Into the Blast Furnace.

The light - not the heat

The light - not the heat

It is so hot. I remember talking to people that moved to Dallas from Cleveland. I said, “Summers in Dallas are like winters in Cleveland – you can’t be outside for an extended time. You have to live running from one air-conditioned space to another.”

That understates it. You can, in cold weather, always dress for it, put on layers, preparation. In the heat, naked is as good as it gets, and that isn’t enough.

I am so tired of the droning of the air conditioner – the feeling of artificial, fake, conditioned air against my skin. It is painful, it pricks.

When I was younger I had a muffle furnace in my laboratory. Actually, over a period of years, I had a series of muffle furnaces. A muffle furnace is used to get something, usually a crucible containing some substance you are interested in, very, very hot. They are a little ceramic cave, with squiqqles of electric heating wires running all around. A heavy door swings down over the front, allowing you to lift and peek if you want. This is a door to hell. The inside glows like Hawaiian lava – then it gets even hotter. White hot.

Sometimes, whatever you have in the crucible explodes. A little. This makes the door swing out and a puff of superheated smoke jumps out. The door clangs shut. Any muffle furnace worth its salt will have a stained front, paint smoked by escaping violence from the reactions within.

I feel like that all the time.

Heat

Heat

Taqueria – La Marketa Cafe

Lee and I were driving downtown yesterday, later than I had wanted to go, it was Texas nuclear hot, and nobody had eaten. Lee announced that he had to have something to eat before we went to the Nasher. When a college boy says he has to eat, he has to eat.

I threw the criteria in to my head…

-We were headed downtown (not a lot of action downtown on the weekends – shame on Dallas)

-We were in a hurry (no sit down restaurants)

-No chain-type fast food (general rule of mine, whenever given a choice, I choose local, privately owned – have to support the peeps)

I did not have much of an idea until an old, musty memory came bubbling up. I was at the Dallas Farmer’s Market, buying vegetables, and I saw a Taqueria in a run-down stand right in the middle of things. I remember wanting to eat there in the worst way, but we had other plans that day.

Tex-Mex is not my favorite, but I love Taqueria food. Incredibly unhealthy, probably not too sanitary – but fast, spicy, and good. What can be better?

“I think there’s a taco stand in the Farmer’s Market, Lee. It’s not too far from the Nasher, can you handle that?” I said to Lee.

“Go for it,” he said. So I exited on Good-Latimer and threaded my way through the giant glass canyons of downtown to the Farmer’s Market.

The place was hopping. The ragged field that serves as a parking lot was filling up – groups and families were wandering around with bags of vegetables, flats of bedding plants, and carts with Mexican clay pots and sculptures. A street musician was playing wildly inappropriate music (I have never heard Steve Miller’s Swingtown done by a busker before) and they were setting up a stage for a cooking demonstration.

I love the Dallas Farmer’s Market and am glad that it has become so popular (at least on a Saturday morning). I’ve been going there ever since I worked downtown twenty years ago and would walk over for a bag of tomatoes before taking the bus home to Lower Greenville.

It has grown quite a bit since then – the area is now surrounded by condominium urban-hipster type developments and the city has built a new air-conditioned “shed” to accommodate more retailers than the traditional farmers and wholesalers that still line up in the lines of stalls in the old open sheds.

La Marketa Cafe in front of Shed 2 at the Dallas Farmer's Market

La Marketa Cafe in front of Shed 2 at the Dallas Farmer's Market

We walked up and in front of the new “Shed Number 2” was, sure enough, a run-down, rounded, concrete building with a sign that said, “La Marketa Cafe” and a big, hand-lettered menu board.

I asked if it was still early enough for breakfast and it was. The menu was complex, but we quickly settled on tacos and burritos – corn and flour – and the options:

chorizo
potatoes
ham
sausage
bacon
beans&cheese

“Two tacos, one corn, one flour, one sausage, one beans&cheese, one burrito…, bacon and two bottles of water.”

I had to repeat it twice, but I didn’t really care if they got it right. It’s all good. They asked if I wanted “everything?” and I said, of course, “Sure.”

The food wasn’t very fast (there were a lot of people ordering and waiting), but it was very, very good. Large, full of eggs, onions. and peppers and “everything.” The best was the sauce (that’s the most important thing isn’t it?). Two paper ramekins – one with a hearty red, the other a wonderful spicy guacamole (I hate wimpy guacamole).

