wilkravitz CANNOT BLOG TONIGHT, SO I, THE VAMPIRINO KNOWN AS JONATHON WILL SPEAK TO YOU DIRECTLY..5/05/13

This time, you hear from me. I am back. wilkravitz is unable to function tonight, so I will tell the tale. These words come from Jonathon ben Macabi, also known to you as Tomas de Macabea. The old man is dead. Right now,top executives have already begun maneuvering just like Alexander's generals. Just like they did when Howard Hughes died. But I don't care. 

It's quiet now. The other night-folk are already cloistered within their chambers. Dawn comes early this time of year. I don't like that. Next month will be even worse. Annie isn't sleeping. I can hear her. She's watching television... an old, black and white version of Little Shop of Horrors.... the story of a nagging, blood drinking plant. Vampire vegetables... imagine that.... The rest of them are quiet. I'll go in and join Sarah soon too. I suppose most of you know we do not, nor have we ever, slept in coffins, just small, cozy, easily sealed off bedrooms. Though I have used excavated cavelets in cellars from time to time, but only when they had earthen floors. Even then, I slumbered on a thick 'mattress' of rose petals. Loyal 'familiars' made sure they were fresh. Sarah knows.

Edith will be up soon. She's on day-watch. I don't know when she sleeps. She naps a lot. I know that. Soon she'll go back to her home in the Jersey, Pine Barrens. Odd to think such dense woods exist so close to Philadelphia and New York, but they do.Jersey Devil run through the trees as I speak. Actually, they're really quite docile... a little skittish, but that's the equine blood. 

Tomorrow night I'll go back to that place under the big bank building on The Avenue of The Arts. I'll contact some of my devotees telepathically. They're mortals, but they understand. 

The candle smells good. Not green apple. I think this one's different. Wait a minute, let me look under the base. 'Ocean Breeze,' it's called. I must tell Edith to get more. I hate when she visits her people. I understand it, but I don't like it. Sometimes we hide in the pines too. Peaceful... I like the 'Pineys.'I like the old songs...the pow-wow magic... and the ghosts. The magic doesn't come from the Indians, well, not all of it anyway. That's just a term they use.

You know. I may not be able to change the world. I don't know. There will always be men and women like Tobias Maxwell.... and creatures like Johnny Jump Up. But that doesn't mean I won't try. It's four o'clock. The sky is black, but birds already sing. Don't they like the night? 

I know songs...old madrigals, from my early days in Al-Andaluz. Some nights I play my guitar. Used to have an oud, but that was long ago.

Look at 'Papa.' Right back into that catatonic state. What does he see in there? I try to penetrate. sometimes I manage to break through. But only sometimes. Soon he'll shuffle off to his room, if he doesn't silently sublimate through the ceiling.

The world is more aware of us now. I suppose that's my doing. There've been articles and little shows on You Tube. There's always been 'little stories.' The government, or certain secretive puppet masters, say it's a hoax, or mass hysteria.. But what would you expect. 

Now, let me close up and go to sleep...
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COOL VAMPIRE GRANNY FACES A DILEMMA ............ 5/04/13

I really cannot channel this world too long right now, for the open-mouthed, droopy-eyed sleepy-sleeps are upon me.But I will tell you what is on the mind of a very nice vampire lady. You met her last night. Actually, she contacted me and asked to be brought into this. For decades, Miss Betty and her much loved charges, lived a quiet life in a large, old fashioned, pre-war apartment residence on Locust Street, I believe. They take their ease among formal rooms with crown molding, old family portraits and substantial pieces of heavy (much polished) silver. Please don't say sterling. 'Cause if you do, you ain't had it too long.

The other night-folk might be aware of her, but vampire privacy is always respected. In truth, Miss Betty's two charges are quite mortal. No funny blood stuff for them. The grandchildren are quite opposed to magic, or enchantment of any sort. Two regular, little Darren Stevens they are. She offered.... still does... But they just cross their scrawny, little arms over their bony chests, stick out their chins and say - No!...

Needless to say, Miss Betty's getting nervous. Them cute little kids look ten years older than she does, 'cause they passed seventy now and she gotta teach the 'girl' how to use them form-fitting, diaper panties, 'cause every time she cough, one a them antique, satin chairs get stained.

But Betty is a good grandmom. Buys them warm clothes in the winter time and sea isle cotton ones in the spring. Got 'em piano lessons. Taught 'em how to eat with chopsticks. Took 'em to visit all the best museums. She gets them in at night for a private tour. Don't have no live-in Santa Claus no more. But seeing how old they are, you gotta expect that. 

