A Walk in the Woods

Join Chanticleer Walk (yes that is his name) on his sojourns through the natural world.

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Grainhorse and Sparknart - 2/8/24

Hello my dear Walkers, 

First and foremost, I would like to apologize for my absence in our most recent edition. I was away on one of my "excursions" and I missed the memo that we have changed to an electronic platform. As per usual, I had sent my handwritten notes, to which you have been accustomed, back to our offices by way of my beloved rare German green-snouted blue-tongued carrier weltbird, Handel. Unfortunately, none of our other writers, or even our editor, took the initiative to transcribe, scan, or at the very least summarize my notes for your enjoyment. I am deeply sorry. As a token of appreciation for your understanding and an apology for the inconvenience, I will detail two discoveries this week instead of the usual one. 

The Grainhorse

During my travels in the Amazon Rainforest this past month, I had the wonderful privilege to be one of the few people in the world to lay eyes on the gorgeous grainhorse. The grainhorse is an animal who has only been spotted in the northwestern corner of the southeastern quadrant of the central Amazon Rainforest. As if a barrier keeps it in place, the grainhorse seems to stay within a 5 mile radius. Despite its minute area of habitation, the grainhorse is one of the most elusive animals. 

The grainhorse is an odd looking creature. Imagine a horse that is roughly the size of an armadillo, and you would be getting close. The front legs of the grainhorse move more like arms and have claws that appear to be primarily used for digging. While it is most often seen walking on all fours, looking much like a human walking on all fours, they have been noted to stand and walk on their hind legs. The fur of a grainhorse looks quite like a field of wheat. The fur appears to bristle out at the top much like a single stalk of wheat. It even has the golden sheen. It can be deduced that its name stems from its appearance. The grainhorse makes its home digging small burrows. We found at least seven different grainhorse burrows in this area. While that would lead you to think there are multiple grainheese, so far only one has been tagged. This tagged grainhorse is also the only one we ever see. We assume the grainhorse most often travels from burrow to burrow using an underground tunnel system and can only be seen when it comes out to gather food in the canopy above. The grainhorse diet primarily consists of very small mammals found in the canopy or on the forest floor. The grainhorse also has been seen eating berries, often shortly after eating a small mouse or some other rodent. It is guessed that they are having a little dessert after their meal. As such, the grainhorse is an omnivorous animal. The grainhorse was one of the more interesting animals I have ever come across, and I hope we find more grainheese. 

The Sparknart

The next animal I would like to discuss was one I came across while on a whale watching tour just off the coast of Unga, Alaska. While I was watching off the port bow, looking through my binoculars in hopes of catching sight of a slapping whippy or a jumping pantoon, I caught sight of a very bewildering beast. 

The large fish looked much like a bluegill, but was the size of a tiger shark. The vibrant and electric, almost neon, greens and blues stood out against the white backdrop of the ice and snow. The color palette of a deep sea dweller, where I can only assume it makes its home, coming to the surface only to feed when food down there gets scarce. As I later found out, the sparknart, as it is apparently called, is incredibly rare. Only a handful have ever been seen, none have been caught. Little is known from a lack of documentation and an inability to research it consistently, but here is what we know. The sparknart is a large fish who preys on smaller fishes. The sparknart uses its striking coloration in an intensely disorienting dance to ward off potential predators. The sparknart has only been spotted during waning crescent moons. Should you ever attempt to witness a sparknart, make sure to plan your trip accordingly. Scientists at Unga, Alaska are continuously working to uncover more information about the sparknart. Maybe the next time I see one, I will have more information for you.

I hope you enjoyed this week's special edition walk. 

Until next time, Walk on!

From the Editor

March 13, 2024

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Good afternoon, Comrades:

As some of you may know, our illustrious editor Horace P. Gunderblatt was recently admitted to St. Germaine's with a mysterious illness and remains in a coma as I write to you on his behalf. I am a lawyer, not a doctor, so I will make no comment on Horace's condition or prognosis beyond saying that he looks perfectly cherubic in the wan light of the ICU, if a bit pale. 

While he sleeps, we continue to work. Please send stories for the April newsletter by the 30th of this month. April is Distracted Driving Awareness Month, so take that into consideration. Also if anyone wants to cover the Spinach Dance or the Hydration Marathon that would be great. With that, I will cease and desist from providing further editorial comments seeing as that is not my prescribed role in this organization. 

