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   Someone put an old defunct Wurlitzer studio piano out on Taraval and 33rd a few blocks from the Post Office when I was dating a zombie in San Francisco and had a questionable job at Thrift Town. The Post Office was grim and antiseptic. Susan was not diagnosed but no antipsychotic could rid her of zombilitic inclinations. Thrift Town is a store in the Mission district of low prestige where recovering drug addicts, faries, and old people work and the first thing I saw was a man masturbating with a ten dollar bill in the McDonald’s bathroom. Susan Sea Shanan. Susan’s ancestors were Japanese and Jewish and established themselves in The United States of America. Her skin changed from a dark yellow to burgundy when she was enraged by some type of personal injustice or some issue happening on a macro level. The piano we came across was made, not by Germans as the name implies, but in a factory in the Midwest on an assembly line. The body was compressed so that it could fit in living rooms beside television sets at the expense of much hope of tuning with overtone structures or playing anything that sounds respectable. The sort of instrument designed to play on drunken New Years nights and late Sunday evenings. The 1975 brown Wurlitzer sat there alone there like a one eyed race dog, an unruly tenant that hadn’t paid the rent, discarded, out of tune, an unwanted orphan refugee bastard lonely beneath the apartments on the hill neither I or Susan could afford even if we combined my income, our grandparents incomes, reversed our debt from college loans then multiplied it by 3. Ocean pattern curtains are much more affordable. Susan was a functional zombie then, around July. The general tendencies towards haunting graveyards, stalking prey at night, and eating brains were all well controlled although anyone would notice the thin line of saliva surrounding her mouth after she’d been alone with her cats for long periods of time. She walked, talked, owned a blackberry, did some trim work, cooked with passion, and road the BART from San Francisco to the East Bay to see her parents or her sister with the other well adapted functional zombies. She attended various musical and cultural events and occasionally said a full sentence to me. Susan once had a machismo boyfriend with a seven inch penis named Nasser who’d led her around on the therapeutic arms of social charisma.  This allowed her participation in various social events. She’d taken acid with him a few times, done the whole burning man thing, and eventually his penis sought out new territory. This factored into my theory of how her condition was exasperated.

 “Play something,” she says. Droplets fall from the cloud that hovers.

“It’s starting to rain” I say.

“We shouldn’t just leave it out here, maybe we can get it tuned.”

 I played one of my classical music tricks that are left over from memory being alone with a piano for a year in a cottage apartment in North Carolina where I made many great things of subtle artistic merit. All great things are achieved from misery or love or a combination. I played some dissonant chords that sounded melancholy. The L rumbled down Taraval along with cars. The piano isn’t hard for indie rock kids or digital hipsters, you rely on unexpected 7ths and it sounds interesting, dreamy and jazzy. Susan walks up in the black skirt she’s wearing, stood beside me and tried the configurations of chords to a Radio Head song that I knew.

“Yeah, that’s pretty good.” I showed her what a triad was. The octaves are out of tune with one another. “You want to take it home?” she manages. In the grey pitiful drizzle we push the Wurlitzer up the hill with a dolly I burrow from a quiet Cantonese guy. We plant it in her garage. The mail of Davis Ry Brooks has come in droves. His subscription to ESPN, Sports Illustrated, modern hiking, and Economic along with the electric bill, and some stuff from SAT Catalyst Prep are scattered on the stone floor amidst the barrage of West coast paraphernalia, surf boards and discarded art projects and electric guitars included. When Daniel comes down the stairs his fingernails are painted neon green like his nights. He stands six foot five or so. He’s the designated homosexual of the “co-operative”. Co-operative here just means that everybody is usually naked or high. “ Oh, a piano” he says, sits down in a horrible dust coated chair and plays some Bethoveen. He looks better than it sounds. It’s that piece that people are always taught at the age of twelve and keep with them while they pass the summers and crave cock, coke, and escape. He kisses Susan on the head as if I’m not there but at don’t understand at this point that zombies have to be kissed by homosexuals in San Francisco so that they don’t blow their cover. “By kids” he blows me a kiss.

      Iris Singer playing with Cameras.


    Tumblbot, you should know very well that an inoperable robot is what turns my gears because then I can fix it and it will sit there and ask me questions or I could program it to ask me questions that it takes me half an hour to figure out such as “Why does my mother own a fake plant.” 

Adam in digital flesh in San Francisco.

Adam Thorn is the Living Flavors Daily - Earth Girls Are Spooky

3:00 or so minute song, version recorded in Oakland. Play games with your friends picking out the cultural references.

other versions available here:

   Where’d you get those peepers

  Where’d you get those holes

  Where’d you get those?

Dance for the damage

Dance for the damage

Adam Thomas Thorn. Once a shut in, once a street performer, lives in San Francisco, California. Always taken with technology caught in the conundrum of evolution.

Adam Thomas Thorn. Once a shut in, once a street performer, lives in San Francisco, California. Always taken with technology caught in the conundrum of evolution.