Cry Havoc

ZIP 60622, National Geographic, June 1967

2010-05-10T16:11:00.000-07:00

I was a little depressed so I went to Detriot.

2010-02-21T11:02:00.000-08:00

Turns out Detroit is coping with the post-industrial apocalypse. They got rid of the living population.

Powerswhiskey goes Nuclear

2009-11-01T13:15:00.000-08:00

After two months of independent research funded by Adams House, Powerswhiskey field researchers stationed in the asphalt jungle of Chicago have compiled all their data into Adobe Nukleshop10x. In agreement with the program's output - we have concluded - that there will be positive long lasting visual effect(s) if a party simply pulls the nuclear trigger on the City of Chicago.

In a controlled nuclear discharge there is a blinding sensation of light - this is only radioactive particles ploughing through the retina.

Its important to remain calm when experiencing the aftermath.

Our senses slowly become accustomed to the new energized environment.

Of course, some objects retain more radioactivity and nuclear beauty than others.

Everything still functions after the first salvo of explosions. The Chicago City Works won't have to labor over time.

Some previously disruptive areas of the landscape will become pleasantly serene:

We at the Powerswhiskey Research Center, hope that the International state system will heed our valuable work. We maintain that the benefits of Nuclear discharge in Chicago far outweighs the costs - 1.) urban life as it is now 2.) all the current speech writing and political dawdling.

Another Autumnal Paperless Invite

2009-10-31T08:36:00.000-07:00

Nellie! Tragedy!

2009-10-26T17:44:00.000-07:00

Something went wrong. I didn't forget, or oversleep; I wasn't drunk either - I just woke up one morning and the Coupe was gone! Kunzte up and left with it.

I thought hard and found a replacement.

Its a train bogie, we can get anywhere and virtually for free. We just put it on the tracks and go! C'est vehicle es trés exactement, trepidement et suavement.

How does it work? Cool your boots! No bother at all - its gently nudged by warm metal engines:

Its not as bad as it looks - I'll make wooden seats for it and we can build a little canopy to protect us from the winter showers. I'm sure you'll understand - any forward thinking young lady of your calibre would.

There's no traffic on the rails we'll take.

Pip pip,

Uncle Jim

Dear Nellie,

2009-10-25T20:00:00.000-07:00

You said that you would never take me back until I bought you a new car 1.) because I crashed the old Corvette when I was drunk and 2.) because I gambled away the fishing boat.

Its been hard times down here on Miami Beach. I've given up the booze and the race track. And with all due respect to your advice about not sailing to close to the wind I barely have enough money for both the burger and the bun.

Anyway, I've found the perfect automobile that will bring us back together. Its teal with thin stripes, it has extra wide tires, and under the bonnet sits a turbo-cooled-triple-shaft-cam-ignition. The windscreen is made from carbon fiber. It runs on olive oil (we're going to have to figure a way to get that easy), but its extremely efficient for getting between 'A' and 'B'. Its made for me and you - since we just want the 'A's and 'B's in life.

As soon as that lazy Kunzte mechanic puts the headlights, and bumper on - I'm in the pilot's seat and gone like a bat out of hell. No state troopers for me; I'm coming home to you baby.

We're going to roast marshmallows on the bonnet, and go base jumping every day.

Toodles,

Uncle Jim

A Vision into the Future:

2009-10-24T08:05:00.000-07:00

Today, I saw how our arms will function in the future when we have to plod through the concrete and steel strewn jungle of tomorrow. We must radically alter our current make-up - for it is weak, frail and frivolous.

We must find a way to inject our body structures with compressors, magnetics, and pneumatics.

We may not now, but someday - we will own this planet with metal gloves on.

Good Concrete

2009-10-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

Today, I happened across a fabulous piece of Grade A Concrete suspended from a steel frame.

If one stares long and hard - the body of a crucified man appears. Lord knows, there are plenty of criminals buried in there.

According to my research with the natives, the Romans, led by Maximus Hale, engineered this vaulting bridge over the Chicago River sometime around 1st Century BC.

Powerswhiskey Album Re-Release

2009-10-20T20:26:00.000-07:00

The famous prog-rock album that we did in East Berlin circa 1984 is being re-realeased on vinyl this week. All proceeds go to a fund.

Usually ships within 6 to 10 days...

2009-10-14T11:05:00.000-07:00

Kunze's New Venture

2009-10-07T12:28:00.000-07:00

The parlor maid at the Powerswhiskey estate, Lauren Kunze, has just opened an automobile repair shop. Entirely on a whim she is fixing all motor vehicular problems. Its true - she's only ever failed her driving test. But gentlemen, we have to keep an open mind about her abilities with a wrench and oily rags.