In lieu of sending flowers, cards, chocolate, or stuffed bears to the hospital, Horace would appreciate small donations be made in his name to the local branch of the Audubon Society (as stated in his living will, section 13, subparagraph 12). Please be certain that donations are designated "in honor of" rather than "in memory of;" he's still fighting. 

Regards,

Captain (Ret.) Sir Amos Pierce, Esq.

Commandant, Legal-Commerce Brigade

From the Editor

March 3, 2024

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Of late, my dreams have fixated on Spring. I heard the first robin far off in the oneiric ether some three weeks back; perhaps you did too. It has just gotten warm enough to open my office window some afternoons, and my ears burn for the coming birdsong to rise above the wintersick grumble of bescarfed pedestrians. Our city is ready to wake.

That said, it is not as if we've all been sound asleep. On the contrary, the frenetic boredom of midwinter has boiled over into a wide array of happenings in our fair burg. We had the mid-February protests, which turned out to be about potholes, Valentine's Day postage hikes, or widespread wage theft in the financial district. It depends on which little bird you listen to. The cancellation of the President's Day Invitational Forklift Criterium due to floods in the Old Port was met with a night of chaos whose effects are still being teased out.

We look optimistically to March as a month of renewal, with the Department of Public Health's World Kidney Day Hydration Marathon and the Spinach Dance promising to usher in a vibrant spring.

While the days grow longer with the greening of the trees, Stringphone is here to keep you apprised of Spring's freshest cultural happenings and Winter's final words.

As always, thank you for reading what we write.

Horace P. Gunderblatt X

Editor-in-Chief

From the Editor

February 18, 2024

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Dear Colleagues,

February is a strange animal. I was informed today by the Legal-Commerce Brigade (they still keep a sergeant on comms around the clock down there) that since it is a leap year, we can delay our production calendar for the March newsletter by about a week. Don't ask me how that math works because I couldn't understand it when they tried to explain it to me. All I know is that we get an extension, so enjoy it! Unsurprisingly, I will be spending my newly acquired free time by taking a longer than usual stroll through the halls of the Ornithological and Futurists' Society. What fun!

Best of luck,

HPGX

From the Editor

February 7, 2024

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Dear Colleagues,

Our ongoing sojourn into the digital age has not been without its fair share of trials. I've fielded numerous calls from longtime subscribers, most over 70, who have had trouble accessing our new electronic content. Some have downloaded computer viruses, others have accidentally deleted their accounts, and one old fellow actually managed to order a bag of antique South African Quaaludes from some seedy corner of the deeper web. Suffice it to say I have disabled external advertising links until Legal-Commerce can verify their safety; the last thing Stringphone needs is to be enmeshed in enabling some pensioner's exploitation of hypnotic sedatives.

As we commence the construction of the February newsletter, I encourage you to embrace the spirit of the recent upheaval in our fair burg. There is much to be mined from the recent general protests, counter-protests, and counter-counter-protests, none of which seem to have had a clear direction or aim. At least they were exciting. If anyone feels like actually covering the protests, that would be neat as well, but I should remind you that we cannot take a stance (unless it's buried in the subtext).

Please send me your pieces by Saturday the 17th. Don't forget to submit questions to Gernie using the link on her column page.

Cheers,

Horace Ten

From the Editor

January 25, 2024

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I have an...interesting...update for you all. Mr. Fink, our advertising manager, has informed me that the caliber of ad clients that our now-online publication attracts has fallen steeply. Digital being more accessible for thriftier businesses or some such. In any event, I wanted to warn you ahead of time about the ads. They are all legit, even if they don't really seem like it. That being said, if you hear of anyone who needs cheap ad space, apparently we are now that. Our crack Legal-Commerce Brigade has informed me that this is a good financial omen. I have my doubts. 

I am looking forward to accepting a few final pieces in the coming days. The Jan-Feb issue is looking splendid so far!

Cheers,

HPGX

From the Editor

An ongoing account of the webification of Stringphone as recorded by Horace P. Gunderblatt X via electronic mail over the course of several months, provided for posterity at the behest of the Legal-Commerce Brigade according to the tenets of their thirteenth annual Report on Organizational Transparency, Ethics, and Efficiency.

