1. Tell me about Crank Sturgeon?
What would I say?
My ship has come in. I'm aged, oak barrel cumbersome; frigged to the gnaw by the scoldings of forbidden teat and patchy skidmarks. My friend, I'm a ship. A portrait of yodels lost... asymmetries of tribunals now ancient and tattered, once-proud but now childless, and in grave need of wheels. And sure, there's a remedy, would if there ever be one in a once-in-a-while-occasion. For example, it could manifest as something surreptitious, akin to the timeliness accorded to congress, when in their guile and most sacred poise of positing decrees, would appoint the breath-of-fresh-air to be its ambassador. But it's a process both arduous and not light on the feet. Even a dullard of fourteen winters could see it. Even one so lonely and priggish, the type of sullen tool whom would deliberately sit on cold stone, sobbing and pocked, coated neck to ankle with hemorrhoids, barren and incredulous at his or her uncertainty. Inconsolable. Even this person could and would, deem the need to be dire, and beg the question of when was a good time for administering more serum.
In the proverbial buttress of day passage, I develop periscopic hope. It beats down the tundra of would-be dampers and moments of dampness, you know, the kind that might be maddening to some, but only when gazed at from windows of a train or from less agile sport utility vehicles. These timbers can nevertheless be exalted by a brevity of instance, when, setting an unusual precedent, give bend, like the limber willow, to a next day, one so indicated as being made in the shade, brought to light, or even matted and yet, kinda' sexy, like a freshly moistened rain poncho wrapping around the dank & cool chill of alewife. I'll default on total self negation with a hypothetical: referring to our previous figure, our imperial high commissioner of comely but stupefied adolescence, that pithy gender nonspecific, unabashed inner waif/scowling cur, imagine this person then, anointing snorkel, baring tooth and credo, upping his or her insights, shaving his or her back, acquiring third nipples, donning four genitals, and just like that, presto: take to the sea!
If I cannot catch myself recording that prospect, you, dear reporter, only get a bit of the symptom. The resolve comes as wisdom and adage: add wheels, inhale until you feel it in the spine, and then pray for rain, mister.
2. Which adjectives would you use to describe Crank Sturgeon?
Oh, I'm pretty nice, most of the time. Autocratic, otherwise. Descriptive plays have their better days spent elsewhere, and odes should be written about them versus the odious task of listing these divisive adjectives. Life is a mean contractual agreement with words that only measure in metric, leaving scandals and requiems to any other port of entry. And forget about some sodden harpy or metaphysical guide, some authoritarian controller and/or harbor master seeing any nicety or able readiness in the mismatch of empathic blessings that have that tinny taste of aluminum or heaven forgive me, earl grey tea.
It goes back to ships, man. I'm a veritable armada of dumb. But without these meaningful little barges, tooting and hollering, the bays get monochromatic, and no storm or seasonal fluke wants to pay a visit. Even the seagulls keep the fuck away. Bad jazz guitarists, they're the only cads that stay, preaching to the colon about semiotics or the symbolics of little corner lard piles. So I keep away from the verbal pries, and leave the rorschach to the scientists and other asthmatic mathematicians. Just don't let them grow up to be architects.
3. What is Crank Sturgeon's greatest strength?
It's best to switch gears here, and disregard the aforementioned treatise on masters, boats, whelps, and the strafes of annotation associated with hydra and what I might later take a stab at: feel-good movies. It's like this. A sturgeon can grow quite old when allowed to ripen and not be speared, fished, or bludgeoned by the pasty marvels we call deregulationists. This is generally a good thing to lean towards, or at least have an inkling of, and where I try to focus my strengths.
4. What is Crank Sturgeon's greatest weakness?
Okay. So, when I go about vacuuming the ocean floor, this isn't exactly a weakness, but it makes my knees weak to filter through all the sediment. I get captivated by the nuances in the colored shells, the wriggle of plankton, and the leech-footed dance of random zygotes and passer-bys. All these come up through my tubes and land in the collection bins, gleaming and winking, batting their lashes seductively, pleading that I give each a prying eye and further inquiry. Once the sun has settled under the horizon line, I'm at wits' end to catch these sparkling agents, and often find the search to be less vigil, and if anything, debutante. The knees begin to quiver that I haven't aced the scores on a daily quiz that I imposed upon my life when I was nine years old.
