Shabadoo. Forgive me.
Why when you come to me do I have to be resentfull? Aye, if only I wasn't such a child when I shouldn't be such a child.
To be a child is great, most of the time. The world is bigger and more beautiful, still within reach but with little hands that can only hold so much.
But sometimes I have to be a man. And when you needed space, I cried. I cried because it was my day one day off, and come on! I work hard and gee whizz, it was my one Sunday to go out and be warm in the amazingly warm, nonseasonal weather and see and be seen and go to the zoo, and why would you want to walk alone anyway?....shabadoo. (this is my "ohmmmmmm)"
Shabadoo. Forgive me.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
play with serious consequences.
Four men in a room, one $400 bottle of wine, one glass each, twelve hour lockdown, one gun. What happens?
This is my pitch for a new play based on the '96 Vega Sicilia "Unico" a great wine from the Ribera del Duero region of Spain. From what I understand, children across Spain sing odes to the Unico after their national pledge of allegiance. Old farmers sell their last cattle before retiring with a bottle into the long, dusty road to death. Its great.
So what happens to these four men? Who are they? What are the conditions?
_____________
Bruno, a french-emigree, mid-thirties, taste buds completely stripped in a Burgundy tasting accident, his olfactory senses revoked by border police when crossing into American from Canada and declaring that his inspector smelled of truffles.
Rudolph, the son of illustrious comic book illustrators. He is the only one from wealth, the only one who had in the past tasted any vintage Unico, the flavor profile forever imprinted on his brain.
Justin, a former teen-idol turned celebrated artist on his own right, in his own mind. This young middle class man from Wyoming does resemble Justin Timberlake, found this a means to an end early in youth and has cultivated the likeness to get what he wants. His three friends do believe he is in fact Justin Timberlake. Maybe he truly is this person, and he's playing games with me, his alternate world author.
The fourth is, of course, me. I am G-d to this slice of half-baked fiction, to this pile of dried beans in need of a soak and boil in the waters of meaning. But its my hill of beans, though it doesn't account for much.
_________
Scene 1. The four of us are in an empty basement looking room. We sit around a card table on folded chairs. One light hangs overhead. Italian opera plays, skips, plays, skips. On the table is the Unico and four glasses. A wine key balances perfectly on justin's nose.
BRUNO: So we begin our 12 hour adventure. Hands out, fellahs.
(We all reach into our pockets and produce wads of cash equalling $100. Rudolph places a revolver on the table).
BRUNO: That's right. $100 each for this $400 bottle of wine. And Rudolph, only a single bullet, yes?
RUDOLPH: Yes. A single bullet.
BRUNO: Let me see.
(Bruno takes the gun, spins the bullet holder thing, stops it and takes out the bullet it. He examines it and puts it back in with another spin of the thingy).
BRUNO: Right, so we all know the rules. A bottle of wine pours four glasses. There are four of us. We have twelve hours to enjoy. Nobody wants to finish first, but neither do they want to finish last. The last to finish is shot dead. Who can pull themselves away, even after twelve hours, from the transcendent experience of a glass of Unico? That being said; you guys know I have no sense of taste or smell, right? Chances are that we pour this baby, and I gulp it down real quick.
(The group nods that they do, in fact, know).
BRUNO: Just want to be fair, that's all.
ME: So lets proceed. Justin, first give us a song, then please open the wine.
(Justin does his thing, a rap about the Unico and life with a little dance, too).
JUSTIN: Unico. Unico. Unico. Yeah, baby. Hustle on this piece. Unico.
(Justin flexes, then opens the bottle with perfect poise. He pours the taste to me, I sniff it severely, nod that he continues. He pours a small and equal amount into each glass. We rise, clink glasses and then sit and smell. Rudolph addresses the audience).
RUDOLPH: How did the four of us come together? Not unlike the primary components of this or any wine. We were all picked...
(The four of us laugh).
...Bruno, like the grapes, was harvested from the ground. A former drunk, sprawled on a city subway station platform, he was plucked from his place of being, an anti-growth, shall we say? In his native Savoie, had he ever felt the sun? The good rain? A wash of water draining off in time to make the tasting roots crave more, dig deep into the soil, push out the great membrane of skin to protect the pim, the seed for future generations? What is it about fruit that tastes so good, but genetics?
BRUNO...butt genetics?
(We all laugh).
RUDOLPH: Justin, a teen idol, is like the magic of yeast. He speaks to us because he can sense what is in the air, a righteous bacteria, he knows what we all think and feel and can express it, fermenting our natural juices into a concoction with heady consequences. Then there is Gabriel, like the oak in which the juice sits for sometimes months, sometimes years. His heritage is rough hewn like French oak, imparting hints of hazelnut. Tannins–stick and bramble–are exonerated after years pent-up and add depth to the juice. Rudolph? Me? I am the merchant tonight. I am the negociant, picking crop from various fields to make the blend as I deem fit. Did we miss anyone?
GABRIEL: I am so sexy.
BRUNO: They say in zen that art is not complete without the viewer. It is only half, the archer pulling back on the bow, but the arrow can't take flight without letting loose, so lets get on with the juice.
(We all smell and then drink. I call out).
GABRIEL: Justin, pour the four glasses!
(Justin finishes pouring the four glasses with perfection. We all sit and smell and contemplate).
(SCENE 1 OVER AND OUT).
This is my pitch for a new play based on the '96 Vega Sicilia "Unico" a great wine from the Ribera del Duero region of Spain. From what I understand, children across Spain sing odes to the Unico after their national pledge of allegiance. Old farmers sell their last cattle before retiring with a bottle into the long, dusty road to death. Its great.
So what happens to these four men? Who are they? What are the conditions?
_____________
Bruno, a french-emigree, mid-thirties, taste buds completely stripped in a Burgundy tasting accident, his olfactory senses revoked by border police when crossing into American from Canada and declaring that his inspector smelled of truffles.
Rudolph, the son of illustrious comic book illustrators. He is the only one from wealth, the only one who had in the past tasted any vintage Unico, the flavor profile forever imprinted on his brain.
Justin, a former teen-idol turned celebrated artist on his own right, in his own mind. This young middle class man from Wyoming does resemble Justin Timberlake, found this a means to an end early in youth and has cultivated the likeness to get what he wants. His three friends do believe he is in fact Justin Timberlake. Maybe he truly is this person, and he's playing games with me, his alternate world author.