January 16, 2024

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Dear Stringphone Staff:

As some of you may be aware, our publication has recently taken fire for pivoting to an online platform. One of our competitors has accused us, in a lengthy diatribe delivered to my desk via stealth courier just yesterday, of "joining the dot-com blitz to salvage what little buzz [we] have by simply pandering to the bots." Nothing could be farther from the truth. In point of fact, we are going green, keeping costs down, opening ourselves to new readers, and pandering to the bots.

Mr. Duckworth's criticism (yes it was he, that roustabout chief of the stinking Post-Gazetteer, rag sheet that it is) is not entirely accurate, but I convey it to you now in order to show you what we are up against. The post-physical-media-pre-virtual-technocracy moment in which our city finds itself is rife with Philistines and trolls (literally, I am disturbed to say), very few of whom are rooting for us, and fewer than that are even reading us.

But be heartened! According to the new business projections from our crack Legal-Commerce Brigade, assisted by Rodkey, Katz, Goldstein, and Hanson, LLP, we can survive at the current monthly capacity for at least five and one-half months without a serious restructuring of manpower or resorting to volunteer writing (I shudder to think). I have no doubt that our straits will be much less dire before half the year is out (or else).

So, with that knowledge in mind, go forth to your beats, your haunts, your opium dens and grand halls, go forth and collect in words that which is beautiful, that which is horrible, and that which is simply there, the stuff and substance of our fair burg. Going forward, please direct your one-sentence pitch out the nearest window in a loud voice; we have to cut back on printed pitches or face taking another collective pay cut. Have your copy turned in to your section chief by the 20th and your sections to me by the 25th.

Before I forget, let me invite you to join me in a moment of silence at your desk to honor the passing of Charlie, the office zebra finch. His gay chirruping shall be dearly missed but his random scatalogical proofreading certainly shan't.

Now then, off to work, remembering the motto of our dear founder, my grandfather, Horace P. Gunderblatt VIII: "Don't write what you see, write what you see reflected in the shiny surface of another thing you also see."

Good luck,

Horace the Tenth

Paracurator

Placentorism: Antal's Bouquet Reaches the Transcendent

By Fran T. Pel -- 1/12/24

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This fall, the Cosmopolitan Museum of the Contemporary features a collection from the much-beloved Cherique Morle Antal, whose musings (and perversions) at the intersections of modern biology and sociology remain some of the most revolutionary in the blooming art scene of our eastern coast (a scene I have critiqued, at length, in my recent review of Babulrade’s retrospective—a travesty).

Hallmarks of this collection of Antal’s work include Kiasmos: the last breath of a fruit fly, a piece originally begun in 2018 that features 680 pounds of rotting fruit—selected from the finest farms in the world and averaging out to $200 worth of raw produce per half-pound—stuffed into trash bags and, subsequently, into trash bins placed nondescriptly throughout the museum. Participate in this exhibit by adding your own waste to the piece, noting that each atom of organic matter is enough sustenance for a fruit fly’s entire being.

See also Poo Poo Pee Pee Thunder, Called By Name, a collection of gossamer-textured triptychs abstractly depicting the Munich Beer Hall Putsch of 1923, in which Putsch meets kitsch through the intermodal use of textile. Do not confuse this with Reservation, a performance piece in the easternmost room which features the artist herself defecating and urinating at irregular intervals throughout the day. An important note for museumgoers who, like myself, find themselves downing a museum cafe espresso during their visits: this room was once the only publicly-accessible bathroom on the second floor—now the nearest bathroom is on the third floor, western wing.

The centerfold of this collection, however, is undoubtedly Placentorism, a collection of flowers whose petals have been painstakingly sewn together by volunteer Bangladeshi laborers over the course of seven years (a statement on capitalism) to form broad fabrics shaped like the placentas of 36 women randomly selected from New York’s Bushwick borough. Note, most alluringly, the surrounding room’s injection of blood-scent and the discordant audio of Yoko Ono delivering her second Lennon child, Sean, as reproduced on wax cylinder.

