mLe Kischell

Bennington College

psychic spy, magician's assistant, vimana pilot

Racoons. They like to chase me up hills in packs.

punctuated equilibria, lost civilizations, trepanation fantasies, antigravity, downtrodden stepchildren, true love, deja vu, red nail polish

I am a freelance writer. A cyborg with little bookmarks for fingers.

(I like to watch the mouth of the film projector through the hole.) Jules Et Jim, Bladerunner, Lynch's Dune, Fanny and Alexander...

The soundtracks in my dreams, David Bowie, Elliott Smith, Radiohead, Gillian Welch...

The Zaphod Beeblebrox News Hour

My father broke Lindsay Buckingham's arm. It was the
very early 80's and my dad, international drug smuggler and
dealer to the stars, was conducting business in his
bachelor cabin up in the resort mountains above Los
Angeles.

Buckingham was one of the coke-snorting beer-sipping
celebrities hanging out on my dad's brown velour couch
that
spring. I wish I could recall exactly why they had a fight,
I imagine it was over drugs, money, or sluts. I was
about 9
years old, wearing my orange bikini (it was a little too cold
outside for it) and I was playing with my cat in a bed of
wild flowers, when out through the screen door whirred
my
father, overly tall, skinny, sweaty and shirtless, but
darkly tan with no chest hair whatsoever -- Imagine a
mulleted racecar mechanic crossed with a vengeful
Apache --
He was exuding a crazed indian scalp-wielding energy,
surfing a tidal wave of red heat.

Behind my dad slinked Mr. Buckingham, crouched like
a
rabbit, pale, petite, also sweaty, each hair in his white-
man's 'fro standing on end for dear life. And this is
when
my dad just grabbed the guy's forearm and snapped
the
sucker. It was fast, a few fuck yous flew out of my dad's
mouth, Lindsay wailed, grabbed his wrist (an askew,
dangling thing encased in a button down shirt sleeve)
and
that was that. Finito. I never forgot it.

I think my dad gave me a beer to drink after the incident
and told me that the guy he'd just fucked up was a 'real
asshole' and never to talk to him if I saw him....

...Next installment in Tales of a Smuggler Princess: The
story of how the lead singer of Kansas tried to get me
drunk and kiss me on a ski lift when I was eleven.

If you are the kid on the playground who used to chase
me with the green 'lefty' scissors and scream "fuck" at me,
then I want to find you. I think your name was Tyronne.

And I am seeking space pirates who will crack jokes with me on a piece of old spacestation that will be dangling off a sliver of the bombed-out moon on the last day of the apocalypse. Please bring a foolproof plan and a worm hole map.