The fourth is, of course, me. I am G-d to this slice of half-baked fiction, to this pile of dried beans in need of a soak and boil in the waters of meaning. But its my hill of beans, though it doesn't account for much.
_________
Scene 1. The four of us are in an empty basement looking room. We sit around a card table on folded chairs. One light hangs overhead. Italian opera plays, skips, plays, skips. On the table is the Unico and four glasses. A wine key balances perfectly on justin's nose.
BRUNO: So we begin our 12 hour adventure. Hands out, fellahs.
(We all reach into our pockets and produce wads of cash equalling $100. Rudolph places a revolver on the table).
BRUNO: That's right. $100 each for this $400 bottle of wine. And Rudolph, only a single bullet, yes?
RUDOLPH: Yes. A single bullet.
BRUNO: Let me see.
(Bruno takes the gun, spins the bullet holder thing, stops it and takes out the bullet it. He examines it and puts it back in with another spin of the thingy).
BRUNO: Right, so we all know the rules. A bottle of wine pours four glasses. There are four of us. We have twelve hours to enjoy. Nobody wants to finish first, but neither do they want to finish last. The last to finish is shot dead. Who can pull themselves away, even after twelve hours, from the transcendent experience of a glass of Unico? That being said; you guys know I have no sense of taste or smell, right? Chances are that we pour this baby, and I gulp it down real quick.
(The group nods that they do, in fact, know).
BRUNO: Just want to be fair, that's all.
ME: So lets proceed. Justin, first give us a song, then please open the wine.
(Justin does his thing, a rap about the Unico and life with a little dance, too).
JUSTIN: Unico. Unico. Unico. Yeah, baby. Hustle on this piece. Unico.
(Justin flexes, then opens the bottle with perfect poise. He pours the taste to me, I sniff it severely, nod that he continues. He pours a small and equal amount into each glass. We rise, clink glasses and then sit and smell. Rudolph addresses the audience).
RUDOLPH: How did the four of us come together? Not unlike the primary components of this or any wine. We were all picked...
(The four of us laugh).
...Bruno, like the grapes, was harvested from the ground. A former drunk, sprawled on a city subway station platform, he was plucked from his place of being, an anti-growth, shall we say? In his native Savoie, had he ever felt the sun? The good rain? A wash of water draining off in time to make the tasting roots crave more, dig deep into the soil, push out the great membrane of skin to protect the pim, the seed for future generations? What is it about fruit that tastes so good, but genetics?
BRUNO...butt genetics?
(We all laugh).
RUDOLPH: Justin, a teen idol, is like the magic of yeast. He speaks to us because he can sense what is in the air, a righteous bacteria, he knows what we all think and feel and can express it, fermenting our natural juices into a concoction with heady consequences. Then there is Gabriel, like the oak in which the juice sits for sometimes months, sometimes years. His heritage is rough hewn like French oak, imparting hints of hazelnut. Tannins–stick and bramble–are exonerated after years pent-up and add depth to the juice. Rudolph? Me? I am the merchant tonight. I am the negociant, picking crop from various fields to make the blend as I deem fit. Did we miss anyone?
GABRIEL: I am so sexy.
BRUNO: They say in zen that art is not complete without the viewer. It is only half, the archer pulling back on the bow, but the arrow can't take flight without letting loose, so lets get on with the juice.
(We all smell and then drink. I call out).
GABRIEL: Justin, pour the four glasses!
(Justin finishes pouring the four glasses with perfection. We all sit and smell and contemplate).
(SCENE 1 OVER AND OUT).
Monday, February 02, 2009
the bastard son of Lincoln, the everyman.
In 1886, Rod Lincoln, the self-proclamined bastard son of Abraham Lincoln, went for a proverbial walk down memory lane.
He sat comfortably in his whicker chair on his whicker porch, with the whicker window to his whicker house left open, the smell of apple pie drifting from its cooling spot on the whicker sill. Rod, 36 at this time, rested with his complete collection of the local newspaper's New Years editions starting from his birthyear to his present.
The first ten years of his life's worth of newspapers were provided to him and all the others at the orphanage each January from their arrival till their emancipation with a foster parent, or in the case of Rod, till they were forced out, in tears, at the still emotionally tender age of 16.
Oh Rod! The dissafected youth, always picked on, always waiting for a moment of truth. Since heralded into the orphanage at two weeks of age, Rod was always the runt. The brunt of all the orphan's dejection and anger at fate was then laid onto this outsider of outsiders, so that from from 1850 and California's entry as the 31st state and all the way to 1866 when Andrew Jackson formally declared the Civil War over, our Rod had a hard time with it.
Through the years, new orphans would come and go, and they always seemed to find Rod as a focal point for their frustration, a whipping post of sorts for their vocal lashes. No matter how old, how he thought of his senority, the case remained the same until the month before his 16th year.
In that month, Rod declared he'd take no more. He'd give no less than what he had taken. He gave every remained orphan, most new arrivals as foster care in this particular mountain and coal mining filled town was prosperous, with flowers. Then he was out with a sack of newspapers and a dream.
Rod dreamt of whicker. He loved weaving parts in and out, forming solid planes to then form chairs, mantels, animal shapes. Whicker was his thing. So at 16, Rod traveled the land seeking out masters of the whicker trade. He landed first in small town North Dakota, apprenticed to carnival whare whicker merchant named Sid. Rod ran the merchandize at the tables. He traveld with Sid and the company throughout the state for that season of country fairs. He learned to ferment whicker into a kind of whicker-beer. He invented a kind of slap bracelet of whicker that stands as a straight six inch piece, but upon slapping it against one's wrist, it curls around fitting snug and attractive.
He met his future wife, Belinda, while testing out his invention on the troupe of horseriders from Mongolia. Belinda had emigrated with her family some years before, having passed through mainland China, the southern province, to Hong Kong and stopped in Hawaii for childhood years. Her father, a juggler of pins great and small, was hired into one carnival after another with his most famous trick, the pincushion jugglethon lasting twelve hours.
They traveled, this restless Mongolian clan, eventually building such a reputation as to choose their own bookings, no longer at the mercy of ruthless promoters and small town gigs. They enjoyed the plains, the horses, the people of the Dakotas and took in with the particular carnival our Rod belonged to.