I find Placentorism to be—in its use of flowers—the most emblematic of the show, which on the whole achieves a fragrance and diversity that retains symbiosis, each constituent part pointing to themes of femininity, the corporeal, and the ethereal, to elevate our sense of ‘body’ and ‘gender’ to higher sensibilities than I’ve seen from any artist her age (93). I look forward to seeing what Antal produces as her career continues

Seen On-Screen

Alvin 5: An Unexpected Apotheosis

By Dave Germaine -- 1/10/24

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Walking out of the theater last Thursday, I stepped on an empty McDonald’s fry bag, small size, that had been soaking up rain water in a neglected pothole for some time.

The sound of its muffled, sewage-laden crunch contained within it all the mourning of the city’s night, all the texture of her streets.

And in the shimmering, grease-infused wetness of its plasticine surface, I saw my own reflected visage, silhouetted by the banner-like marquee that still boasted the name of the fine film I had just seen: Alvin & The Chipmunks 5: Chipmunks Furever.

Even in the obvious sadness—the melancholia—embodied by the crumpled bag beneath my feet, something about the sight of that title behind me—a reminder of what I’d just witnessed—filled me with such reverence and delight that I could only smile. In fact, so full was I of rich optimism for the future of cinema and our world, I had no recourse but to shed a single tear, to watch it fall from the tip of my nose and onto the bag beneath my wingtip shoe, my lip quivering as I followed its journey down the surface of the bag and into the puddled wastewater smearing and soaking its papery skin.

I could only cry. For the film was divine.

To place this sequel, the latest in a long line of superb entries (barring the brazen misstep that was 2011’s Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked, Mike Mitchell’s insulting and completely misguided entry into the much-beloved series) along such titles as Paddington, Paddington 2, Skinamarink and Kung Fu Pandas 1 and 3 as some of the best children and family films available today may seem like a step too far—but I dare say that the latest furry romp is more than deserving of such praise, if it does not, indeed, exceed it.

The film begins with an admittedly lackluster opening featuring the dulcet tones of Post Malone, who I am not quite a fan of given his propensity toward face tattoos, bright cars, and that abomination known to the American culinary zeitgeist as the ‘chicken wing’. But soon after, we are thrust into the fury (furry!) of a rampaging houseparty at the house of Dave Seville, played in perfect tune, as always, by the indomitable Jason Lee. 

It is at this party, however, that we become aware of the movie’s departure from some of the timeless (if not somewhat derivative) themes of the series’ previous entries: friendship, found family, converging and conflicting identity, coming of age, etc.. For in this film, the chipmunks have come of age—many years have passed since their latest misadventures on the road in Road Chip, and their interests and intrigues lie well beyond the world of the puerile. These chipmunks have become, to put it succinctly, chipmen.

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things…

So it is that, at this houseparty, Alvin is in the bedroom with two of Simon’s lovers—one former, one present—doubtlessly providing them with the sort of satisfaction only a chipmunk of his stature could provide, when suddenly he and his nymphai are rudely interrupted by the presence, not of Simon, but of Theodore. 

After a heated and earnest confrontation between the two (voiced impeccably by Janice Karman as Theodore and, somewhat unusually, archival audio of R. Lee Ermy as Alvin, who replaced the much-beloved Justin Long for this production due to the latter’s latest motorcycle injury), Alvin and Theodore enter a heated, bare-knuckle brawl on the floor of the bedroom, which is soon scandalously voyeured by the many bums, pop-intelligentsia, and LA-party dilettantes one could only expect to find at a bona fide Alvin and the Chipmunks house party.

After the brawl is done with, Alvin successfully coerces Theodore (with the intimidating tenor R. Lee Ermy is so well known for) to keep his momentary lapse in judgment a secret from their younger brother, Simon—who is currently away at culinary school—under threat of death.

What happens next, you may wonder? Does Alvin engage in further debauchery, forced only by the revelation of his original sin to reckon with the error of his ways? Far from it.