Lee getting ready to attack a breakfast taco

Lee getting ready to attack a breakfast taco

La Marketa Cafe (I have no idea where the Cafe come from) has now risen to the top of my extensive list of approved taquerias.

Now I want to go back, early, when there is a little cool morning air left wafting around, have some tacos, watch some people. I might even pick out a bag of tomatoes before I go back home.

Eating al fresco in front of the taqueria

Eating al fresco in front of the taqueria - HDR

Then and Now at the Nasher Sculpture Center

Some time long ago – I think it was the early spring of 2004 – Lee and I went down to the newly-constructed Nasher Sculpture Center in the still nascent Arts District of Dallas. I took some pictures of him, and wrote it up into my journal, The Daily Epiphany, at the time. It was popular enough that I re-wrote it into a magazine article and it was published in a local magazine, Richardson Living,  (I’ll dig up what I wrote and put it up here when I get some time). The folks at the Nasher liked it so much they sent me some free tickets.

Now, about seven years later, Lee and I went down there again and I took some more pictures. Like most museums the artworks move around quite a bit – so nothing was exactly the same. Lee has, of course, grown a bit, and my camera is different. The trees in the Nasher garden have grown a lot. In 2004, the place felt like a finely tended garden – now it’s more like a forest glade.

It was hot as a humid blowtorch today, and the light wasn’t very good, so the pictures aren’t great. I wanted to go early in the morning, but the house was full of sleeping college age boys, nobody slept much last night, and it took some doing to get myself enthused and then roust them up and out the door.

Night (La Nuit) by Aristide Maillol

Night (La Nuit) by Aristide Maillol

This is Lee sitting on a wall in front of Night (La Nuit) by Aristide Maillol.

Lee sitting by Night, 2004

Lee sitting by Night, 2004

Seven years ago, the sculpture was out in the grassy garden area.

Eve, by Rodin

Eve, by Rodin

Eve, by Auguste Rodin

Eve, by Rodin, 2004

Eve, by Rodin, 2004

Bronze Crowd, by Magdalena Abakanowicz

Bronze Crowd, by Magdalena Abakanowicz

Bronze Crowd, by Magdalena Abakanowicz

Bronze Crowd, by Magdalena Abakanowicz - 2004

Bronze Crowd, by Magdalena Abakanowicz - 2004

Richard Serra - My Curves are Not Mad

Richard Serra - My Curves are Not Mad

One sculpture that is still in the same place is Richard Serra’s My Curves Are Not Mad.  That’s not surprising – it weighs fifty tons or so and I read somewhere that they had to do some serious work on the foundation when the museum was built. I did this by memory, but it looks like I stood in the exact spot I did seven years ago. You can really see how much the trees have grown.

My Curves are Not Mad - Richard Serra, 2004

My Curves are Not Mad - Richard Serra, 2004

Inside My Curves are Not Mad - 2004

Inside My Curves are Not Mad - 2004

Quantum Cloud XX (tornado) by Antony Gormley

Quantum Cloud XX (tornado) by Antony Gormley

Quantum Cloud XX (tornado) by Antony Gormley used to be down at the bottom of the garden. I liked it there, it looked like a ghost emerging from the shrubbery. It’s always been one of my favorite pieces and I still like it. Actually, today I was glad it had been moved into the air conditioning.

Untitled (Sprawling Octopus Man), by Thomas Houseago

Untitled (Sprawling Octopus Man), by Thomas Houseago

Untitled (Sprawling Octopus Man), by Thomas Houseago, is part of a temporary exhibit, called Satuesque.

Hammering Man, by Jonathan Borofsky

Hammering Man, by Jonathan Borofsky

Everyone that has lived in Dallas for a long time remembers Hammering Man, by Jonathan Borofsky, because it used to grace Raymond Nasher’s shopping mall, Northpark. I love it that he was allowed to stay in the city.

Pen Porn

We all have our addictions. I don’t think you can get away from them. I don’t think you want to get away from all of them.

Addictions are what make life worth living. Giving in to them is the spice that makes it worth getting out of bed in the morning (unless, of course, you are addicted to sleeping late). The trick is to choose your addictions.

There are addictions that are always bad. You see these on Intervention. Crack, for example… I think I can say that this is an addiction that is always bad. So don’t give in to your inner crackhead, channel him somewhere else.