And then one day there was the slap bracelet, love, a common bond of whicker and Mongolian barbeque. Rod was always embarrassed at both his physical statue and his orphaned background, and decided to tell Belinda on their second date that he was in fact the lost son to former President Lincoln. She didn't believe him for a second, and said so. She added, "But sounds like a good story. Maybe I'm the descendent of Ghengis Khan, Chances are, what with all his concubines, that most of us are..." And it got into Rod's head one day, remembering this, as he flipped through papers, as his mind wove ideas not unlike weaving bands of whicker, he thought:
"Maybe we are all the descendents of Abraham Lincoln spirtitually, then. If Ghengis Khan had so many brides, that would surely influence things. But what if America, the land, is the bride, with time the mid-wife, and Lincoln, the great man fathered the nation from our great defining trauma. Afterall, the revolution was just a revolution. The means of ruling, the style and substance remained the same, but with a revolution in who did the ruling. But this great war of states? This was our defining moment and Lincoln our leader, a great father...."
That's what Rod thought about-Rod the bastard son of Abraham Lincoln-sitting with his newspapers and whicker and minding the apple pie and thinking about all the good Mongolian style bbq he and his wife and children and grandchildren would soon be enjoying.
Something like this.
He sat comfortably in his whicker chair on his whicker porch, with the whicker window to his whicker house left open, the smell of apple pie drifting from its cooling spot on the whicker sill. Rod, 36 at this time, rested with his complete collection of the local newspaper's New Years editions starting from his birthyear to his present.
The first ten years of his life's worth of newspapers were provided to him and all the others at the orphanage each January from their arrival till their emancipation with a foster parent, or in the case of Rod, till they were forced out, in tears, at the still emotionally tender age of 16.
Oh Rod! The dissafected youth, always picked on, always waiting for a moment of truth. Since heralded into the orphanage at two weeks of age, Rod was always the runt. The brunt of all the orphan's dejection and anger at fate was then laid onto this outsider of outsiders, so that from from 1850 and California's entry as the 31st state and all the way to 1866 when Andrew Jackson formally declared the Civil War over, our Rod had a hard time with it.
Through the years, new orphans would come and go, and they always seemed to find Rod as a focal point for their frustration, a whipping post of sorts for their vocal lashes. No matter how old, how he thought of his senority, the case remained the same until the month before his 16th year.
In that month, Rod declared he'd take no more. He'd give no less than what he had taken. He gave every remained orphan, most new arrivals as foster care in this particular mountain and coal mining filled town was prosperous, with flowers. Then he was out with a sack of newspapers and a dream.
Rod dreamt of whicker. He loved weaving parts in and out, forming solid planes to then form chairs, mantels, animal shapes. Whicker was his thing. So at 16, Rod traveled the land seeking out masters of the whicker trade. He landed first in small town North Dakota, apprenticed to carnival whare whicker merchant named Sid. Rod ran the merchandize at the tables. He traveld with Sid and the company throughout the state for that season of country fairs. He learned to ferment whicker into a kind of whicker-beer. He invented a kind of slap bracelet of whicker that stands as a straight six inch piece, but upon slapping it against one's wrist, it curls around fitting snug and attractive.
He met his future wife, Belinda, while testing out his invention on the troupe of horseriders from Mongolia. Belinda had emigrated with her family some years before, having passed through mainland China, the southern province, to Hong Kong and stopped in Hawaii for childhood years. Her father, a juggler of pins great and small, was hired into one carnival after another with his most famous trick, the pincushion jugglethon lasting twelve hours.
They traveled, this restless Mongolian clan, eventually building such a reputation as to choose their own bookings, no longer at the mercy of ruthless promoters and small town gigs. They enjoyed the plains, the horses, the people of the Dakotas and took in with the particular carnival our Rod belonged to.
And then one day there was the slap bracelet, love, a common bond of whicker and Mongolian barbeque. Rod was always embarrassed at both his physical statue and his orphaned background, and decided to tell Belinda on their second date that he was in fact the lost son to former President Lincoln. She didn't believe him for a second, and said so. She added, "But sounds like a good story. Maybe I'm the descendent of Ghengis Khan, Chances are, what with all his concubines, that most of us are..." And it got into Rod's head one day, remembering this, as he flipped through papers, as his mind wove ideas not unlike weaving bands of whicker, he thought:
"Maybe we are all the descendents of Abraham Lincoln spirtitually, then. If Ghengis Khan had so many brides, that would surely influence things. But what if America, the land, is the bride, with time the mid-wife, and Lincoln, the great man fathered the nation from our great defining trauma. Afterall, the revolution was just a revolution. The means of ruling, the style and substance remained the same, but with a revolution in who did the ruling. But this great war of states? This was our defining moment and Lincoln our leader, a great father...."
That's what Rod thought about-Rod the bastard son of Abraham Lincoln-sitting with his newspapers and whicker and minding the apple pie and thinking about all the good Mongolian style bbq he and his wife and children and grandchildren would soon be enjoying.
Something like this.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Ah. John. John, John, John. Oh John Updike. Whewww.
Dear Anthony,
I know I haven't written in a while. I've taken an unpurposeful hiatus. But then John Updike died last night. And I feel so lonely.
I feel so lonely because John was the only one who understood me. And I know that the phrase connotes an act of listening on John's part to me. And I know that he didn't know that I myself exist amongst the many out there. But for him to be a writer seeing the world and recording the world the way he did–well, I just feel in reading his work that he understands me, that's all.
Do I understand him? I don't know. I haven't read enough of his work, and even if I did, who is to say truth and intent lie together at night post-coital from a day's attempt at unity?
I don't think that last sentence makes sense, but you know what I'm getting at, right?
John. John, John, John. Oh John. I'll have to take a present, a bookstore gift certificate from my parents from the holidays and buy your Olinger collection. I'll never forget reading "The Alligators" and just reaching the epiphany with the narrator and thinking, "man, so true."
I just read, 'A&P" at http://www.tiger-town.com/whatnot/updike. Wheww! Both stories are in the mind of a nice boy, the narrator, and the world moves around him and he wants to participate as a hero. And something catches up to him. And its beautiful.
Ah. John. John, John, John. Oh John Updike. Whewww. I wish I knew you better.
I know I haven't written in a while. I've taken an unpurposeful hiatus. But then John Updike died last night. And I feel so lonely.
