House Rules

Found it in the street.

The Holiday Fog

Candy Graves Responds

Ms. Graves:

First of all, thank you for your prompt response. Requests such as these often go unnoticed, and The Claw Machine appreciates you getting back to us so quickly.

We respect your request for privacy and we will not publish your correspondence. However, we hope that we may respond publicly, since there are a number of points that we would like to address or correct. Please see below.

1. The album's track listing is as follows:

Side 1

1. (I'm a) Roadrunner Baby
2. How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)
3. Pucker Up Buttercup
4. Money (That's What I Want)
5. Last Call
6. Anyway You Wantta'

Side 2

1. Baby You Know You Ain't Right
2. Ame' Cherie (Soul Darling)
3. Twist Lackawanna
4. San-Ho-Zay
5. Mutiny

2. The record is hardly rare at all, having sold thousands of copies in multiple formats over several years. Digital versions of these same songs are available for purchase on Itunes, Amazon, etc. Despite its age, we do not feel that this record is worth any more than the $12.99 plus sales tax that we paid for it. Frankly, your value of 2,200 USD does not seem right at all.

3. The record was purchased from a respectable businesswomen without any ties to organized crime. Despite the tragic circumstances related to you becoming separated from this album, we feel that this album came into our possession through legal channels of distribution. We are sorry for your loss.

4. Unfortunately, we will not be able to present the record for your personal inspection, since you say you live in Brighton and Hove, England, and you mentioned your unwillingness to travel. Your suggestion that we send you the record, and then you send it back to us after review, seems impractical. We hope that the photos attached to this post are enough for your "documentation".

5. By saying "your record" we meant "the record that used to belong to you". As we stated above, this album came to us through legal channels of distribution. And even though your name is written on the album's sleeve and labels, we feel the record is still ours.

Best,
The Claw Machine

Please see related post.

Seasons Greetings

The Tape Conspiracy

I just wanted provide additional proof to those who continue to doubt the existence of an ongoing, unexplainable conspiracy at my place of employment. The images collected here do not lie. Someone at The Corporation is wrapping office supplies at my desk in tape, both Scotch and duct. This is only happening to me -- I've asked my coworkers. I have a hard time finding the humor in this, if it's a supposed to be joke. What does it mean? Who is doing this to me? Why?

The Other Detroit

Candy Graves, We Have Your Jr. Walker Record

Ms. Graves:

We have your Jr. Walker & the All Stars album, Roadrunner. The record is in pretty good shape, plays clean without any skips or pops. It is the stereo version, and as best as we can tell, an original printing of the album first released in 1966 under Motown's Soul label. We found it at the Flea Market Record Sale. We are really curious why you had to let this one go. Did you sell it? Was it stolen? When was the last time you listened to this record? Do you remember your favorite cut?

Please let us know as soon as possible.

Thank you,
The Claw Machine

Flea Market Record Sale In Kansas City, MO.

Smoker In Love

Again.

Assholes. Please see related post. And the other post.

Junkyard Guarded By Defunct Detective Agency, Spinning Dog

Great detectives are self-made men. To be a great detective, you must be disciplined, resourceful, incorruptible, and wise. A great detective always shows common sense. He does not allow himself to be ensnared in politics or the murky inner workings of the business world. Detectives are not for-hire thugs or agents of intimidation. Simply put: a great detective solves crimes.

For most of his life, William J. Burns was The World's Greatest Detective. This was a matter of national consensus. By the age of 23, Burns was already known for his crime-solving acumen. He cracked the famous caper of the Tally Sheet Forgers in Columbus, Ohio, landing him on the front page of every paper in the country. Burns was accepted into the Secret Service, and immediately set about busting counterfeiters and con men from Cleveland to St. Louis. During his first 8 years in the Service, Burns reportedly let no case go unsolved.

More crimes, cases, and headlines followed. Burns solved murders. He prevented kidnappings, broke up safe-popping rings, found missing persons. After his many years of crime-fighting in the public eye, Burns was able to parlay his success into the private sector, founding the William J. Burns Detective Agency. He opened offices in 35 cities and employed an army of detectives all over the world. He could solve any crime put before him.

Then-not-yet-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle sailed to North America in 1914. En route to Canada, under arrangement with East Coast newspapers, Doyle stopped in New York to meet with Burns. Together they visited Sing Sing prison, posed for photographs, and then took the train to the Coney Island Police station. It was there, hot dog in hand, that Doyle declared Burns to be the greatest detective alive. "The American Sherlock Holmes," Doyle said.

Burns, when interviewed by reporters, was always careful to show humility. "There is no particular art or science in detective work; it is merely the employment of common sense. When crimes become mysteries, it is because the man who makes investigations lacks resourcefulness. It is astounding how simple it is to clear up what, to the lay mind, appears a great mystery."

In reality, Burns had a massive ego. He was, after all, The World's Greatest Detective, a title he aspired to live up to. While heading his own agency, he personally cleaned up San Francisco's notorious political machine, taking down Boss Abe Ruef and his marionette, Mayor Schmitz, the ringleaders in a massive land-grants-for-favors corruption scheme. With the help of his sons, he captured the McNamera Brothers, the pro-union conspirators who bombed the L.A. Times in 1910. He was a hero. He became wealthy, the favorite of businessmen and municipalities to solve high-profile crimes. He penned his own detective stories, which were printed into wide circulation. Based on all his successes, he was named to head the Secret Service, and later, the Bureau of Investigation, which would become the FBI.