Then there are addictions that might not be always bad, but are inappropriate, overly embarrassing, or catastrophic for you, personally. If I became addicted to anything overly expensive – say fast cars, supermodels, or gambling – I would be in big trouble.

So being the useless geek that I am, I tend toward useless, geeky addictions. One of the most obvious ones I’ve picked up lately is a rather silly obsession with fountain pens. I’ll talk more about that later, but today we will simply take a look at today’s single fix – and table the larger questions for another day.

Over that Internet thing… from that online commerce site that sort of rhymes with flea spray… I bought a cheap macro lens adapter for my camera. I did this for the sad purpose of being able to wallow in my stupid addiction in one more ridiculous performance method – I want to take pictures of pens.

Pen Porn.

And we’ll leave it at that. Judge if you must, it makes no difference to me. It is an addiction.

It came in the mail – an unmarked, brown paper package. I eagerly unwrapped my simple purchase, stuck it on the front of the lens, and put together a quick assemblage of tripod, desk lamps, and a cut up cylinder of translucent plastic (an old cover for a stack of blank DVDs) as a light tent.

I have a lot to learn about macro photography. I have a book. I’ll get better at it. But, of course, it is porn, so quality isn’t all that important, is it?

Today, let’s take a look at three different kinds of Sheaffer Nibs.

The nib is not only the most important part of a fountain pen, to a great extent, the nib is the fountain pen. It is the critical piece of hardware that conveys the ink from the pen body and deposits it onto the paper. Most people are familiar with a nib as a curved, triangular piece of metal with a narrow slit in the middle. Look close, and you will see a little rounded tip on the end that moves over the paper.

And that’s about it. Over the long decades, however, there have been many nib innovations and variations. I’ll take some pictures later of my Parker 51’s (if this raises the hair on the back of your neck, God help you… it does mine) but today we’ll look at three examples in the history of the Sheaffer nib.

First, we have the conical Triumph Nib. This is probably my favorite nib of all time. It is as stiff as a nail, but is very smooth and reliable, and it looks cool.

Sheaffer Triumph Nib

Sheaffer Triumph Nib

This is a Sheaffer two tone, touchdown filling pen, probably from around 1950 or so. I bought this one from a grubby pile of crap under the trees at Canton, rebuilt it, and now it writes like a champ.

The Triumph Nib ruled Sheaffer’s top of the line pens until the end of the 1950’s and the emergence of the Pen For Men (I do not have a Pen For Men, or PFM, it is really the only pen I really lust after. They were not very popular when they came out and are therefore rare, collectible, and expensive today. I simply can’t afford one) and its Inlaid Nib. The Inlaid nib dominated the Sheaffer line from 1959 to the present.

Sheaffer Inlaid Nib

Sheaffer Inlaid Nib

This is a humble example of an Inlaid Nib. It is from a small Imperial from about 1965 – 1970. It is a bit different because it has a “V” shaped triangular cut-out, rather than the longer diamond shaped one. It is a small, cartridge filling pen, nothing fancy, but it writes really well. I have some orange-colored translucent ink in it, you can see a bit of ink on the nib.

Finally, we have an oddball. This is a Sheaffer “Dolphin” nib. You can see the odd hump that gives it its name. The Dolphin is simply a cheap imitation of the more tony inlaid nib. It is a design that is supposed to look like an inlaid nib, but is really an ordinary nib with a bit of plastic and metal stuck on top of it to make it look better.

Sheaffer Dolphin Nib

Sheaffer Dolphin Nib

It may be cheap, but it works fine, this pen, again, is a very smooth and reliable writer. It is a cartridge fill. Candy gave me a touchdown filling Dolphin nib desk pen from an antique store in Granbury for Father’s Day – it is waiting for me to restore it – maybe this weekend. I love touchdown filling pens.

Sheaffer Pens

Sheaffer Pens

What is a touchdown filling pen? You’ll have to wait. More porn to come.

The Compleat Werewolf

The Compleat Werewolf

The Compleat Werewolf

There are too many werewolf stories around these days. And way too many vampire stories. I have not read any of the Twilight series, so I will not denigrate it, I will simply say it doesn’t interest me enough to waste my precious reading time. And I will not even look at a vampire story now – it has been so overdone.