I feel so lonely because John was the only one who understood me. And I know that the phrase connotes an act of listening on John's part to me. And I know that he didn't know that I myself exist amongst the many out there. But for him to be a writer seeing the world and recording the world the way he did–well, I just feel in reading his work that he understands me, that's all.
Do I understand him? I don't know. I haven't read enough of his work, and even if I did, who is to say truth and intent lie together at night post-coital from a day's attempt at unity?
I don't think that last sentence makes sense, but you know what I'm getting at, right?
John. John, John, John. Oh John. I'll have to take a present, a bookstore gift certificate from my parents from the holidays and buy your Olinger collection. I'll never forget reading "The Alligators" and just reaching the epiphany with the narrator and thinking, "man, so true."
I just read, 'A&P" at http://www.tiger-town.com/whatnot/updike. Wheww! Both stories are in the mind of a nice boy, the narrator, and the world moves around him and he wants to participate as a hero. And something catches up to him. And its beautiful.
Ah. John. John, John, John. Oh John Updike. Whewww. I wish I knew you better.
Monday, December 01, 2008
To Admit
To Admit.
I like style
I even like just saying it
playing dress up with language
accents, in stages
present "tations"
de-fixed prefrix
could be like "nations"
or in one's satiations.
Who knows what comes next?
Though, I told you, Warren
don't ask me about my art.
I like style
I even like just saying it
playing dress up with language
accents, in stages
present "tations"
de-fixed prefrix
could be like "nations"
or in one's satiations.
Who knows what comes next?
Though, I told you, Warren
don't ask me about my art.
the youngest crossing guard
the youngest crossing guard.
Did she do it for points?
Did she do it for honor?
The youngest crossing guard
ushering children only
a grade or two younger.
The vest donned on her
yellow, reflective, mesh
a coward's stance?
Or a wounded sailor finally free
of the tempest known as elementary
school.
Able now to look back how
the interaction of children left her in difficult
positions. A person who's nature is to care
can't always be part of their
time and place.
To look outside is to be outside.
So time and guidance is sometimes needed.
A helping hand she can be to those beneath.
Only by a grade but making their way to her present day
and condition.
Did she do it for points?
Did she do it for honor?
The youngest crossing guard
ushering children only
a grade or two younger.
Did she do it for points?
Did she do it for honor?
The youngest crossing guard
ushering children only
a grade or two younger.
The vest donned on her
yellow, reflective, mesh
a coward's stance?
Or a wounded sailor finally free
of the tempest known as elementary
school.
Able now to look back how
the interaction of children left her in difficult
positions. A person who's nature is to care
can't always be part of their
time and place.
To look outside is to be outside.
So time and guidance is sometimes needed.
A helping hand she can be to those beneath.
Only by a grade but making their way to her present day
and condition.
Did she do it for points?
Did she do it for honor?
The youngest crossing guard
ushering children only
a grade or two younger.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
lots and lots
Wow. So much happening, so much happened. I remember being home briefly in Richmond, vacuuming the linoleum floor. The vacuum hose attaches to a unit in the wall, in various spots in the house sucking dust and dirt to a central location.
So I was in the basement vacuuming a corner. I see a spider though it doesn't move. I wonder in the briefest of flashes if its dead and point the hose. It moves and with nearly no hesitation I suck in the creature. I then panic. I cry out the word, "empathy!" and rush to turn off the hose. What can I do?
I think about the poor, pathetic spider, doomed to spend its last miserable moments confined to a suffocating bag of dust and dirt. I hope it died on impact, or in the quick process of being sucked into the hose. Its just such a terrible way to go.
I think I was feeling especially empathic that day because I had a cold. I haven't had a real stuffed nose in a while. but I remember how especially when walking down the city streets, and clogged up and congested, I'd just feel tremendous empathy with ever downer out there. And it brought me down. And I'd have to remind myself that things aren't so bad, I'm just sick and having trouble maintaining my normally positive outlook.
So I had to tell myself this with the spider. But not before thinking about the thing I sometimes think about–the worst thing to think about–(disclaminer–don't read this if you're already having a downer Monday)–
–stories about the stories about thieves stealing neighborhood dogs, some kids pet; stealing a beloved pet from a neighborhood backyard, and then selling it to some lab for science–so that the scientists can do their tests on the animal.
Geez, that is even hard to write. I wish I hadn't, its too terrible. But I did. It was an experience, and its been written and now I pass it on, for better or worse.
But hey, that's what blogs are for–exploring. I'm feeling healthier and especially grateful after a really nice Thanksgiving day. My brothers and dad and I went to the park, walked the dogs, got out into the woods. We played some basketball (and I made the wining shot, hee hee). And we all got together and watched home movies–skits and stuff my brothers and I put on.
They were fun to watch. It was interesting seeing myself in elementary school, running around, or getting thrown around by my older brothers. I had a great time, but every so often a clip comes in when I was upset about something. I've always been real sensitive and fairly moody. It was interesting to remember how moody I could be in my past–a real moodball, I was. And I think about the happy Gabriel, the quiet and moody Gabriel, and I think about my current job bartending at a wine bar.
It feels good and connective. Bartending, I approach people with a confidence that when lacking fed into the moodiness. I think the moodiness had to do with not getting what I wanted, mostly because I never would say what I wanted. I just wanted it to somehow be known, and how could it be? So I'd be moody. Something like this.
So anyway, working with wine, talking with customers, it feels sometimes like I'm reclaiming that joyous, elementary school era Gabriel, loving the discovery, the sharing of knowledge–the taste is okay, but the communication, the ability to provide perspective and to be appreciated for this (and to appreciate back), that is great.
Its been an interesting last few days of the month. Lots to think about and to write about. Lots and lots.
So I was in the basement vacuuming a corner. I see a spider though it doesn't move. I wonder in the briefest of flashes if its dead and point the hose. It moves and with nearly no hesitation I suck in the creature. I then panic. I cry out the word, "empathy!" and rush to turn off the hose. What can I do?
I think about the poor, pathetic spider, doomed to spend its last miserable moments confined to a suffocating bag of dust and dirt. I hope it died on impact, or in the quick process of being sucked into the hose. Its just such a terrible way to go.
I think I was feeling especially empathic that day because I had a cold. I haven't had a real stuffed nose in a while. but I remember how especially when walking down the city streets, and clogged up and congested, I'd just feel tremendous empathy with ever downer out there. And it brought me down. And I'd have to remind myself that things aren't so bad, I'm just sick and having trouble maintaining my normally positive outlook.