Sometimes, over the years, she'd attempt to sneak a few drops of her ruby elixir into the tuna salad, but fussy eaters are not easily fooled and they just wouldn't have it. 

So she sits in the kitchen, late at night with the Inca Shaman Butler and worries. He tries to 'witch' 'em a few times, but they got stuck up on the ceiling and pooped all over the floor. Some people are magical 'reflectors' and nothing sinks in. 

That's why Miss Betty doing this. That's why she wants all of you to know her. Somebody might have a solution and she's desperate. Sarah says she should go ask Doctor Franklin. If that Grand Armonica does it for him... if it's kept him living over three hundred years, maybe it could help them?

Betty doesn't want to be alone. Imagine what it's like for a vampire when the last of their mortal kin sail away. That's when it really sets in..... 'Lost among the stars'..... That's what she calls it. And lately, it makes her cry....

Now, the 'Betty' family will not be they stars of our tale. They will not be center stage. She wouldn't like that. That's not what she wants.

But we will check in from time to time. Folks at the townhouse are just that way. Jonathon takes that 'brother's keeper' stuff to heart.

And, believe me, Miss Betty  is plenty grateful.

Sorry to stop like this. But I got to go to sleep now. Vampires want me to go see somebody... a physician or something. Look, I might take a drop or two of their blood, if it came to that. But I would like to preserve my mortality. I don't know... I just would.

Maybe, if you want, you might tell your friends about us? Click on the link that always appears down below. This IS one of the LONGEST blogs on line... And there's lots you might want to see... not all of it about vampires....

Good night...
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A WEIRD & WONDERFUL GRANDMOTHER & HER DELIGHTFULLY TWISTED GRANDCHILDREN .. 5/03/13

As we all know, the magic (or burden) of vampirism settles on each and every one of us quite differently. Some share the experience, while others are more reticent. They keep to themselves, smiling at the neighbors, always after dark and doing their best to blend into the background.  This is the story of one such shrinking violet. 

Betty was born in 1870. She lived in a big, old frame house with a wrap around porch and all the necessary relatives and equipment. They pushed her around in a big, wicker perambulator and fed her cream and berries. Mister Davenport, the portrait photographer came every six months to capture her likeness, lest they ever forget.

And when she turned eighteen she came out , which at that time signaled a willingness to breed. So they bought her a white dress trimmed with tiny pink roses and showed her to all the boys. Three months later she was promised to the second son of a very  prosperous wooden leg manufacturer. No arms. No heads. Just legs. The man was a specialist. And besides, people didn't think the artificial heads were really all that effective anyway. 

Her father-in-law paid for a sweet, little brick cottage , with a grape arbor in the back and a large, Canadian housekeeper named Ciss... (I think she was running from The Mounties). The furnishings were very unique. Every chair, table and console had human shaped limbs, most complete with carefully carved toenails, some with realistic bunions. It's rumored they were 'seconds' from the factory... but no one ever said. 

In due time there were two children, a boy called Sunny Jim and a girl child known as Babette. They spent summers at a large, commodious rustic cottage in The Adirondacks, paddling canoes and persecuting the few remaining Indians. Betty painted water colors and sampled all the sherry.

Now they tell me I have to speed things up because the battery's starting to run down and wilkravitz (who channels this all) has to go take a piss... So I will. 

The kids got married (thankfully, not to each other) and produced two adorable offspring (one each). Sunny Jim had Zeke (with the help of a wife) and Babette had Miranda (with the assistance of a very dedicated chauffeur). They went 'round the park for hours.

But when the market crashed in twenty nine, Sunny Jim (now, not so much) ran off with a professional female rodeo clown from France. She can-can'ed her way through the west. And Babette, unfortunately, was carried off by the REAL King Kong, one day as she lunched in the roof garden of an upper crust, New York hotel. I don't know where he took her.

Betty, ever the dutiful nana, raised the grandchildren as her own. She hired a man dressed as Santa to sit on a chair, down in the laundry room, full time. They sat on his lap every day. Needless to say, Betty supplied the candy canes. She taught them to eat with chopsticks and play mah-jong with old, rich Jews. Some say she inspired a Broadway play. 

One cold December day, she went out to buy their presents, a nasty, little, castrated monkey, dressed like Mussolini for the boy... and a Shirley Temple look-a-like for the girl. Boy, did her parents want an arm and a leg. But she could pout like a champ. I got to tell you that. Anyway, all the stores were jammed and taxi cabs were hard to come by. So she accepted a ride from a well heeled gent with an Adolph Monjou  mustache who turned out to be a vampire. And since, by then, she was passed sixty.... his advances were hard to refuse. Not that she wasn't the consummate lady, but what did she have to lose.