We were talking about this the other evening in our writing group, and my whining brought back to my head a sudden memory of a long time ago. I remembered reading a short story called “The Compleat Werewolf” by Anthony Boucher, a giant in the world of early Science Fiction and mystery type stuff (he was a Science Fiction editor and a Mystery writer). Clearing the cobwebs and thinking hard, I remember I read it as part of a collection – probably around 1970 or so. I remembered bits of the plot: a professor changing from a wolf to a man in front of his class, forgetting he was naked, a bullet splashing off of a wall and the horror of the werewolf when he realized the near miss was silver, and a portly magician demonstrating the Indian rope trip to tragic ends.

Well, a quick Internet search and some library wrangling and I had in my hot little hands a copy of The Compleat Werewolf. I was surprised to find it was written in 1942 – the tale was older than I thought (there is a reference to the forty-eight states in the story). It held up well, though.

The whole basis of the tale is that a werewolf isn’t inevitably evil (though most are) and that, when used with discretion and intelligence, a power like that can be darn useful.

I enjoyed reading the thing. It is more a detective story than anything, though the whole mystery is pretty simple and unravels without much tugging of the sweater string. It is sparsely written and hardboiled enough to go down easy and quickly, but still has a few literary flourishes thrown in. I have to love any tale that includes the phrase, “this fantastic farrago of questions.”

To sum up, The Compleat Werewolf is a yarn. Not entirely serious, not without a wink or two, but a complete story, where a bad guy shoots himself, the hero (wolf) gets the girl (not as he had hoped… but better), and there are practical considerations in spite of supernatural occurrences.

So don’t be afraid to mosey down to your local biblioteca and check out this or some other collection of classic story telling. You might learn a thing or two and have a good time in the meantime.

Make it or Break it

45

45

What you got back home, little sister, to play your fuzzy warbles on? I bet you got little save pitiful, portable picnic players. Come with uncle and hear all proper! Hear angel trumpets and devil trombones. You are invited.

—– A Clockwork Orange

When I first started to listen to music, a 45 RPM record cost ninety-eight cents. I had a dollar a week coming in and would eagerly await a trip to the record store to buy my music single. They had little booths that would let you listen to your prospective purchase, but I never would. I had been listening to the top-40 all week and would already have my mind made up. . Actually, the new national top-40 came out on Friday. Every night would be a local top-ten. I was fascinated by how much more volatile and responsive the nightly list would be – dominated by call-ins. That nightly snip would whet my appetite for the Friday countdown. Friday night, I’d think about it and make my choice.

On Saturday I would march right up to the big display – four columns horizontal, ten rows vertical, forty numbered slots – and snatch out my selection – march right to the counter and pay.

These were the days of battery-powered record players. The days of taping pennies to the tone arm to keep a scratched, overplayed, worn-out, favorite record from skipping.

Somehow, from somewhere, maybe a garage sale, we bought for a couple of dollars a huge stack of used, abandoned forty-fives – old stuff, no sleeves, just a stack-o-wax. We spent a day down in an unfinished basement with those platters and a pitiful, portable picnic player. One by one, we would cue up a record and within a few seconds after the tinny music began to eke out of the cheap speakers we would shout, “Make it or Break it?!” Inevitably, the choice would be “Break it!” and we would sling the sub-par disk against the concrete wall, shattering it into sharp shards of useless grooved vinyl. By the end of the day we had an impressive pile of ex-music.

The only platter that survived was 96 Tears, by ? and the Mysterians. It was addicting right from the start, so it survived. That heroin Farfisa organ.

Over time, later,  I played the hell out of that record.

I would see that band live decades later (1984) in a reunion double-bill concert with Joe King Carrasco at the Arcadia in Dallas. It was an evening of absolute off-the-hook greatness. I think that may have been the high-water mark of Western Civilization.

I feel guilt, to this day, over our lunatic day of Make it or Break it. I took so much from the single survivor. Looking back, I wonder what wonders were in those records we smashed. How much early rock or rockabilly or other classic stuff. Oh well, easy come, easy go.

Lana Del Rey

I have a new favorite song, Video Games by Lana Del Rey.

Good Stuff. Really good stuff. The song has a lilting laconic hook to it which, coupled with the heartfelt, provocative lyrics make it irresistable. The lush orchestral arrangement adds a bit of nostalgic contrast that is very welcome.

