Friday, March 30, 2012

"Moe you're always cooped up in your apartment. Why not get buzzed with us for a change?"

John is sitting, intertwining a Rubix Cube's colors in its rainbow cage, protruding chin nuzzling his Nokia Lumia 900 against his cauliflower-sized hearing aid. That's how I remember him making calls - persistently distracted. A nostalgic image, though for erasure of that ear-bound clam I'd sell my owned soul. I hated it(first declaration of loathing in [bold{!}] terminology!), the way it clung to his lobe, an monstrous parasitic suckling devouring swathes of skin for sound's exchange, and I suspected he did too. But John's repetitiveness manifested mentally. Brand loyalty meant the world to him. He stuck to anything that showed him perfunctory appreciation, a cat hooked on (nips[!]), a 'pecker pegged to its perch(!), exemplifying habit. Explained our continued association, at least, even after some unfortunate corporate run-ins segregated us to opposite office ends. (How these demi[god{!}]s hustle us to tussle! They think in isolation, fragility's all one finds.) Explained why he rung me up at 12:00 in the morning to try and corral me from my cubicle, enclosed by a Coke-can parapet, my eyes glued to the stagnant screen's (white) wilderness, to grab a beer at Satin's. (That nine-level wine cellar! Reflecting, refracting, dispersing the sights!)

That's the reason I assume. But to define these typed thoughts "definitive" would skew their given truth.

To date, I've done a decent job restraining my familial proclivity for slanting what isn't readily apparent, but in the future some slips may occur. (A [side{!}])wise glimmer, passed by at a glance's clip, may miss some emphasis here, a (focus [there{!}]), a space in this text's sensibility. Does that dilute appreciation? Does that question matter? If accuracy's (the [game's]) name, why are you here? To deduce a 34-year old's sights and sounds from a cornucopia of (binary's) consequence? Think about every one of these blog...things, these telescopic (and microscopic) insights into the mind's eye. Each their owner's sieve, entrusted to (filter) out unnecessary extremities, ([dangling{!}] appendages) unsuitable for presentation, that deemed "too-icky". Each a portfolio of consideration, from bins of words plastered together on scattered canvas as a prototype, facing (trial[!]) by sculpture in the white box block of the post creator. To dispense a satisfactory product weekly, on the dot, for months on end, at the whims of those partaking! How can these craftsmen keep up with such a ravenous audience? How their flaws pop in this shine, their blemishes fester in their opus! Chasing grander heights, all eventually fall.

But not I.

To rally back on course! Of course I answered, after an all-too familiar recorder


"I can't go now. The EE-2 Brew scrum needs monitoring. Kent's going to disembowel Dave if he finds out we're not making North American sales thresholds and resorting to -this- spectacle to reassert product dominance."

"The hell, Moe?" Incredulity, then laughter. "EE-2 Brew? You know it's April Fool's tomorrow, right? We're only..." keys clacking (water bottle brought to perspired forehead - for diffusion) "...down .21- shit, it's goin' up right in front of me. Why else roll out -those- remedies?"

"Because KO's numbers aren't adding up." Paper-rustle, pencil-brandish,


diminished (perceptive - too late) on approach. "I've sent fifteen hundred faxes these past two weeks from Kent to heads of every multinational department, their subsidiaries,"

2nd floor ding, 

"THEIR national department heads," 
3rd floor ding, 

"everybody moderately accountable on the corporate ladder to Kent and the board,"

4th floor ding, 

"even people in places able to hold him accountable for his past actions. And this is just the past two weeks."

5th floor ding.

"Well, Moe, it does look like they're people in your department doing their damn jobs. I don't see how this is special at all."

"If distributing nearly two thousand faxes that your own secretary can't read isn't suspicious, I don't know what is. Even that doesn't spook me as much as how bad Kent looks. He's so pale, all the time, comes in gripping his wrists shivering when it's 75 degrees out, no wind chill. What the hell's shaken up our boss so much that he's digging through the crates for medicine and reaching out to all his associates, SECRETLY?"

"Who cares? What the public doesn't know won't hurt'm." His side - a retch, then repeated coughing. "Sorry, must've cracked my ribs or somethin'. Went hiking a week ago. Those woods ain't the fondest place. Think they just about appreciate skinny men like me as much as I do their thickness."

6th floor ding.

"It's alright. If you need rest, get it. Thanks for listening, John."

7th floor ding.

"Ehh, it's doable. Get enough yourself. You've stayed in late for the last few months."

8th floor ding.

"Still monitoring me, huh? Haven't changed a bit?"

My floor ding.

(Pause. Phlegm-choked cough.) "Yeah, (ain't a [bit])." 