Unfortunately, you can't park in front, or within a block, of the garage; and most automobiles, alas, won't make it through the narrow door. Kunze recommends you bring her only the broken components which she will fix, and under her supervision, reattach to the automobile at an undisclosed location.

Charity Count: three whiskeys down, four to go.

Sunset in Chicago

2009-10-07T09:17:00.000-07:00

Time: 18:57:45 Industrious Level: High

Altitude: Four Whiskeys above sea level

Chicago - Olympic City 2024

2009-10-02T11:11:00.000-07:00

My little gorgeous friend - who lives in a little tree house in the Adirondacks and runs round with daisies in her hair - berated me for my gross negligence. The entire regiment of powerswhiskey has been formally reprimanded and posted on double duty. No leave for six weeks.

It's serious work fleeing INTERPOL. I've been living in a crate for the past several weeks and so my normally lavish roast chicken dinner parties have been stifled. It seems that a little scrot from the docks blew the whistle on the human trafficking, and arms smuggling, operations that we were running on the West Coast of Claire.

Landing at Boston harbor brought back fond memories of the good old times; packing guns, and shipping them off by the boat. Back then no one ever questioned my sobriety or level headed thinking. Then along came Tedward Kennedy and shut down the party. Everyone went inside and scrawled some pesky agreement that hurt the demand for my wares.

I've never been one with words, least of all verbal negotiations. I'll live and die by the saw.

That's why I've moved to Chicago. The meat packing hub of America. Its pleasantly lawless and liberal. And let me tell you that its not just animals that are processed, ground, sliced, chopped or sawed. I was only in town a week before I found myself stuffing my neighbor in the freezer - he double parked in front of my stoop.

The most common place to stow a body before the winter is in a water tank. There's no shortage of these. The bodies gently sublimate during the winter months, and finish their decomposition in the spring. Then the water runs red with an abundance of iron; everyone has strong bones here. (Therefore no ordinary saw works in Chicago - Home Depot has a special 'midwest triple tooth blade').

Sometimes there is so much horizontal integration going on in the business world that one has to stack the bodies of competitors, seal the building, and move on.

The higher the water tank the more prestigious the contents.

This is primarily for grain but really anything can be disposed here. Anything over 350 pounds will disappear without a trace - guaranteed.

Corpse distribution is lucrative.

Highways overflow at night with the traffic of 'meat'.

One doesn't want to draw too much attention to business here. Word gets round; the mayor will pay a visit. If its a good niche idea you can stay.

People bath publicly in Chicago - usually on Sundays.

Obviously, there's lots of pork chop investing in Chicago. The residences are a modernist's wet dream; the trees are made from ground bone and melted plastic, but they still blow in the wind.

Its true, Rio de Janeiro may have a sunnier disposition to human disposal, but one can't discount the heavy machinery and large industrial monoliths in Chicago. This city has turned meat, murder, and industrial architecture into high art.

James Alured Powers Jr. has invited you to become a fan of James Powers Jr.

2009-08-28T06:25:00.001-07:00

I'm considering discontinuing this blog and working directly on the James Alured Powers Jr. Wikipedia page. I'm also considering moving to LA to promote some new acting shorts, and music videos. Consultants at Teller Conglomerates, have advised me to work on PR more; they believe that this blog might in fact be undermining my image as a hard-edged Southern bow-tie gentlemen, with a grizzly beard, and rough rakish tweeds.

I've barely talked about my Club, the Phlee; my lineage, or my career so far.

A daguerreotype of my great grand-uncle from the French Revolution; taken before he went to the guillotine for leading a regiment in revolt.

My grand-uncle, a hoodlum from Brooklyn, who ran a frothel. He died in jail.

My uncle when he was arrested in Columbia. He made the family fortune.

This is a picture of me working on the set of Fellini's 8.5 . This was the start of my career. Our family has been legitimate ever since.

Someone told me that I looked liked the bulldozer guy from Gomorrah, who buries all the bodies in the sea; I might do a little parody on that, get some world wide clicks, and then do an indie dance music video with a friend who has software and a studio, in San Francisco. Get some more clicks. Some tags. Some twits. I'm writing a book too. Paying for the publishing. Working on my own line of clothes. Strictly metallic and rust colors. Stiff collars. Cuff links.

The Garden of Ireland

2009-08-19T13:01:00.000-07:00

Reader's Digestive approached me recently about writing an article on the Irish countryside. I assembled my camera, attached my wheels and rolled into the fields.

The Irish people surpass themselves in their effort to drastically alter the ancient landscape and eco-system. Their changes go mostly unnoticed due to the unexplainable blindness of government officials, and pseudo-liberal bias of developers on the continent. Upon close examination, I think we can all learn a thing or two from the Irish method.

Ornaments are integral in gardens all over the country.

This is an inflatable toy for the children to play with in the pool...