Love the video too. I wonder what game the exploding Eiffel Tower at the begining is from?

Another one of her songs, Kinda Outta Luck, is different, more of a pop gangster bit of fluff with fun edgy lyrics – Is it wrong wrong that I think it’s kinda fun when I hit you in the back of the head with a gun?

Love the Film Noir stuff in the video.

The only problem is I can’t figure out how to buy any of her music (either under Lana Del Rey or Lizzy Grant). She had an album out at one time, but I can’t find it. All I have so far are the youtube videos.

For now, that’ll do. I’ve been working on a time management thing called the Pomodoro Technique. I’ll write more about it some time later, but the basic premise is you use a kitchen timer to work for twenty five minutes, then take a five minute break. I keep a list of favorite youtube music videos to watch in my little mini breaks – and Video Games has moved to the top of the list.

That’s a nice break offsite when I’m writing (that’s where the Pomodoro thing is working best for me) but it doesn’t cut it at work work. The whole break thing is not something that’s easy to pull off. There’s an old Dilbert Cartoon where he is told, “Job satisfaction is the same as stealing time from the company.” You have to at least appear to be slaving away at all times or else you are not earning your wage, and in this best of all possible worlds, that is not acceptable. There are starving kids in Africa that would love to have your job.

In one of her interviews, Lizzy Grant refers to herself as a “Gangster Nancy Sinatra.” In honor of that, here’s a real Nancy Sinatra video – another one I watch sometimes during my Pomodoro breaks.

This is her first television appearance, on Jools Holland.

And another new version of Video Games

From the same venue, Blue Jeans

 

Why I Love to Slaughter my Characters

Man is born crying. When he cries enough, he dies.
—Ran
——————————————————————–

As I’ve said before, I can outline too many of my short stories with three cards-

1. Introduce Compelling Character – interesting and fully rounded human that, despite some quirky faults and failings, the reader likes and can identify with.

2. Something bad happens – the protagonist is presented with something that does not go as planned and puts them in some distress – a problem to solve.

3. Protagonist dies. Nothing works, doom descends and the main character dies an ignominious, painful death.

They aren’t all like this, but this is what I like to shoot for. It’s just that sometimes my characters refuse to do what I tell them to and, despite my best efforts, they get lucky, scrape by with the skin of their teeth, and survive.

Everyone tells me I’m a terrible person because I take so much joy in butchering my heroes and heroines, especially since they are sometimes such nice people. Some ask me why I do that. I do it because I like it. I do it because I can. I do it because it doesn’t hurt anybody.

These are fictional characters. They are not real. Everything is a lie. Writing this stuff is a lot of hard work, time that I should be spending in useful money-making activities – so I want a payoff. Since I can do anything, doesn’t it make sense to do what I can’t ever do in real life? Death! Off with their heads!

The idea is to kick it up a notch, isn’t it? What possible reason is there not to kick it up as far as it will go. Turn those amplifier knobs to eleven.

Yell

Yell

It’s the same thing if you are reading. It takes time to turn those pages; time you should be using to interact with real human beings. So if you are choosing to hang out with an imaginary shade instead of a flesh-and-blood person you are going to want to make the best of the situation. So what is the one advantage of befriending fiction, a pack of ghostly lies, over some warm living example of God’s creatures?

You can kill them and nobody gives a shit. Plenty more where they came from. Close those book covers or shut off that e-reader and the pain and mourning is all gone. You can wipe a tear and go make a sandwich-nobody knows any better.

So let’s raise a glass to fictional death. Give a big hearty laugh at the disaster yarn. Let the blood spill and the darkness descend, as long as it is behind the protective screen of those twenty-six letters with the added armor of a few punctuation marks.

There’s too much out here, so lets keep it in there. As much as we can.

Snippet Sunday – Rufus Amalgam Loved his Bluetooth, Part 3

First, If you haven’t already

Part One, Read it here

Part Two, Read it here

Snippet Sunday – Rufus Amalgam Loved his Bluetooth, Part 3

The mud down by the creek was so thick and sticky that Rufus lost his shoes within seconds and his feet were getting cut up by hidden roots and buried thorny vines as he thrashed around in the thick underbrush that covered the shallow water.

“He’s not here, I swear to God!” he yelled up at Sandy.