Sunday, March 25, 2012


An experimental paper, jury-rigged to a KO-therapist's desk a few floors beneath my place by a fogged-up glass Coca-Cola cup, reads off the following:

In most psychiatric cases involving paranoid schizophrenics, a dearth of rationalization characterizes the patient's unbased terrors and illogical hallucinations.  Addressing such concerns at their source can relieve tension and foster a rapport between subject and doctor contributing to steady recovery. Have the patient sit down at home after taking their prescribed medicine and describe the objects and settings around them in a basic manner. Record any irregularities present in their transcript. Utilize this material in future sessions to pry open the patient's mind.

A Valium sinks down (pre-script-ion of sorts) an esophagus.

Office wall is creme. Lamp adjacent red. A sultry leg snakes out its vibrant light to stomp on the desk (ever-subservient secretary [bubbling inside for {attention<!>}]). Ceramic steadiness supports the frilled shade, reminisce A Christmas Story (yes, that same [one{!}]). "SAN DIEGO" screams the blue pencil cup to my right in some block font, the A wobbling on a stunted left line, eager to tear off its perch and dive into the cursive "California" maw beneath. Scissor handles are a flaking black-grey reflecting consistent use, rigorous wear, a stalwart aesthetic devotion compromised by inevitable decomposition. Floor slithers about, straight lines distorted, weaved in patterns defying comprehension. cubist portrait in upper-left corner grins at me, blessed box-shapes cracking at the seams as my eyes water and the pill keeps kicking around my skull

-box tenacity
throbbing, pulsing, growing, livid 

fifty million arm divisions

only the face

 holds weight, the coca sort-

blow(!) all over. 

When I go look at my blog, I always note the little things. The predetermined background for this expressionist canvas contains a diminutive, 1950s-chic TV screen embedded in the center of the room, a prison to white noise, encompassed by a pane of wooden reality. In a sense(!), it's fitting that such an article sits in what amounts to my personal lounge, my abode of reasoning.

Gods are always watching. 
KO is no exception.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

"EE-2: Brew",

codifier slapped to our newfangled soda-kaon (think Jamaican pronunciation[phonetics{!}]) invention, mun (repeat). It's a preposterous moniker, honestly. Inquisitive sources clasped to my corneas tell me this revolutionary spectacle in imbibery frothed forth from an archived medicinal concoction afflicted by a hundred stabs from adventuresome carbon doctors. Looks like nostalgia clings to some more than most. Change doesn't per-(SE[!]) pester me, but this redevelopment comes without warning. Week and a while I proceed The Coca-Cola Company®'s important ventures, feed support expenditures, recalibrate the revisionist policy of payroll senators, and with no prior warning a design document mars my desk with the executive SLAM! of a boss whose privy fingers lord for premium, singular strokes of its contents.

He told me to redistribute its existence to his peers and wipe any implications of its resuscitation from my mind's vista - pah! Decrees from wrathful god to me - pah! Undeniably - how these forces indulge in the privileges of apotheosis - (pah[!]) Well my eyes don't just skirt the barren soil when those godlings bark their sounds, trample 'round - forever clarity's contributor; they never miss(!). This land's lay is as much mine as theirs, this refraction of purpose as much see-through as solid to my acute sight. We derive our currency in emergency, clutching to a fledgling remnant of past days and bringing it fore-front to the zeitgeist's anvil when nothing else satiates luck's unforgiving, gurgling forge. Yet KO stock sits at 71.37 (+.78/+1.10), and papers in my purview match up. 

Something's (a[!])miss.

But focus, focus! My residence, the eternal platform for my mind's meditation, rests far from tangibles, raised above the world's churning suburban graveyards. On those I'll discuss today. Keep up the standards, in a sense (or two?[For you?{!}]) 

I come home and am greeted by the television, a panoramic plasma: a stage window to what is ultimately imagination's providence (abyssal in silence), encompassed by the bright crimson slouched couch, on all sides coveted by Bose seating. A modern-day Epidaurus, only $16,185(.20[!]) for any classic American family, except this family's child is its occupant and patriarchal loyalty remains front and center. 

"To NBC!" he roars, jovial as always, red coat jingling, bells to consumerism locked in ever-jubilant motion. 

"To Fox! To Jesus trees! To this box!" 

One gelatinous set of quintuplet-fingers swallows 288 cubic feet of oxygen to pet the TV alive like a dog while the other amiably boxes me on the shoulder. I grasp at the sticker imparted by his miraculous palm: "EE-2: Brew". Making out the brand label (k)nitted (o)n his polar-fur jacket shouldn't prove difficult. He grapples with gravity for the remote, wiggling chubby calves mirroring movement from his bloated biceps, and as that terrifying emptiness is devoured by more horrible pixels, he draws me close to whisper:

"Always trust an oracle of Schenectady. Moe? Do you see what it says? Don't think yourself too special for exemption, even as my favorite son. Let destiny harken - you'll deliver."