But as he grew older, Burns became paranoid. He was wary of the rich because he knew them to be corrupt. Even more wary of the poor, because they were so easily corrupted. He hated unions. He suspected Jews of vast conspiracies against him. He penned lengthy articles warning the public of the danger of blackmailers. He refused to talk to strangers. He stopped giving interviews.

His temper grew short. Burns was quick to anger if he felt he had been insulted. While testifying before Congress, Burns flew into a rage during cross examination when an attorney repeatedly referred to him as "the great detective Burns". A shouting match ensued that led to his ejection from the chamber.

His decline was long and public, but when the end came, it was mercifully quick. While Director of the BOI, Burns was at the center of a messy public scandal involving retaliatory investigations, political favors, the illegal sale of public lands, jury tampering, and the thuggish intimidation of newspaper editors who opposed him. In 1924, Burns was forced from the BOI in disgrace, relinquishing his command to J. Edgar Hoover.

He slid into obscrurity. The William J. Burns Detective Agency was absorbed by another agency, and then another. It no longer exists. But here and there, traces remain, clues to a forgotten man's past glory. On the north side of the city, amongst the weed-filled lots and boarded-up rowhouses, is a junkyard, still in operation, guarded only by a defunct detective agency. Behind the fence and the razor wire, the dog in the lot spins and spins, chasing its tail. No one knows why. It is a mystery.

Birds and/or Monkeys

Downtown in another empty, dirty river city. The vacant high rises all along the river have become home to migrating birds: bald eagles, prairie falcons, wild canaries, tufted titmouses, red shouldered hawks. As their natural habitat disappears, the birds are driven to nest along the ledges and rooftops, some staying here year round. In winter, when the streets are empty and the air is clear, the wind can carry the birds' shrieks down to the street, echoing off the artificial canyon walls. In this urban context, you might think it's a car alarm, or the squeal of truck brakes. But it's the birds, mostly unseen on the roofs above you.



I was editing this video at my desk at The Corporation. Admittedly, I should have been filing reports. I look up. Hovering over my cubicle wall was Krump's long, weathered face.

"What the hell is that?" Krump asked.

Um, birds? I told him about Davenport, the birds, etc.

Krump smiled at my naivete. "Those aren't birds. Those are rhesus monkeys."

Sorry?

Krump slid into the chair in front of my desk. "Play it again." I did. "That sound is the rhesus monkey mating call. I'll never forget it." Krump parroted the sound perfectly. Krump used to be The Corporation's liaison in Southeast Asia. For 20 years, he lived in Nepal. Today, he's our division's go-to guy about manufacturing, tariffs, and labor law all over the world.

"In Kathmandu, see, rhesus monkeys are sacred -- they build temples for them over there. They've overrun the whole goddam country. A total nuisance. If you're eating outside, they'll snatch the food right out of you hands. I've seen it. Leave something shiny on the seat of your car? They'll take a rock, break the window, and steal it. I came home once and there were six of them, all adult males, going through my fridge. They saw me and just went nuts. I fought them with my bare hands for nearly an hour -- ended up stabbing one. Killed it. You try dumping the corpse of a monkey in a city where they're sacred. I damn near got myself deported." Krump's stories are always kind of outrageous, but I don't know why he would lie to someone in my position. His eyes were shiny with nostalgia.

Krump tapped the side of my monitor. "See, all over America there are feral colonies of monkeys. They escape from zoos, or from nutjobs who want to keep them as pets. Think they're cute. Most of them are from research labs. Now, labs like the rhesus monkey because their blood is so similar to ours. The first astronauts were rhesus monkeys, did you know that? So what you have there are rhesus monkeys, a colony of them. My guess is they've broken into one of those office buildings and are holing up in the ductwork."



So there you go, monkeys or birds, you be the judge.

Time, Illinois

Drive down of Highway 100 until you hit Milton, then head toward the river. After about 10 miles, you'll find Time, or what's left of it. Time's not really on the way to anything, and there's no reason to go out of your way to get there. Time is a village, clustered around a patch of green Time residents call the Square. The homes around the Square are all boarded shut. Time's population has dwindled to 27, losing on average about two to three people a year, a living ghost town, collapsing in slow motion. The kids that are born here go away to school and never come back. Folks leave, sick of the drive to Milton get gas and groceries, as Time has no open businesses. And people die.




When you die in Time, you're buried there. All the early settlers of the village are up on that hill, just out of reach from the floodwaters. Pioneers, fur-trappers, ex-slaves, and Civil Warriors. There are more dead residents in Time than there are living.








The floodwaters will come and go. But when the last resident dies, Time will cease to exist.

Check-out Time Is 11 A.M.

Vintage hotel law/checkout signs originally distributed by the American Hotel Register Company, a 140 year-old hospitality services company now based in Vernon Hills, IL.

St. Liborious

In the Catholic tradition, Liborious, the Gallic saint of Good Deaths and Brotherly Peace, is most often invoked peacefully; against gall stones, kidney stones, colic, priapism, hemorrhoids, and fever. Recently, his sainthood and Holy message have been twisted by a cabal of "social ministers", radical ideologues driven mad by urological afflictions. The Libors, as they are sometimes called, are a militant food-hoarding cult with one stated goal: the elimination capitalism and the creation of a socialist "foodstate", where currency is illegal, charity is mandatory and the idle are rewarded. The Libors hope to rule their foodstate (or Pantry) by controlling all that will be left with which to barter: cans of soup, bags of rice, and boxed macaroni. The Pantry was closed the week of Thanksgiving.

Dumpster Arson At The Back & Neck Pain Clinic

Further evidence of the as-yet-unexplained effort to destroy the refuse of those in pain and those that seek to treat them.

Sameish