So I had to tell myself this with the spider. But not before thinking about the thing I sometimes think about–the worst thing to think about–(disclaminer–don't read this if you're already having a downer Monday)–
–stories about the stories about thieves stealing neighborhood dogs, some kids pet; stealing a beloved pet from a neighborhood backyard, and then selling it to some lab for science–so that the scientists can do their tests on the animal.
Geez, that is even hard to write. I wish I hadn't, its too terrible. But I did. It was an experience, and its been written and now I pass it on, for better or worse.
But hey, that's what blogs are for–exploring. I'm feeling healthier and especially grateful after a really nice Thanksgiving day. My brothers and dad and I went to the park, walked the dogs, got out into the woods. We played some basketball (and I made the wining shot, hee hee). And we all got together and watched home movies–skits and stuff my brothers and I put on.
They were fun to watch. It was interesting seeing myself in elementary school, running around, or getting thrown around by my older brothers. I had a great time, but every so often a clip comes in when I was upset about something. I've always been real sensitive and fairly moody. It was interesting to remember how moody I could be in my past–a real moodball, I was. And I think about the happy Gabriel, the quiet and moody Gabriel, and I think about my current job bartending at a wine bar.
It feels good and connective. Bartending, I approach people with a confidence that when lacking fed into the moodiness. I think the moodiness had to do with not getting what I wanted, mostly because I never would say what I wanted. I just wanted it to somehow be known, and how could it be? So I'd be moody. Something like this.
So anyway, working with wine, talking with customers, it feels sometimes like I'm reclaiming that joyous, elementary school era Gabriel, loving the discovery, the sharing of knowledge–the taste is okay, but the communication, the ability to provide perspective and to be appreciated for this (and to appreciate back), that is great.
Its been an interesting last few days of the month. Lots to think about and to write about. Lots and lots.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
the unfair advantage
The Unfair Advantage.
I.
You were born a chicken,
I was raised to hunger after your featherless, butchered flesh.
You were prepared, shipped and translated, marinated in bbq sauce.
I am at the airport, hungry.
II.
You were in the a la carte section,
an island in the new JetBlue foodcourt
surrounded by the same overpriced burgers, cheesesteaks, chinese food and pizza
(though now each store is made over with offerings of wine by the glass).
I will not spend between $10-15 for airport monopoly food.
I believe in the marketplace
and so was happy to see you in this island section,
where, though fearful of the lack of sneeze guard,
I could and did simply pick you
along with a dallop of mashed potatoes
and a single steamed broccoli and carrot slice
for color their bright green and orange hues.
At $7.99 a pound, you cost me only $4 something.
Yet the Pepsi added 2 and a nickel.
The total bill, relatively good for relatively good meal.
IV.
I paid and sat. I went back for cutlery. There are no knives at the airport,
not even plastic. Only spoons and forks.
And as I hold your uncut, marinated breast high into the air and nibble off piece to piece, I think about you, your roost, your mother hen.
I thought I had the unfair advantage. And I do. I was raised to hunger after your flesh. You were born a chicken.
Yet we were both penned.
Chicken wire can be so thin, nearly invisible to naked eye–but cutting just as deep.
Really.
I.
You were born a chicken,
I was raised to hunger after your featherless, butchered flesh.
You were prepared, shipped and translated, marinated in bbq sauce.
I am at the airport, hungry.
II.
You were in the a la carte section,
an island in the new JetBlue foodcourt
surrounded by the same overpriced burgers, cheesesteaks, chinese food and pizza
(though now each store is made over with offerings of wine by the glass).
I will not spend between $10-15 for airport monopoly food.
I believe in the marketplace
and so was happy to see you in this island section,
where, though fearful of the lack of sneeze guard,
I could and did simply pick you
along with a dallop of mashed potatoes
and a single steamed broccoli and carrot slice
for color their bright green and orange hues.
At $7.99 a pound, you cost me only $4 something.
Yet the Pepsi added 2 and a nickel.
The total bill, relatively good for relatively good meal.
IV.
I paid and sat. I went back for cutlery. There are no knives at the airport,
not even plastic. Only spoons and forks.
And as I hold your uncut, marinated breast high into the air and nibble off piece to piece, I think about you, your roost, your mother hen.
I thought I had the unfair advantage. And I do. I was raised to hunger after your flesh. You were born a chicken.
Yet we were both penned.
Chicken wire can be so thin, nearly invisible to naked eye–but cutting just as deep.
Really.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
the rules of the game.
Of course, no matter how much I love the Em Dash School, I'll always love their rivals, the Badminton 5, branching out from the Dada Movement, founded by an heir to the Thomas Minton & Sons pottery manufacturing industry.
They were opposed to everything! Sometimes they were even opposed to opposition. The one thing that bound them together was their uniformity; three men, one woman, one dog, all wearing badminton outfits and using the word "shuttlecock" as a substitute for almost any other word (mostly they would say the word and point to what they really meant, like a sandwich–or say "that is shuttlecock" and indicate approval or disapproval with socially accepted head-gestures ((although legend has it that the last remaining member of the group, the german shepherd Aramis, would go on to work sound design in Hollywood, and in his old age–incredibly old in dog years–he would go on to assist in the original Exorcist, weaving the Badminton 5's special word nearly undetected into the one scene in the movie known for its socially unaccepted head-gesture)).
This is all to say that I've adapted an old theory from their early works. See, they'd hang out in opposite to everything. They'd bring bags on salt with diced radishes to sit on the curb outside of Minton's in Harlem and hum showtunes. They loved pop when bebop was the thing. When jazz went cool, they went esoteric, whether pleasing or not. They had to stand for something, even if that were nothing, the act of standing was still an act, or something...
My point is that you can judge the great American song. Take the chorus to any contender. Just the chorus. Flip on basic cable at lunchtime. If you can adapt the chorus to any show changing only adverbs or prepositions or articles within the chorus (verbs and nouns stay the same), then its great.
"I had the time of my life and I owe it all to you."
Alright, a Tyra special about kidney transplants, easy. The recepient would sing:
"I had more time in my life and I owe it all to you."
Jerry Springer? Easy.
"I had the time with your wife and I owe it all to you being in prison for two years for attempted murder."
Oh wait. That last doesn't work. That's either my fault, or a judgement against the rules of the game.