But the vision fades and he's not there as I partake in the American Way of Life™, the electrical blaze bathing away today's suffering. What's left is minimal. Just me

and the telly

-Moe Nunbady 

Sunday, March 11, 2012


Ceaseless endeavor, undertaken at The Coca-Cola Corporation™ these past few days! Files stored (piles drawer'd), light-bulbs switched (darkness nixed), gripes at risk (slights may shift[!]) - thundering around my desk's doldrums. These rancid rampaging deities! Bureaucratic demigoddesses adorned in garter-greaves of silk, drawing wayward eyes from heel-spiked feet to aired-out blouse (businessmen avatars, denoted by an unblemished Armani epidermis [labeled immortality, fit for ambrosial existence]) - what power they lord over my department chair's(head[!]) How suavely our superiors stride, swinging across life's fluffy rafters like Mangani ape-men, as impeccable in appearance as they are in aptitude. Projects reassigned in a moment's notice, architecture redefined in an minute's instant. Total control (with no one knowing when they'll show [NOW?! or now? or n-OW!]), circumstance be damned.

I'm privy to it all. (Fantastic[!])

Oh, it's all mundane, but what else is the same? A sing-song, pattering-along form of coping works better than any crumpled-up letter, anxieties shredded and rent and read and bent all out of shape years before you could inspire yourself to write them down on a paper you're set to trash (ignore[!]) regardless. Or tirades to a psycholo-gist, the general mental spade, a sharp wedge built to dig up your inflamed troubles and leave them exposed for the Prozac rain to hose. Why lather on a drizzle? Why shunt them back? They're there, (you know[!]) and so am I, and it's unhealthy to keep away what isn't safe to say. So our lords cavort along, heedless to their peons, and the ship runs tight, to continue before's metaphor. KO stock today at $69.27. We've packed our cannons firm and strung out the sail; (oars[!]) at the ready, we tense for the shove-off order. Suffice to say no one's had that day.

But pearls shine wherever one goes searching, so on Monday, The Coca-Cola Corporation™ rejuvenates my employment and I dive into madness bay looking after glimpses. That will keep me sane for one more day. Work, at last.

-Moe Nunbady

Monday, March 5, 2012

Moe's Intro

Well call me a doubter and lend me a scoff! I can't believe you kids can get this. Blog technology just bamboozles.

I dunno what to start off with besides a formal introduction into myself, maybe exploring why I'm creating this outlet. Hi! I'm Moe Nunbady.

...Hmm. That looks weird. Let's go again. (Backspacing isn't in my nature - you can see it in the URL. Impeccable oration -and- articulation is required at The Coca-Cola Company™ [NYSE: KO], founded 1892!)

Greetings, scavengers! Seems you've climbed aboard the Shabby Nunbady (pronounced "noon-bah-dee"). The visage this here text reflects is the soul of its intrepid cap't, MOE NUNBADY! Arrr, does that salty air hoist the soul's sail and spirit the spectral on, to lands of myth and song. No emphasis, on ending - let it peter out, to a wistful stare starboard. (On the right side. [Also, forgot to encapsulate. Rats! Permeate the barrels. My integrity is shot!]) I always preferred working visually as opposed to phonetically. Words, words, words, to quote that daft ham-man, can't transmit the sensuality, the Lolitic texture, the mellifluous gravity, a half-halo of tones and coloration, of physical conversation. Call me a capitalist but I didn't requite Waldo's infatuation with the wild, its mental wooing and loo-ring. (Already, the syntax gets stretched!) Pop open a can of Coke® and all troubles bubble up in a flush of carbonated ecstasy. But my co-workers chide me for my poetic tendency (where they see this lies beyond my comprehension) and, tired of deciphering my "lyrical mumbo-jumbo" (Ahh, Joe, you silly schmoe!), threw me this rigamarole to untangle myself within. Let's be nimble with this thimble-thread together, then?

Maybe, I don't know. To what does he refer? (Who can tell? [Not me, and maybe not you!])

But before I press "post", I'd like to entice those scooting through for a first view to stick it through. Haul up the anchor, put lashed-self to mast, and push through these ravings. A pearl's sparkle spawns from its clam's schism; a thorough cleansing reveals its reflective luster. So gaze in the mirror and let it gaze in you. Let it come through. Let it make you. (And let me help you make you.) Because you can't as much find yourself in the bear-shits of the forest, the concrete of the jungle, as you can in the projections of another.

Even a presence unseen screams for acknowledgment.
Hope you're back for more!

-Moe Nunbady