5. What is Crank Sturgeon's goal in life?
I'm really into growing arms. Really long arms, as in, abnormal, freakish, and non-mammilian. With these arms, I'd be able to reach more items off the shelf, or perhaps, wear large green boots at the end of each knuckle, which would somehow (and this is where things get a little bit implausible) be able to transport me numerically, pedagogically, and thematically.
6. What motivates Crank Sturgeon?
Protein.
There's a spirit to spit and saliva, and something even more incredulous to behold in protein. It's bliss. A sane, enabled hierarchy of meat ladders. But lately?
Air.
I love the feeling of air -- the really high quality stuff, not the ancillary variety that comes in magazines or cannisters. It has to be buoyant, aloft, soft and fleet with pontoons. And water, I love that shit, right? Simply add two parts oxygen. And all of this makes room for the ships to arrive, beg for a makeover, or at least have its chance stab at the casting call for a makeover series. Or in worst case scenarios, a bit part in a depressing documentary about casting calls, late night lotion sessions, neer-do-wells, their callused mitts, and pelagic mermaids, those sirens and their proffering of platitudes and inveigling of uppity jokes about baggage-faced mariners, aged fifteen and up.
7. How does Crank Sturgeon handle stressful situations?
I'll broach the situation with candor. It's not whether circumstance, innuendo, or abject derision supplies the can of worms so often furnished as advent or happenstance, but whether a slick greasing of pert truisms can pronounce this line of interrogation as a broth that couples moot sex appeal with the downplay of muddled instigation. When offered candy by any token, I simply accept. It's no trill or pirouette to take home, but those fibers have a sense of bareness, acting as fodder for canon or empirical misfires when held to the tests of convolution, transforming into a kind of fervor that gets you into fluffing pillows when the sales clerk isn't watching, awaiting the corners to bite until blood is drawn.
8. What is the toughest problem Crank Sturgeon had to face, and how did Crank Sturgeon overcome it?
If I go about seeking the cliff's edge with a self determined set of prose, religious or otherwise, it invariably happens that my letters get all jumbled-up and I end up not having a carpal grasp of any tongue, let alone, an envelope worth licking. So it boils down to accessories. What do I bring to the precipice? Dude, it changes every cotton picking time. Not to be adversarial, but it's safer to pledge allegiance to something utterly unbelievable.
9. Would Crank Sturgeon rather be liked or feared?
Fear is the posit for fools. I prefer likable output, sympathetic channels, charitable offspring, appealing narratives, attractive counterparts, and the anthems of fellowship. This isn't to suggest I don't mind now and again, happening on the chance to instill a cold veneer. But I'd rather that it go as a nice mixer, accompanied by some lime and soda water. Then again, I'm not really a fan of gin.
10. What irritates Crank Sturgeon about noise?
It's little wonder to me that some people, at some point during their yawn encrusted day, would need something to embalm themselves into excited states of wriggle. I reckon they garner some pretty sexy reputations too! However, I personally find that this type of tedium is so large that you can wrap your friggin' lasso around it, and that like most problem children, the crux of the orchestral maneuver comes down to rope. What kind you might ask? Sisal? Jute? Nylon? Cotton? Hemp? See, what I make of it is that if you can't cast a proper net, then you have no business messing with children. They're vampires, most kids. And my god, can most of them tie knots! When this backfires and they grow up to become critics or bloggers, and then the whole band camp has no practical significance. There's no charity, no pledge campaigns, and certainly no more scenic lake memories like when you had to row out to the girl's camp at exactly ten forty every night to catch a glimpse of their marshmallow routines and burning ember tosses. At the end of the night, if you listened closely you could hear the gentle hiss of those lobbed bits of charcoal and carbonized sugar hit the water and sing with every catapult. No irritation with that noise, my good reader. Not with a blood sucker like that!
11. Finally, does Crank Sturgeon have any questions to ask me?
Do you really want to hurt me?
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