They were opposed to everything! Sometimes they were even opposed to opposition. The one thing that bound them together was their uniformity; three men, one woman, one dog, all wearing badminton outfits and using the word "shuttlecock" as a substitute for almost any other word (mostly they would say the word and point to what they really meant, like a sandwich–or say "that is shuttlecock" and indicate approval or disapproval with socially accepted head-gestures ((although legend has it that the last remaining member of the group, the german shepherd Aramis, would go on to work sound design in Hollywood, and in his old age–incredibly old in dog years–he would go on to assist in the original Exorcist, weaving the Badminton 5's special word nearly undetected into the one scene in the movie known for its socially unaccepted head-gesture)).
This is all to say that I've adapted an old theory from their early works. See, they'd hang out in opposite to everything. They'd bring bags on salt with diced radishes to sit on the curb outside of Minton's in Harlem and hum showtunes. They loved pop when bebop was the thing. When jazz went cool, they went esoteric, whether pleasing or not. They had to stand for something, even if that were nothing, the act of standing was still an act, or something...
My point is that you can judge the great American song. Take the chorus to any contender. Just the chorus. Flip on basic cable at lunchtime. If you can adapt the chorus to any show changing only adverbs or prepositions or articles within the chorus (verbs and nouns stay the same), then its great.
"I had the time of my life and I owe it all to you."
Alright, a Tyra special about kidney transplants, easy. The recepient would sing:
"I had more time in my life and I owe it all to you."
Jerry Springer? Easy.
"I had the time with your wife and I owe it all to you being in prison for two years for attempted murder."
Oh wait. That last doesn't work. That's either my fault, or a judgement against the rules of the game.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
no perfection, especially when in love
I've been catching up on the love letters between my favorite two poets straddling the late 19th/ early 20th century school, known as the – School.
Man, nothing is more romantic, nor charmingly goofy as the correspondences between François Pepperdine and Bea F. "Beef" McKenzie.
I like the old age letters, around 1948, when Beef writes to Francis, likening his poetry to a film device found in movies about diamond heists, where the flawed gem correlates with the flawed motives of the anti-heroes hoarding stolen goods. I'm not sure just what she means, maybe the translation from French is off, but its sounds rad.
And Francois is so smooth, he actually reads this letter (and we're talking about a 60 year old man) and spends the next month training for a diamond heist just to prove himself a grounder in reality for others remains in the realm of metaphor and analogy. He assembles a team for the heist and nearly goes through with it, if not for his fatal flaw...
See, the – School had the audacity in attempting to measure out metaphor in terms of epistemology and experience. They hoped to quantify from two ends–the individual experiencing the meta (and to break down into groups 5 sub-types based on race, class, dental hygiene and diet) and the potential/kinetic energy within a metaphor (based on connotations, flexibility of language within the context past use). There was a lot of wine drinking during experimentation, and the – School will always be remembered for that.
And Francis was part of that school. He took Beef's phrase and measured himself, measured the meta in the language and geared up to act as a vessel in bringing this meta to reality. But, as we mentioned, he simply couldn't have his corporal form act in that capacity.
As much an idealist as he was, his fatal flaw was to have a fatal flaw–that there is no perfection, especially when in love with a woman nicknamed "Beef."
Man, nothing is more romantic, nor charmingly goofy as the correspondences between François Pepperdine and Bea F. "Beef" McKenzie.
I like the old age letters, around 1948, when Beef writes to Francis, likening his poetry to a film device found in movies about diamond heists, where the flawed gem correlates with the flawed motives of the anti-heroes hoarding stolen goods. I'm not sure just what she means, maybe the translation from French is off, but its sounds rad.
And Francois is so smooth, he actually reads this letter (and we're talking about a 60 year old man) and spends the next month training for a diamond heist just to prove himself a grounder in reality for others remains in the realm of metaphor and analogy. He assembles a team for the heist and nearly goes through with it, if not for his fatal flaw...
See, the – School had the audacity in attempting to measure out metaphor in terms of epistemology and experience. They hoped to quantify from two ends–the individual experiencing the meta (and to break down into groups 5 sub-types based on race, class, dental hygiene and diet) and the potential/kinetic energy within a metaphor (based on connotations, flexibility of language within the context past use). There was a lot of wine drinking during experimentation, and the – School will always be remembered for that.
And Francis was part of that school. He took Beef's phrase and measured himself, measured the meta in the language and geared up to act as a vessel in bringing this meta to reality. But, as we mentioned, he simply couldn't have his corporal form act in that capacity.
As much an idealist as he was, his fatal flaw was to have a fatal flaw–that there is no perfection, especially when in love with a woman nicknamed "Beef."
Monday, November 17, 2008
big bottoms and mieces to pieces
Dear Anthony P.,
You should know that you left for Nepal and India just as the cold spell hit. It is really cold out here in New York, today being the coldest day so far. I see a lot of bottoms out there. Big bottoms. Its as if something instinctual has taken over in the teeming streets of both Brooklyn and the island of Manhattan. I see a lot of women in tighter jeans and pants than I noticed a week ago.
Its either a perception on the individual level: maybe its always like this, but I'm just noticing now in my need to stay warm, and what is warmer than a large bottom? Or perhaps society as a whole reacts to the cold. Maybe the cold spell just effects people, and women for no other logical reason find themselves in tighter pants, and men-folk (or women-folk for that matter) are attracted like a moth to a flame–or like a cold person to an area of soft warmness.
Or maybe people are just cold and wearing layers to provide warmth. Anyway, Anthony P., its cold.
Its cold, but the apartment is toasty. So toasty that the other day, brushing my teeth, I noticed a friend from my past scurrying about the tiles. A mouse? The mouse? Do mice have nine lives to feed the nine cats?
He scurried, this mouse, then paused and spoke. He said, "I have a riddle for you, Gabriel. Put down your toothbrush."
I did. He continued, "Its not so much a riddle, but an unsolved mystery. Have you ever wondered about the sanctity of your pillow?" And with that he was out. Just ran right off with a "hee hee hee."
Needless to say, I slept on the couch that night, not before clenching my fist and mumbling under my breath something about hating mieces to pieces.