The next morning, when she woke for her usual Eggs-Prince-Dimitri, she found out. For vampirism, as you know, is a sexually transmitted disease.....

Come back tomorrow, oh best beloveds, for more. Thank God wilkravitz has superior bladder control. This is your nightly, disembodied spirit signing off... Wow, look at him run up those steps...
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OLD MAN AIN'T GONNA BE TOO HAPPY..THEN GO READ SOMETHIN' AT http://hitRECord.org 5/02/13

So by now the security alarms were all going off. There were bells... whistles. Believe me, this place had ALL the bells and whistles, plus something that went 'ah-ew-gah, ah-ew-gah,' just like a sinkin' submarine... Sprinklers were going off. Pinyattas were going off. And I had to spell it that way, 'cause we can't type Spanish here. Hi, this is Zebulon, the thirteen year old disembodied spirit from Old Judea under Herod the Great. Actually, I think in Aramaic, but wilkravitz' neurons make it into this kind a talk. I ain't narrated in a while, 'cause I been floating 'round Epcot, in Disney and now I know French... Ooh La-La! Magnifique!... See, I told ya. 

I also know what happened to Tobias Maxwell, the billionaire, ninety four year old, vampire-blood thief. When 'Papa' plummeted down through the house and rescued his vampiric 'son' Jonathon from the impenetrable chamber (well, impenetrable to everybody but him), they made for the old man's 'safe room,' 'cause Jonathon  (all desiccated, like a vampire beef jerky) needed blood. And every other human bean in the place that night was dead, 'cause of the piranha-rats. You can see where they were, by the giant blood puddles all over the floors. Only it ain't so much the drinking of the blood, as the taking of the life. So Tobias Maxwell was gonna die. 

He pissed hisself when 'Papa' yanked off the heavy vault door and quickly 'flickered' (progress in almost instantaneous, though staccato, six inch increments)  toward him.  The unbelievably ancient (though he looked like a thirty two or thirty three year old Richard Gere) tore off the old man's kimono. Well, not a real kimono. More like a  nineteen sixties' 'happy-coat' Robert Culp wore instead of a smoking jacket in I SPY. And threw him on the bed. Jonathon, who you might a thought was a young man shaped California Raisin, crawled in after. Tobias although terrified, did not look his full age, 'cause he did have most of Jonathon's stolen life-eater blood pumpin' through his body. He looked kind a like the guy who played Maude's husband on TV.  Kids who work at Epcot watch a lot a old time, late night shit. What can I tell you. Old guy scrunched hisself up by the headboard (like a tuck and roll upholstered wall), tryin' to hide his more vulnerable parts. He wheezin.' He sweatin.' He cryin.' Go - No! No! No! No!.... All the time Carson Daly watchin' it all from a huge flat screen on the opposite wall. But he jus' a TV show, so he don't care. TV show people act like they lookin' right in your eye, but they don't care 'bout nothin.' They jus' smile and go - Lucy, I'm home!! So 'Papa' threw that Maude's husband guy on the floor. I think it a all wool, Berber.  They got rugs like that when I was livin.' That how I know. 

Jonathon grab that pot-bellied thing and crack right through his chest. You know that flat bone you got in the middle a your titties? Well he break it and it stickin' up through the skin like somethin' come off the belly of a hard shell crab. Old guy shriek real bad then.  Three seconds later, Jonathon sink his teeth right in the wet, shiny, red heart .... It beatin'.... He drinkin'.... It beatin'.... He drinkin'.... It slow some, but he don't stop. Old man startin' a look like his true self. Liver spots come back. Boobies all scrawny. Got chicken legs now. Tongue all purple. No, not purple... black. I do wanna be accurate....... Then he die. Just like that. Go WHOOSH. Body sink down, like a cake what go flat. Ghost look all surprised. It sit on the bed, rockin' side to side like it crazy. Then, all of a sudden, it figure out what happen. Start punchin' itself in the head wit' it's fists. Jonathon sit on the floor all dazed too. But he startin' a look like hisself. Then 'Papa' grab him and sublimate (pass through solid matter) out a there, just as the cops come runnin' in. 