The sun was rising now so at least he could see what he was doing, but Rufus hadn’t slept in over a day now and his head was swimming with effort and lack of sleep. He looked up the bank at Sandy but all he could see was a blanket standing up with two hands holding the top corners. She was using the blanket as a shield so she didn’t have to see what was going on down in the creek. She didn’t want to actually have to look at a filthy naked Sylvester if Rufus pulled him out of the weeds, dead or alive.

“Keep looking!” Sandy yelled back. “He’s got to be down there somewhere.”

“I think maybe he woke up. He must have walked away.”

“Do you see any footprints?”

“We’ve been stomping all over here all night, how can I see any that are his?”

“Shit, Shit, Shit, what do we do now?”

“Hey you were the one with the dead guy… the comatose guy in her apartment, you figure it out.”

“Don’t start in with me, you sent him to see me in the first place. You’re in this as much as I am. You’re in as deep.”

“Well, he’s not here, help me up, I can’t get out of this muck.”

Sandy flipped a corner of the blanket down to Rufus who grabbed it. She backed away, pulling him up out of the creek bed.

“Jeez, look at you,” Sandy said, “You are covered with mud… it smells like hell. I don’t want you in my car like that.”

“Give me a break, what are you going to do? Leave me here? Put the blanket down on the passenger’s side, I’ll sit on it.”

“That’s my favorite blanket, no way.”

“Favorite? You’ve already used it to haul a dead guy.”

“He wasn’t dead, only comatose.”

“We didn’t know that at the time, did we?“ Rufus snarled as he haphazardly spread the blanket out and plopped down. “Start ‘er up and let’s get the hell out of here.”

As they were driving, Sandy turned up the radio to drown out Rufus’ constant complaining with some Country Music. At the twenty minute break there was a morning traffic report.

“And the East-South Carribelo Expressway is stopped,” the voice said. “Police report a naked man running across all six lanes of traffic. We have not had confirmation.”

“The Carribello? That’s right near your place isn’t it.”

“Yes it is, dammit. You don’t think that he’s…”

“Of course he is. Where else is he gonna go. I don’t think we should go to your condo… lets head to my place and wait it out.”

“No way. I am not going to that hellhole of yours. And I want some help, some reinforcements if he shows. I’m not gonna let that loser run me out of my condominium.”

It didn’t take long. They parked and as they were rushing to the apartment the thick bushes along the front walk began to rustle and the naked Sylvester popped out to block their path. Sandy and Rufus jumped back, but really didn’t have much choice but to throw the blanket back over Sylvester and rush him up the stairs and inside as quick as possible.

They hustled Sylvester into the shower. While he was getting cleaned off, Sandy dug around trying to find something for him to wear. They had already thrown his clothes away on the way to dispose of the body. She found a green pair of sweats and a T-Shirt – that would have to do.

She threw the clothes into the steamy bathroom and he emerged looking like a lime popsicle.

“I am so glad to see you, “ he said to Sandy, “I have no idea what happened to me.”

“Now that you’re out, I need one too,” Rufus pushed by into the bathroom, hoping there would be some hot water left.

“Hey, why is he so muddy? He smells like the place that I woke …”

“Umm, I have your wallet,” Sandy changed the subject, “and your keys.”

“How did you get those?”

“Ummm. Well… you see….” Sandy couldn’t think of a thing she could say.

Encore

We drove to Fort Worth to see Chris Isaak this evening at Billy Bob’s Texas. We went early so we could walk around and get something to eat. I have forgotten how much fun the Fort Worth Stockyards are – not to mention the world’s biggest honkey tonk.

Near the end of Chris Isaak’s set I saw something I had never seen before. Back in the day, we all used to hold up lighters at the end of a show – there would be this sea of flame spread out across the concert hall to signify our desire to see and hear a few more songs. At a particularly gnarly show folks would gather trash from the floor of the venue, light it, and hold it aloft – I guess to sort of kick things up a notch.

Nowadays this has morphed into everyone holding up the illuminated screen of their phones – a sea of iPhones glowing in the darkness. I’m afraid I’ve always thought this was pretty lame.

Tonight I some something new. Somebody was holding up a tablet – I don’t think it was an iPad – it looked a little smaller – maybe an Android tablet of some kind. At any rate they held it high, waiting for the encore.

And on the screen was an app that displayed a flickering flame.