As the film’s second act begins, we enter not the tried-and-true territory of a reconciliation film, but instead, the wanderings of a dejected Theodore, who is so racked with grief for his brother’s loss of innocence—if not his own—that he must venture back to the wilds of the pacific forest whence he came, searching for meaning, searching for peace…

The second act of the movie is entirely silent—a directorial choice justified to its fullest extent by the tempered, steady cuts of editor Jennifer Lame (of Oppenheimer fame)—containing within it prismatic and ethereal imagery that calls to mind the inspired terroir of Kurosawa, the enrapturing dreamscape of Jodorowsky, and most profoundly, the tender, existential purgatory of Tarkovsky.

In this stretch, the film reaches not only the pantheon of family films occupied by other heartfelt stalwarts (such as Paddington and its sequel) but also finds itself nose-to-nose with greats of auteur cinema. Much of this could be credited to writer/director Derek Cianfrance, of course, but, as is the critical fulcrum of all discussions regarding the question of the ‘auteur’, it is a dishonor to refer to this work as the product of a single, inspired man.

It is, in fact, a work of collective inspiration. And it is truly inspired.

If you are unconvinced that this film achieves such kismet, though, I can only direct you to the film’s last act for recourse, in which Theodore returns from his wandering to the city (a shell of his former self) to seek out his brothers and make actualized the dream-poems which he reveled in through the months of his pine-strewn pilgrimage.

What follows is a harrowing sequence of events that put even the heartstopping climaxes of Taxi Driver and Come and See—dare I say—to shame. But, as we must acknowledge, such violence is necessitated. Inevitable. Demanded by the desolate reality in which these chipmunks—in which all of us chipmen—furever find ourselves.

Obituaries:

Stringphone Staff

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Dick Dobbins: 7/12/70 - 1/19/24

Ding-Dong the Dick is dead. Dick Dobbins was, unfortunately, a part of our community. I have never met a man more appropriately named. Knowing him was one of the greatest displeasures of my life. It is with great joy that I announce his passing. Dick plagued this earth for 54 years, dying of natural causes. Shockingly, no foul play is suspected. His funeral is scheduled for tomorrow at 8:30am, the sooner we get him in the ground the better, where he can nourish something for a change. His family is offering $100 to each of the first 30 people who show up. If you ask me, that is still not enough money. 

Good riddance, Dick.

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Jerome "Clammy" Watson - 12/3/56 - 1/12/24

It is with an exceptionally heavy heart that I announce the passing of a local legend, Jerome "Clammy" Watson. Clammy was an honorable and vital part of our little community. As our resident hearse driver, he ferried the lost souls of those we have loved and lost to their next and final destination. It is now his turn to follow their lead. Clammy lived a remarkable 84 years, working all the way to the end. As I remember this great man, I feel compelled to share my favorite memory of Clammy. Clammy's very first drive. 

At my cousin's funeral, clammy arrived with the body, stepped out, and shook my hand. The feeling of that cold perspiration will stay with me until the day I cross to the great beyond. He later confided in me how nervous he was to take on the mantle of hearse driver, that is why his hands were so sweaty, no other reason. From that moment on, he was known as Clammy. He will be dearly missed. 

The day and time of his funeral is still to be determined, as there is no one to drive him to the funeral, him being the only hearse driver we had. Keep a lookout for updates so you can join us in honoring this man. 

So long, Clammy.

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Charlie the Zebra Finch - circa 1993 - 1/7/24

Silence has fallen over the offices of Stringphone for the first time in easily a decade. It may have something to do with the switch to remote, asynchronous reporting and editing, but more than that, it is because Charlie is gone. 

Our beloved Charlie was the first occupant of the office. We found him when we moved in back in 1993. No one knows how long he lived here before we arrived, but we always got the sense that we were working in Charlie’s home rather than him living in our place of work. 

For a creature that was only supposed to live 2-3 years, Charlie’s 31+ year sojourn on this planet was legendary, as were his contributions to Stringphone in the form of scatological revisions. 

We miss you, Charlie.

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Stan Hansan - 1/1/17 - 1/1/24

Old Stan Hansan has passed, the oldest and possibly strangest member of our community. His stories never failed to brighten our days and confuse our minds. Old Stan will live forever in our minds and in our hearts. Minutes before his passing, he emailed me with words of advice to share here. "When the going gets tough, it does. We either get tough and get going or get going and get tough. Either way it's tough and we are going. Going tough or tough going, only you know the answer. Will you be tough, or will you be going. Both?" Thank you Old Stan, your words will be cherished. Stan lived to an incredible 107. 