Sarah see it all from the street. She see 'Papa' (holdin' Jonathon) streak right up in a the sky. But nobody else do... 'cause they not vampire like her. Doctor Franklin there too. He got on a green, Eagles, sweat suit and he sittin' on a old-folks scooter, so nobody know it him. Even when they do know it him, everybody think he a Benjamin Franklin impersonator. This Philly. Old Ben like Mickey Mouse.

But now Jonathon safe... And he can go on preachin'....
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thank you. hit THIS ... to see earlier episodes. then (and although I don't know too much about the workings of the sight, though I recognize how interesting it is), click on JOSEPH GORDON LEVITT'S GREAT NEW MEDIA OPPORTUNITY SITE ... scroll down to TINY STORIES and search for THE SELF-CONSCIOUS WITCHLING & THE DIRTY BRASSIERE and please read it, 'cause I think I wrote it. maybe recommend it? also, leave a COMMENT here, 'cause YOUR LINK will automatically appear right along with it. hey, FAME... it's a wonderful thing.... adios...

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: Grilled Humans and Coffee Cake

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: Grilled Humans and Coffee Cake: You must remember. My ears always had to be hidden. The elfin look... the points, you know - Marianne added. Fortunately the mores of the t...Click on that ' GRILLED HUMANS AND COFFEE CAKE' phrase up above, if you want to see the next elferina-vampirina Marianne episode, She's still regaling rich mortals with her life story. Google -~ townhouse mansions in Society Hill... if you want to see what the place looked like. Your COMMENTS and LINKS are always welcome.

LOOK TO THE NORTHERN SKY.....A VAMPIRE RETURNS..... 5/01/13

Even in a residence that size, the actual staff was not very large. Cleaners came in on a daily basis. But none lived there. There was a resident physician, though he was pretty much brushed to the side when this vampire business started. The butler naturally had a room. So did the housekeeper.  Two conservators oversaw the proper cleaning and maintenance of  antiques and collectibles. And four armed guards patrolled the premises. I think there was a kid who ran errands too. Like if the old man needed toe-nail clippers, or tabloid newspapers, or little paper umbrellas for his drinks. Decrepit billionaires got strange tastes. What do you want from me? Don't you remember Howard Hughes? And the way it worked out, with the rats and all, the kid who ran errands was the only one still alive. Lucky the old guy wanted ass wipes. Not t.p.. The housekeeper took care of that. But he saw a commercial for them Cottonelle luxury, wet naps and figured he better try 'em while still partly mortal, 'cause he wasn't sure night-folk spent too much time sittin' on the can. Couldn't remember if Doctor Polidori ever used a toilet.

So he called out from the lead room (his lead room) and the kid went. Twenty seven heart beats later, the rats streamed in. See, people, that's why you gotta close them lids. Tiny, little sharp clawed hands and feet scampered over an assortment of fine tiled floors, ran down polished oak corridors (featuring thick, wool, patterned runners) and scurried under closed, interior doors. It's almost as if they have no bones. And they were so close to the floor the motion detectors failed to see them.

The butler got it first. He was dreaming.... college days up in Canada.... summers in The Thousand Islands.... weekends with rich friends. But the mosquitoes that sometimes plagued twilight, dockside buffets seemed especially strident this time around.... And he woke to find perhaps one hundred and fifteen rats sharing the mattress with him.... At first he froze. The clever animals pulled back just a bit.... He couldn't see them. The quilt took care of that, though he could sense it moving in the darkness. Six heartbeats later, he shuddered. Uh, oh... must be like a checkered flag... or a dinner bell. Before he could draw another breath, the beasts went straight to work. And then he screamed. And then he gagged.... The tongue (as you know) is considered quite choice. If you'd watched from above, you'd have seen dark, red blood stains blossom like tumors and fan out across the undulating bedding, til the eviscerated occupant, quite denuded of flesh and minus his eyes (nose and lips too), deflated down into the mattress (hotel quality and pillow topped before the unfortunate incident) and smiled. All skulls look that way, you know. 

Then the rodents left, just as they came, carrying seven score pounds of flesh and offal with them. The butler was a very big man. 

The others, some in bed, some on duty, some chewing leftover veal followed after. The guards never fired a shot. 

By the time the errand boy got back with the Cottonelle wet wipes and punched in the entry code it was all over. The killers were gone. And the house, though reeking, was quiet. 

Forty six heartbeats later, he stumbled back out onto the street and screamed for help.

The blood stench permeated everything... even the lead. I suppose there must have been microscopic cracks, not to mention the tiny openings where the needles came through. And Jonathon began to howl. Not like a werewolf. Please, this is real. He desperately needed food and 'Papa' ( just returned from his travels) crashed through the roof and plunged toward the center of the edifice. He 'hammered' through the leaden wall, ripped it apart and bore his 'son' to freedom. 

