife and Fork Inn. If you're familiar with Atlantic City, you may have seen it...a hundred and ten year old reproduction of a seventeenth century Dutch manor house. Even Nucky ate there. The two upper floors were notorious trysting grounds for 'tough guys' and their costly, little 'pussy cats.'  After all, before other places had anything...Atlantic City had everything.

The well trained staff knows how to please each wealthy and sometimes eccentric customer. Private label bottles of the best wines and liquors glitter like gemstones upon shelf after shelf in the club-like bar. Baylah can tolerate a bit of scotch. If you are a regular visitor to our world, you know that some vampirinos and vamperina can imbibe a shot glass or two (occasionally more) of distilled spirits. No one knows why. That's just how it is.

So she'll sit there laughing and talking with her human pleasurer, maybe toying with a salad...maybe not.  Another twosome will join them. They're privy to her special abilities.. The husband pulled through  quite a scare with the help of a blood gift. Rich, sophisticated people know how to deal with such things.

Yet Baylah's appetite will be satisfied. The menu is tryly extensive. The management extremely prepared. So a carefully trussed and gagged young thug awaits his magic moment. Look how he strains against thhe clean, white ropes. Don't they set off his tan, smooth skin? Quite the thoroughbred, this one is. And speaking of thoroughbreds, don't they eat 'cheval' in France?  Funny, because this boy serves a similar function here.

A little later, Baylah and her entourage will descend the worn, brick stairs down to an old, dimm, secret chamber. They hid booze there during Prohibition. Tonight it hides another illicit commodity.... a meal of living, human flesh. But the hot, thick blood is the special part, the 'prime cut' you might say. And three priviliged humans will quietly stand off to the side watching her savor this gourmet treat. She'll stroke him as she eats. He'll probably enjoy it. And maybe his violent life will be blessed with a 'happy ending' before the cold, blue embers begin to glow.

Just another night out in Atlantic City.....for a fine-tuned vampirina and her friends.........Perhaps, some night, you'll join them?

THE VAMPIRINA SARAH HAS A SAD ENCOUNTER WITH A WEE LITTLE GHOST

My vampire consort (or am I the consort? terms like that confuse me) is off traipsing through the Divine Here-After and so far he hasn't so much as sent me a tee-shirt, or some of that 'heavenly' salt water taffy they make up there. But I persevere. I make the best of it. Just in case you forgot my name, it's me, Sarah, his realitively new born vampire wife. A 'yearling' they call me.

So what do I do with myself? Well, they kicked me out of their rehearsals. Lennon, Dylan and Islam, I mean. Said that for a suposedly more-than-natural being, I lack any true musical sensitivity. I said - How can you go and hurt me like that when we're all here  working to improve the world?....They didn't answer me. Then Yoko started singing and they listened like she was Placido Domingo or Carmen Miranda, or somebody. 'All You Need is Love'.......Yeah, right.

But I still do my part in the hospitals. I wander about late at night dribbling assorted trickles of my blood, my enchanted ruby elixir, onto the lips of desperately ill people. Then I retreat into the shadows, watching as they reflexively lick it off. No more kidney failure. No more last-stage diabetes. No more tumors, or life-threatening acne....Hey,  to a kid, it could be. I don't judge. I just help. No one sees me. No one bothers me. No one talks to me. And some nights I wish they would. Although, that is not quite true. One night, as I sublimated through the children's ward, I encountered a little girl. She wore a cute, flannel nightgown and  cuddled a much loved Cabbage Patch doll. I waved. She waved back. Then she motioned for me to come closer. I crouched down. The cute, little dumpling ran over and whispered in my ear. She said - How come none of you ever came by to help me?.......Then I felt an icy kiss. And I saw her. I saw how she looked before she died, an innocent, skeletal, wide-eyed, frightened child.........I sat down on the polished, vinyl floor and cried......A nurse hurried by oblivious to the whole thing......I'm good at veiling my presense.....But I heard the little girl's voice. I heard her whisper - That's all right........And then she was gone. Now don't ask me if she was speaking Hebrew or Arabic or Russian, because I wouldn't be able to tell you. But I understood her just the same........What is it the old Jewish preachers used to say ---- He who saves but just one soul has saved the world entire? Well, I do my part. Let the others call forth multitudes. I don't care. I do things a different way..........

Vampires rarely see ghosts, but that doesn't mean they aren't real. If  you're curious. If  you'd like to see some, turn out the light. Sit near a window and peek through the shade. Watch the street. The wee, small hours of the morning are best. Breath slowly and observe. You'll spot a few. Passing through the shadows just beyond a streetlight. Talking to a knowing, purring kitty. Don't be afraid if they look up at you. Nod your head. Wave back. Acknowledge their presense (is it an 's' or a 'c'?) Who knows? One might pass through your door.......

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PLEASE SCROLL DOWN TO 'THE BOTTOM OF THE BOTTOM' FOR OUR GADGETS AND STUFF......thank you from he who channels all this

SOMEONE SHAPE SHIFTED OUR GRAPHICS AND PUT ALL OUR GOOD GADGETS ALL THE WAY DOWN AT THE BOTTOM. DAMN IT! AND I WORK SO HARD. THE VAMPIRES DON'T CARE. THEY JUST LAFF AND LAFF.