His funeral will be held exactly a year to the minute of his time of death. If you know, you know. If you don't, well you have a year to figure it out. You do not want to miss what Old Stan has in store. 

Farewell, Stan.

Hello! from the Heartland.

Ellie Mae Anderson, Midwest Correspondent

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Dear Friends and Cult Leaders Extraordinaire,

I write to you from the bioluminescent glow of my newfound cavern solace under the library here on the campus of the cult commune I’ve joined here in the fabled “Midwest.” As most people have heard, the urban legends of monstrous cults and terrifying religious outbreaks are based solely in the region of this great nation where the crazed and power-hungry individuals gather with their followers to live off the land. I have been displaced in this wasteland of cults and those infected with religious ideals. However, as I am paying my penance, I too have joined the ranks of those disillusioned. The leader of our cult is about 4”2’, with a slight build, almost like a corn husk. His top hat is taller than most normal hats I’d seen before, it sits on his pointy head like a raccoon on a fence. His head is pointy like a cone, I suppose that’s why he’s the leader. They say that the cone is a direct antenna to the gods. His greatest weakness is a sort of sweet mix, called muddy buddies. It's concerning how slight he is as compared to how much of the mix he eats. Many of the young virgins serve the commune slave for hours in a hot kitchen making pounds and pounds of the stuff for him to consume. And despite that one flaw, he serves our savior and muse of the ages.

I personally got to have a session with him last week, where I sat in his tent on the main lawn of our commune, where a fire was lit, and its smoke filled my nostrils with the scent of burning chocolate-covered corn squares. He spun for me a very interesting narrative of the purpose of our little solace here in the hills of Missouri. He told me of the old gods, the dim, and the distant lands where the idea of all of us was born. He told me of his time in the wastes of denial when he denied his priesthood from the holy lords of the night. drew so close to him to hear his faint, wispy voice, that I could see the chocolate smeared on his royal robes.

As I left the tent, at perhaps half past midnight, I carried the weight of the universe on me. I saw the fires from the kitchens, where the youth still carried out the production of our leader's only food source. I wept under the stars, as I dreamed of the taste of chocolate and corn squares, which I would never know the delight of.

This brings me to the end now Friends and Remember the Corn and the Pop.

-Ellie Mae Anderson

March Horoscopes Are Here!!

Rigby Potts, RDN, Astrologers Guild of Canada

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Cancer - Buckle up things are about to get bumpy. Like, physically buckle up. Safety first y’all. 

Leo - Hey, remember that one person you dated and brutally dumped your third year in college? They think about you every day. You are constantly on their mind. Actually, in the back of their closet they have this eerie collage of your face with the eyes scratched out. It’s kind of disturbing. Definitely don’t backslide if you can help it. 

Aquarius - This month you should start eating most, if not all, of your meals in your car. Invest in one of those lap tables and maybe a bib or two. People will stare at you, but there’s just something about eating in a confined space with an audience that speeds up your digestion. 

Aries - One word: metallurgy. 

Capricorn - What’s your water intake been like recently? Like, if you had to describe the color of your pee using the Pantone Color System would you say you’re more “Turbo” or “Portofino”? Either way, drink up. Water, not your pee. 

Gemini - Khakis are in. Stock up while you can and then be sure to tuck in your collared shirts so tight everyone can see your belly button. The more like a private school student you look, the better. 

Libra - Put your phone on Do Not Disturb for the month. There’s nothing important enough to disturb your peace. 

Taurus - It’s time to get really into the New York Times daily crossword puzzle. Let that be the driving force that wakes you up every morning. Solving the puzzle should be the crowning achievement of your day. 

Virgo - Still looking for a mate? Start catcalling people more. If you do it enough, it’s bound to work out. 

Pisces - Start listening to your dreams, especially the weird ones. Like, if you have a dream where you and your best friend get to listen to a highly anticipated unreleased pop album,  you should start a rumor online about the sound and the lyrics. Let it get some traction before telling everyone you made it all up. 

Sagittarius - Joan Didion used to go through people’s medicine cabinets and she was super successful. Get snoopy this month, see where it takes you. 

Scorpio - It’s time to start traveling. Ohio is great this time of year.