Now the old man couldn't help but hear. And he saw it all on the security monitors. His own, leaden 'safe room' was very well equipped. And he started to shake and cry, as the thick, vault-like door smashed open....
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SOME RODENTS CAN BE SO FOCUSED ....... 4/30/13

Annie curled up on the leather sectional watching Vikings on demand. She likes that show. Says it's like the Flintstones meet Sons of Anarchy. You know, shaggy ponies instead a choppers? She wants a ask 'Papa' what them berserker bastids was like in real life. Starts pokin' him. Starts yankin' hairs out a his head. Only it don't do no good, 'cause he ain't there. Still sits in that chair. Still shuffles off to his sleepin' place at dawn. But that's just automatic pilot. 'Papa' has left the building. Or to be more precise, he ain't entered it yet. The nebulous cloud containing the essence of his being, sublimates through space somewhere on the outer fringes of the asteroid belt. For a little while he had company. A tiny, little space probe sent out from some real nerdy planet twelve light years away flew right through him. And it sensed he was there. So now they'll think we're intelligent energy fields, instead of maybe seven billion sit-com families or Price Is Right people. I don't know where the probe is now. It obviously has the ability to travel at relativistic speeds. You know, them nerds can do anything.... 'cept dance and shit. But 'Papa' don't go that fast... at least I never seen him do it...not lately anyway. Right now he got like two hundred and fifty million miles to go. But a million miles an hour ain't too bad, though. 

Edith says to Annie - Don't you know them Vikings was a bunch of cruel, blood thirsty bastids?.... Annie sips a Grey Goose on the rocks (even seven or eight year old vampirinas can metabolize alcohol) and goes - Yeah, now shut up..... She wants a see a 'blood eagle.' But I don't think they got one in this episode. Think the Screen Extras Union is touchy that way. You know, some a these shows is real realistic. 'Case you don't know what a 'blood eagle' is, I'll tell ya. It was like a Viking magic trick, only they didn't need no stinkin' cards or rabbits. I think battle axes was about it. Two warriors run up behind a guy, like a cryin' trembling monk, or somebody and grab his arms. Then, the one doin' the trick, smashes the battle axe into one side of his rib cage, crushing the bones from the clavicle on down. Before the guy goes guhk, he real fast does it to the other side. Then he reaches in, yanks out the lungs and throws 'em up over the guys shoulders. That's where the 'eagle' part comes in. You can see the pink, wet, spongy sacs fill up with air every time the 'volunteer from the audience' bastid takes a breath. At this point, the other Vikings rapin' all the people stop and clap. Then the guy trembles. His eyes roll back and he dies. The Vikings go - Awwww. 'Cause they like a good show. But show's over. What can you do?

Only another, more local production, is about to begin. You see, ghouls are not the only creatures with animal allies. Mole-folk have them too, via their lovingly cared for hoards of domesticated  (or semi-domesticated) rats. After many generations, most are piebald, raised for food in huge, rustic pens cobbled together from scraps of wood plus whatever they can find underground. They feed them special mushrooms grown in damp, dark tunnels. And conditions really are quite sanitary. No fleas or dirt. Much cleaner than butcher shop rabbits. But a particular strain, grown for defense is different, with rich, black, glossy coats and dark, red skin. Their teeth are white and razor sharp. Giant soldier ants they are, even if individually they make quite nice pets. And armies of them swarm 'round the tunnel dwellers, ready to go to work. You know, sewage pipes are rodent freeways... And the great, urban fortress of Tobias Maxwell has many, many toll booths... some, complete with bidets. Certain handlers among the mole-people open the 'gates' with large, ancient wrenches kept for just such a purpose. Some foul smelling, watery gruel runs out. But not that much. And the flesh eating swarms race in. Most inside are sleeping.... What a pity. 

Each, sleek, rather weasel-like specimen scoops out a fat, lima bean sized dollop of flesh every time they bite. Their manic jaws average at least fifteen mouthfuls per minute. And there are SO many of them. Some like tongues... Others eyes.... Genitals too, I am told.

The mole-folk will groom them after. Don't worry about that. 

And if you think these roiling multitudes will set off motion detectors, you're right. But what are the cops gonna do... run in with flame throwers? 

So Jonathon sits on the cold lead floor, leaning against an equally chilly wall, as vampire dreams begin to trickle into the clammy darkness...
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