...and a secure durable playhouse that will last generations.

Irish landscaping Rule No 1: "When in doubt, dig a hole."

Irish landscaping Rule No 1, (option 2): "When in doubt, paint it black."

The garden is never properly finished. Conveyor belts always look good and are useful for moving dirt and rubbish year round.

Some of the locals in the Wicklow Mountains have developed striking new forms of habitation.

Heavy black plastic is an effective DIY insulation for the winter.

In the past half a century, since joining the EU, the Republic of Ireland has made leaps and bounds in its development.

Overall Rating: Three bottles of whiskey upside down

Re: Accusations made in the Phlee Club for Gentlemen

2009-08-19T04:08:00.000-07:00

It was great to be back in the City after an invigorating sojourn in "The Kingdom." Saturday afternoon I found myself sipping a cool pint of ale in the Phlee Club library, ruminating on global politics. I had my eye peeled on an unguarded bottle of Beefeater lurking next to the bound Biggles Volumes, when I was rudely brought to attention by a fellow member obscenely deriding my blog column. The tiresome little reprobate was accusing it of "sensationalism," and "gross perversion of political scientific fact." I coldly bellowed back at him that fiction was truer than reality, and that the Honorable Alured Powers wasn't concerned so much with the facts, as accuracy.

Reality is Canon fodder.

Search and Destroy

2009-08-18T09:55:00.000-07:00

Dr. Ferguson returned briefly to assist on a special powerswhiskey search and destroy mission near the famous radio outpost at Valencia Island.

We disguised our carriage, tying large branches over the roof, painting the horses green; then set off along the muddy trail. We fought a viscous Sou-wester along the coast.

Midway through our trip the cart over turned and the horses were badly injured. Fearing that we were followed by the B&Ts, we threw the wreckage over the cliff.

By the time we crossed the bridge onto the Island the weather had gotten even more depressing. The cows were throwing themselves into the sea to escape the misery.

We finally caught site of the radio shack; it seemed suspiciously empty. Dr. Ferguson cunningly camouflaged himself as a rowing coach from Cincinnati and crept to the entrance, armed to the teeth (as always).

There was nobody there. We learned later that modern communication between military forces was down via wireless technology. This was a merely a ruin from the Great War.

We dug a trench and nibbled our sandwiches in silence.

It was a pleasant surprise bumping into our friend, Sam Teller, on the way home. He was busy Tumblring in his field. Unfortunately, he was also due on a flying machine bound for Martha's Vineyard to meet one of his families. He only talked for ten seconds before bouncing away.

After my experiences in the region, I would endorse"The Kingdom" as the ideal ground to train a guerrilla force. The severity of the conditions makes for the leathering of the skin and soul. The rain hydrates the brain indefinitely and makes for quick decision making. The abundance of amphetamines boosts the courage and fortitude of the troops, enabling them to rout any modern army.

Overall Rating: Just shy of an entire whiskey bottle

A Hike to the Sneem Carlsberg Factory

2009-08-15T14:46:00.000-07:00

One particularly cruel night last May, when the wind howled awfully, and the rain made outdoor pursuits impossible, Dr. Ferguson and I were stuck by the fire nibbling morsels. We made an important discovery on TV around midnight - Carlsbergs emanated from the tops of misty wet mountains!

So in due course, when our supply in Sneem ran dry, we decided to embark on an excursion up the local hill to look for replacements.

On our way we discovered a clever insurance trick to retrieve credit.

The climb was steep but the anticipation of Carlsbergs kept us quick.

We drifted into the clouds.

It was very exciting at the top. Dr. Ferguson thought this might also be a Guinness Medical Laboratory where they experimented with human propelled flight. Our hopes ran high.

We got a bit nervous, energy levels running low, scrambling across the summit looking for signs; perhaps the spots of sunlight were coded messages?

It dawned on us that everyone was in Croke Park participating in the quarterfinal between the Kingdom and Dublin. Clearly, all the Carlsberg workers had packed up for the weekend bringing their equipment with them. We crawled home.

Shortly afterwords, Dr. Ferguson was called back to his ward in Co. Down. He hopped off this bridge into a little rubber dingy and floated away.

My sister, Countess Powers, walked down from the Wicklow Moutains to do some blackberry picking in Sneem.

Kerry won the quarterfinal.

Interlude: New Media in Action

2009-08-14T02:27:00.000-07:00

The integrity of the cocktail invitation is one of the few remaining covenants from last century not to be lined against the brick wall. I went the extra step and paid 10 cents to mail this darling invite via electronics to an island of the west coast of Ireland. I thought it worked out pretty good. I even paid an extra 1 cent for each personal message for those folks who mattered a little more.

