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The HAND REPORT #1
from the WORLD of WHITE & friends

I woke up from a bad dream.
I was chasing a bad man down the strip, the saloon doors still swinging. He'd stolen the Fetish mug from the mainframe's collection. How would we exist without the cup? We would exist, but badly. I had to catch him.
Heavy damp breath, exhaling tar. And when I awoke startled from the bad dream where I was unable to retrieve the sacred ceramic, I realized how little any of you knew regarding my private existence.
Sure, you are all familiar with my saucy lifestyle, but one to none of you have crossed my threshold and paced my firm but humble dwelling space, never sipped my boiling punch, never touched my shower cap (which tucks in my golden locks), never read my night poetics scribbled on my night sweatshirts (a perfect man prefers grey). It's due time I open the shutters and expose you to my sunny private realm.
Yea, I'd like to grant you that privilege. Look out! I'm opening wide and saying come one, come AHHHHHH, you're all invited.

On Monday, man, I'm hurting. Legs burn from the Squash challenge.
On Tuesday, I'm reset and ready to tinkle the piano roll. I hammer away and Lila Maria joins me too. Her spirit slips on the soiled white gloves I leave for her by the coat hanger. Each ivory we finger activates a novel sound. One key even sounds like a doorbell!!! I'll play with you any day, Lila, any day.
Wednesday's nicknamed "High Noon". It's my day of fire. I hit the streets and exterminate as many of you as I can. Clean up the noise, relieve the nose. No way will my work ever be close to being finished, they say, but I do my part. I whack 'em real hard, like this: WHACK! Hard Law says, "Knock it off, White," but I stay one step ahead of him. I sometimes have time to lounge on a bench. The birds are friendly at the park near my home.
Thursday finally rolls around andů ah, wait just a second, this is starting to read like a to-do list on the back of a prescription. In my attempt at transparency, tryin' to prove I'm a regular spirit like some of you, I seem to be damming back the juice. I might as well spill some "extra sauce" on your red sneakers, bozo. For you see, even on my off nights, I'm all bite. It's the honest-to-Lila truth. I am a card carrier, a "member", and I have their blessing. A lot more damage can be done with a smile than a dagger. A collection of pearl mugs simmer on a moderate space heater. Saves costs this way. Hey, got to cut corners at some angle. So I'll skip Thursday; and Friday too; and bid you adieu; and say "I'll be seeing you."
But I refuse to make my exit until this afterthought. If the flora of the Major's tea stains the sacred ceramic, could a replica of the ugly mug save face as a valid substitute, infused with the same vigor and nerve, or would the mainframe's power source diminish so quickly, that we, the card carriers, would lose our grip on Plantation Earth? Then, would you first notice the embossed calligraphy on our business card or the drool on my lip?
The answer is simple. Earlier, I gave you an invitation to my private current affairs. I promised full-frontal disclosure - authorized access. Yet I've revealed nothing. Played my cards close. Therefore, my drool may be a fascinating delusion of public hysteria. Just as likely as it is a byproduct of the slipshod habits of a misanthropic madghost. Or perhaps my drool is the afterthought of the flora of Major's tea.

Regardless, the mug is still missing.

-White Ghost
March 11, 2013 (Hand Hotel)

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