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This is still wilkravitz. I know I planned to blog again later last night, but those coffee bar witches did something funny to my venti. whether on purpose or by accident, I do not know. But my stomach is a lot better now. Other stressed-out body parts are improving too. And one a them eggs was actually a double-yolker. That made me, at least, feel a little better.  Edith took a picture of it. If we knew what we were doing with this computer, we'd post it on You Tube. But as it stands, all we can do is make Xerox copies at the Office Max and shove 'em under the windshield wipers of cars in the parking lot.. Still, I'm not sure how proficient those witches are. One was carrying a dog-earred, yellow trade paperback called Witchcraft for Dummies and the other one had a light, little, mousy colored dusting of hair on her upper lip. I figure any real witch would at least know how to get rid of that. I mean can't she at least melt some wax in that cauldron? How hard can that be? I'm still gonna give them the benefit of the doubt, 'cause I thought they liked me. Who knows? Maybe the eggs were meant as a gift?

Edith fried up a batch. I wouldn't eat 'em. But the two Red Paint guys we got living here tucked right in. Said they had a certain rich quality, like duck eggs, or goose eggs. Hey, you know, one of my great-great uncles was a butter and egg man. Maybe it's in the family?

Jonathon is attempting to get through to me. It's hard what with him on an all-expense-paid tour of Heaven and all. I understand that. When the guy who always fixed our roof was dying, he said he'd try to reach out to us from the 'other side.' Ran out to Toys R Us for a Ouija board and everything. But after two hours of scrunchin' up our faces and carefully dangling our fingers over that little plastic sliding piece, all we got was a new steady leak over the diningroom table (our seance/talkin' to dead folks chamber) and a damp stain in the ceiling plaster shaped like Buddy Hackett. The dead roofer's son DID come over to fix it, though. Only charged us sixhundred and fifty dollars too, even without the coupon. I guess THAT was something. But every year, on the anniversary of the late roofer's passing, that Buddy Hackett stain reappears. Some of us thought it was a miracle...others, just cheap primer.

But I think he's trying to tell me to look for 'the dream' to start spreading around in this country (America) too.  So if you, or your friends have had it, please contact us and leave a comment. Also comment if you know the language that 'scotosh beedosh...' comes from. They say the Red Paint Folks know something about that. Only the ones I met don't talk much, kinda like taller versions of that little guy from Penn and Teller. One  a the R.P. guys we got here claims he was 'smacked in the head' by lightning seven times. One ear does look a little crazy, so who knows?

Oh, and one more thing... Lailah wants to make her father into a life-eater too. Hasn't done anything yet, but she's thinkin' about it.....I guess she's lonely. I guess she's havin' second thoughts. Maybe she shoulda picked a different 'major"? Maybe being a vampire ain't for her? Shame, too, because she's so damn good at it.......

Oh, jeez!!! Look, you're gonna have to excuse me. But I hafta go. I hafta run out to that pile a blankets we got in the garage. An egg is comin'.....I can feel it! I can feel it! I can feel it!!!

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remember. scroll down to the bottom. that's where some son-of-a-bitch banished  all our best gadgets. and we don't know how to get 'em back..... gotta get me some 'click and drag' lessons...

STRANGE, COMELY WITCHES TICKLE THE ETHER IN A CHESTNUT HILL COFFEE BAR

this is not a regular post. It's me, wilkravitz. I am tapping this out in a coffee bar on Germantown Avenue, the trendy, cobbled, neo-colonial commercial spine of  Chestnut Hill. All is copasetic back at the Glen Gary Road house. Maybe we should not  name the street all the time, but what difference is it going to make? Most of you go right on believing we're just fiction no matter what we say. maybe it's better that way.

Although, some of the locals know better. younger readers sommetimes know who I am. they recognise me. How? not sure. I think a few of them are witches. Like the one sitting near the stone fireplace (first flame this season). Always takes her coffee black. Sprinkles some kind of dried, crumbled leaves in it. And she wears this talisman around her neck. Don't know what it is. Looks like a naked Barbara Walters holding up a plate of spaghetti. Not sure. But I don't want to stare.

she sees me. she nods. I nod back. Everybody else sits bent over their magic keyboards. no one so much as looks up. I think they live here. another twenty-something female quietly enters and joins the might-be-witch. they exchange greetings in some unknown tongue. The onne with the naked barbara walters around her neck laughs.

But here's the funny part. I could swear I ate all of my big oatmeal-raisin cookie (quite the toothsome treat). Yet upon glancing down at the small white plate, I discovered that was not so, for a complete, unviolated fragrant one was staring  right up at me (two of the raisins looked just like eyes). then, when I picked it up to take a bite, the witches began to giggle. Plus, the sound system, or Surius, or whatever they got, started playing Days of future Past (or is it Passed? I can never remember)...one of my favorites.  Best of all, this big, painful zit I had commandeering the left side of my nose was miraculosly gone. I could feel it. I was healed.

the witches gave me a knowing look........I nodded and mouthed a quick 'thank you.' .....they nodded back, gathered up their things (fine, tooled, leather satchels...thin, wool chalis scarves... you know, 'witchy stuff'). But as they exited out into the chill, gray afternoon, a rogue gust of wind...a  tiny, whip-like tongue, blew a scrap of paper up from their table and sent it swirling and dancing over to  me. It came down right over the third button on the fly of my vintage Levis blue jeans. I picked it up. there was a phone number and one short sentence. it said - take us to your leader..........No, two short sentences. there was something on the back...it said - call us...........

I told you this wan't a real post. that will probably come later. and I don't know who I'll be channeling. but I just thought I'd fill you in on what was happening. you know, give a little bit of the 'back story.'

Let me finish my cookie. We'll talk some more tonight............

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please excuse my erratic typing. the experience left me a bit 'aggitated.'  please leave comments, plus a link where we can get back to you.........thank you, wilkravitz