Apparently, it ended up being a bit of bother for the recipients as there wasn't any internet in the village. The government telephone representative representing electronic communications had to travel out from Dublin with a portable screen and have everyone sign off individually. The young gentleman then had to spend the night on the island typing all their replies. None of them could come but they all hoped, in their own meandering ways, that the cocktail season would be a fruitful one.

Despite this minor hiccup, I can see the concept catching on in a few years when the area crawls out from under the dusty underbelly of the Celtic Tiger, and plugs in.

Overall Rating: 3 whiskeys

Escape to the West

2009-08-12T09:38:00.000-07:00

One of my colleagues from the visual department at the institute, also an investor in the niche market of thongs and white picket fences, berated me publicly on Twitter for a rather slow debut at powerswhiskey. So after a whirlwind of activity at the Adobe Photo Laboratory - adjusting curves, levels, and making painful chromatic adjustments - I've quickly assembled part 2 of my exploits in Ireland (featuring Dr. William M Ferguson).

On Saturday, the 1st of August, circa 2009, Dr. Ferguson and I took breakfast in bed and spent an early morning playing croquet on the estate lawns. We dined on cucumber sandwiches before nipping into the local village to pinch two British soldiers' helmets and a lightweight tank from the local barracks. We then loaded up on Carlsburgs and hastened across the border, safely ensconced in the armed vehicle with an afternoon dessert hamper and Bollinger '73. The bullets from the Queen's own woolly footed regiments were wide off their mark.

Our destination was Co. Kerry, the county formally know as "The Kingdom." We were to visit an outpost in the valley of the Sneem Mountains, and join forces with splinter factions of the powerswhiskey irregulars busy fighting paganism and dereliction infiltration from Co. Cork.

I was going to train rebels in hand-to-hand combat, diversionary tactics, and futureo-conservative propaganda. Dr. Ferguson had an idea to teach them Tumblr so our squads could quickly trade links on tactical information.

The terrain was exhilarating. We could smell the turf, sea salt and sheep.

I saw some landscapes that reminded me of a series of sentimental little paintings that Grandma Bierstadt, and her friend, C. Friedrich, used to plaster round their hovels.

At Killarney National Park we switched wheels, burned the stolen tank, and saddled up a horse and carriage. The view was grand.

We arrived in Sneem in time for tea and Digestive biscuits. I relaxed at the stove perusing "Irish Eccentrics" and "Stuka Pilot," invaluable guides in alternative methods, conveniently stored amongst the jars of tobacco in the pantry.

Powers Inaugural

2009-08-11T13:38:00.000-07:00

A gorgeous acquaintance from the metropolis said she was bored at work and asked if I would be so kind as to blog my tirades and rants. Considering that my negligent behavior may or may not have led to the violent demise of her automobile, I gave the matter some thought, and decided to start a blog the moment she finished work.

The task seemed daunting as my acquaintance with the English language, and its grammatical obfuscations, was at best, tenuous. But it didn't take long to realize that my expertise in the realm of visual media was fairly accessible to the masses, and furthermore, a blog was just the sort of ego boost that my dwindling, self-absorbed, degenerative, character needed.

So this begins my record of work as a painter and global itinerant. Once a week I venture into No Man's Land and infringe upon half a dozen legal statutes and call attention to the local law enforcement agency.

My colleague, the Honorable Dr. William M. Ferguson is starting a blog soon. It will basically look exactly the same as this, but instead of a Nikon SLR 24D, he will be recording his exploits with a Blackberry Swerve 3K.

As a forewarning, here is what Dr. Ferguson looks like, taken with a BSwerve 3K as he would use it. We were trespassing on a beach owned by the British Army in Co. Down. You can tell from his ostentatious behavior on the barren sands, Ferguson spends half his time in jail, and the other half a target for bored British riflemen.

Upon acquiring the above snapshot we retreated into a bunker used by British troops to fight German crack regiments in 1941. From inside we could safely view the old Ferguson residence - captured in 1942 and occupied since.

As the sun went down we ran to safety and got a few views of the Northern Irish atmosphere. This photograph could have been snapped circa 1953. The global integration in this area has been shockingly slow. Most of the ramshackle affairs barely have running water - none have electricity. The tractor was imported from Czechoslovakia and is collectively owned by all the occupants. Fuel is scarce.

Farming in the area has an admirable pre-Bauhaus, post-Soviet era vibe.

Dr. Ferguson continues to slither across the sands begging Her Majesty's guns. Fortunately, all the mercenaries were fast asleep at their posts.

After 24 hours spent in the area I came to the conclusion that the northern part of Ireland is not quite as cosmopolitan as Dublin. Nonetheless, I had a very enjoyable time reading their forward thinking literature: "Biggles Cuts it Fine," "The Encyclopedia of Firearms" and "Horses and Men that I have Known;" beside the roaring wood fire at the historic Ferguson Estate.