The next morning, again brushing my teeth, I heard a scraping on the floor. Turns out my little friend was stuck in the gluetrap, trying to get away. Now, I'm not a fan of gluetraps, usually, but this little stinker had it coming. I went to the kitchen, pulled out restaurant chopsticks and picked up the trap. The little squirmer was quiet, stoic. I said,
"So what was this about my pillow?" He refused to talk, so I got a little mean. I put him in front of the television, put in a VHS of his favorite movie (surprisingly, Cat on A Hot Tin Roof, with Paul Newman), but then messed with the tracking on the tape so it was all blurry. "Hee hee hee" I said in derision.
I left him there for the whole movie, providing him with a relatively delicious popcorn (lo-fat just to drive him nuts), and I reclined his tiny chair just a little too far so he had to cram his neck to watch the blurry version of his favorite movie.
Ha ha ha! and Hee hee hee!
And then the next morning, having forgotten about my nemesis the night before, I was surprised to again see him while brushing my teeth. I looked and the mirror–he was perched on my shoulder, a razor in his hand. He was shaving his whiskers, and asked if he could borrow my aftershave. I said, yes.
The lesson here? Find out what the hell is in my toothpaste, I suppose.
Over and out.
G.
You should know that you left for Nepal and India just as the cold spell hit. It is really cold out here in New York, today being the coldest day so far. I see a lot of bottoms out there. Big bottoms. Its as if something instinctual has taken over in the teeming streets of both Brooklyn and the island of Manhattan. I see a lot of women in tighter jeans and pants than I noticed a week ago.
Its either a perception on the individual level: maybe its always like this, but I'm just noticing now in my need to stay warm, and what is warmer than a large bottom? Or perhaps society as a whole reacts to the cold. Maybe the cold spell just effects people, and women for no other logical reason find themselves in tighter pants, and men-folk (or women-folk for that matter) are attracted like a moth to a flame–or like a cold person to an area of soft warmness.
Or maybe people are just cold and wearing layers to provide warmth. Anyway, Anthony P., its cold.
Its cold, but the apartment is toasty. So toasty that the other day, brushing my teeth, I noticed a friend from my past scurrying about the tiles. A mouse? The mouse? Do mice have nine lives to feed the nine cats?
He scurried, this mouse, then paused and spoke. He said, "I have a riddle for you, Gabriel. Put down your toothbrush."
I did. He continued, "Its not so much a riddle, but an unsolved mystery. Have you ever wondered about the sanctity of your pillow?" And with that he was out. Just ran right off with a "hee hee hee."
Needless to say, I slept on the couch that night, not before clenching my fist and mumbling under my breath something about hating mieces to pieces.
The next morning, again brushing my teeth, I heard a scraping on the floor. Turns out my little friend was stuck in the gluetrap, trying to get away. Now, I'm not a fan of gluetraps, usually, but this little stinker had it coming. I went to the kitchen, pulled out restaurant chopsticks and picked up the trap. The little squirmer was quiet, stoic. I said,
"So what was this about my pillow?" He refused to talk, so I got a little mean. I put him in front of the television, put in a VHS of his favorite movie (surprisingly, Cat on A Hot Tin Roof, with Paul Newman), but then messed with the tracking on the tape so it was all blurry. "Hee hee hee" I said in derision.
I left him there for the whole movie, providing him with a relatively delicious popcorn (lo-fat just to drive him nuts), and I reclined his tiny chair just a little too far so he had to cram his neck to watch the blurry version of his favorite movie.
Ha ha ha! and Hee hee hee!
And then the next morning, having forgotten about my nemesis the night before, I was surprised to again see him while brushing my teeth. I looked and the mirror–he was perched on my shoulder, a razor in his hand. He was shaving his whiskers, and asked if he could borrow my aftershave. I said, yes.
The lesson here? Find out what the hell is in my toothpaste, I suppose.
Over and out.
G.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Dear Anthony P, part2.
Dear Anthony P, part2.
I am now writing to your "part 2" side, your side not for immediate action, but the reflective side that is utilized mostly in the act of retrospect.
Remember Zeeshan? We all had good times, in Prague and out of Prague. I mention Zeeshan, because I was finishing up at work Saturday, bringing in some chairs from the patio and I see a guy in the distance get out of a cab. He was wearing a suit, with a few other people, and we're in Tribeca here, and my instincts tell me that it was, lo and behold, Zeeshan.
So I call his cell, he picks up–bingo. I mean, he was pretty far away and I haven't seen this guy since Stacey's going away dinner at Hummus Place back in May or was it June?
Hey Stacey, was it May or June?
Hey Stacey,
Happy Birthday! Wheeww hoo! You know, in a very literal and metaphorical way, you are just under a month older than me. In my last posting to Anthony, I bring up a similar thought, with timing, planning, tending to the weighty issues in life. I feel that you, too, are ahead of me. And I wonder, where will I be in less than a month (but more than 28ish days)?
So, birthday fun? Painting the town red with a touch of lavender? Still having fun in LA and the surrounding area? A very special Happy B-day to you!
Oh, and back to Anthony P. Anthony, while in Nepal, if you get this, and as I reminded you last week when were at Mona's; don't forget to wish Stacey a happy b-day, at least say it out loud and into the wind, so that it might carry the words at least to the nearest mountain, get clogged up a while, eventually wind its way around through some air pressure or cool front or something, catch a zephyr and to the sea, make its way, the wind of the waves, and over to LA. And boom!
Because there are radar's and digital signals flying all over the world and through space all the time. Why not sentiments, uttered words flying on the wings of memories and mittens (if the material is light and stays in the air passage flight). Or something of this nature.
Over and out!
G.
I am now writing to your "part 2" side, your side not for immediate action, but the reflective side that is utilized mostly in the act of retrospect.
Remember Zeeshan? We all had good times, in Prague and out of Prague. I mention Zeeshan, because I was finishing up at work Saturday, bringing in some chairs from the patio and I see a guy in the distance get out of a cab. He was wearing a suit, with a few other people, and we're in Tribeca here, and my instincts tell me that it was, lo and behold, Zeeshan.
So I call his cell, he picks up–bingo. I mean, he was pretty far away and I haven't seen this guy since Stacey's going away dinner at Hummus Place back in May or was it June?
Hey Stacey, was it May or June?
Hey Stacey,
Happy Birthday! Wheeww hoo! You know, in a very literal and metaphorical way, you are just under a month older than me. In my last posting to Anthony, I bring up a similar thought, with timing, planning, tending to the weighty issues in life. I feel that you, too, are ahead of me. And I wonder, where will I be in less than a month (but more than 28ish days)?
So, birthday fun? Painting the town red with a touch of lavender? Still having fun in LA and the surrounding area? A very special Happy B-day to you!
Oh, and back to Anthony P. Anthony, while in Nepal, if you get this, and as I reminded you last week when were at Mona's; don't forget to wish Stacey a happy b-day, at least say it out loud and into the wind, so that it might carry the words at least to the nearest mountain, get clogged up a while, eventually wind its way around through some air pressure or cool front or something, catch a zephyr and to the sea, make its way, the wind of the waves, and over to LA. And boom!
Because there are radar's and digital signals flying all over the world and through space all the time. Why not sentiments, uttered words flying on the wings of memories and mittens (if the material is light and stays in the air passage flight). Or something of this nature.
Over and out!
G.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Dear Anthony P.
Dear Anthony P.,
Today you depart on your 6 month trek by bike through Nepal and India. I am jealous. Not so much of your destination but your tenacity. Not so much your tenacity as your adventurous spirit. Not so much your adventurous spirit, per say–but of your former salary. Not so much your former salary or the way you slaved and saved, but of the fact that that you make plans and see them through.
God bless you, Anthony P.
I was once like you, making plans and seeing them through, but in such restricted manners. For instance, I was assigned homework assignments in the third grade. I brought them home and completed them. It felt good. Life was good. I was a latch-key kid. I started to slowly sense that instead of doing my homework I could instead invade the cookie jar. It was all down hill from there. Too much freedom!
But you, Anthony P., are an older, wiser man than I by at least five months. And how long did this trip take to plan? Did it take a full year of planning, scrimping and saving, arrangements with the other riders and such?
Hmmm, a full year, and you're already five months ahead of me. That means, if my math is correct, I should get back to whatever I was planning out seven months ago, and allow for the next five months as the culmination of those plans.
Fuzzy, this math.
I believe it was grad school. Man, I need to get me to grad school and get learned on writing, teaching, something. Ah, the heart is willing. The flesh? Needs companionship.
When you are in Nepal, keep moving. When you are in India, send me soil samples for my home eco-lab-tester. I want to test for nitrates.
Anthony P., you go get them! And by "them" I mean life and all its offerings while on the road. I'll miss you, my friend. But then again, I've only seen you once in the last three months. That happens though. There are planned and unplanned sabbaticals.
I'm glad we could hang before you hit the 6 month road, and that you gave me the locket with a picture of Bill Withers to encourage my singing. Why Bill Withers, though?
Anthony P. in the words of the character from Zoolander, "Do it."
Today you depart on your 6 month trek by bike through Nepal and India. I am jealous. Not so much of your destination but your tenacity. Not so much your tenacity as your adventurous spirit. Not so much your adventurous spirit, per say–but of your former salary. Not so much your former salary or the way you slaved and saved, but of the fact that that you make plans and see them through.
God bless you, Anthony P.
I was once like you, making plans and seeing them through, but in such restricted manners. For instance, I was assigned homework assignments in the third grade. I brought them home and completed them. It felt good. Life was good. I was a latch-key kid. I started to slowly sense that instead of doing my homework I could instead invade the cookie jar. It was all down hill from there. Too much freedom!
But you, Anthony P., are an older, wiser man than I by at least five months. And how long did this trip take to plan? Did it take a full year of planning, scrimping and saving, arrangements with the other riders and such?
Hmmm, a full year, and you're already five months ahead of me. That means, if my math is correct, I should get back to whatever I was planning out seven months ago, and allow for the next five months as the culmination of those plans.
Fuzzy, this math.
I believe it was grad school. Man, I need to get me to grad school and get learned on writing, teaching, something. Ah, the heart is willing. The flesh? Needs companionship.
When you are in Nepal, keep moving. When you are in India, send me soil samples for my home eco-lab-tester. I want to test for nitrates.
Anthony P., you go get them! And by "them" I mean life and all its offerings while on the road. I'll miss you, my friend. But then again, I've only seen you once in the last three months. That happens though. There are planned and unplanned sabbaticals.
I'm glad we could hang before you hit the 6 month road, and that you gave me the locket with a picture of Bill Withers to encourage my singing. Why Bill Withers, though?
Anthony P. in the words of the character from Zoolander, "Do it."
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
getting ready for turkeyday
Today I visit the farm and see how my little plumpadeer is doing.
We've named him Fred. We picked him out some time ago, based soley on the look of his egg- its the most organic of ways.
Fred has had a steady diet of corn, squash, nibblets and rasberries for that extra flavor. He still has a few last meals though- about a month and a week. A week before "his big day," we add a spoonful of brandy to his diet. Again, this will bring add to an all around flavor.
Crap. I lost my train of thought. Hmmm. Well, today is a pretty day outside. I bet I'll go for a quick bike ride.
Hey, did you guys like my blogs better when I was parading my ventures as a womanizer? I feel like you did- like when I was writing about neighborhood occurances. It felt like I was telling ALL of our stories, in a way. Now I just goof around.
Hmm...okay, okay, okay, here we go. I haven't been drinking too much, so I don't have that great of stories- except for last Saturday night.
I went out with a lesbian to some Park Slope bars. I had my hair back in a pony tail, wore a scarf and let one braided strand hang low. I wore the New Jersey tuxedo- jean jacket and jeans. I felt like the prince of Bagdad, way before the modern era. Let's say, in 1284 a.d. (the Muslim culture at the time was far advanced to most others--- including their understanding of irony and making fun of N.J., somehow it was/ is intuitive).
So we went out, we drank. We look fondly at women. That's it.
Shit. I got nothing, sorry. I am dry. No more alcohol fueled expiditons and memories to fall back on when writing. I must tally forth with entertainment......tally ho!
Roger wrote me a letter the other day asking for his $12 back. I replied, sealed the envelope, dotted the "i" on the exterior flap, and out it went. I wrote back, "sorry sucker."
I received his reply to my reply by email. It was this: : (----
I didn't know if he was sad or hitting on me. So I replied with this: "I don't know if you're sad or hitting on me."
/
/ /
He replied with this: *)-+~~~~~~~~~~---
/ ..
/
And that was that. We are no longer friends, AND I did send him the money back to make sure not to hear from him again.
(how was that? Funny? Anybody out there? Cyber-void!!!!!)
Oh, I have to run to a meeting. Peace!
*********** you'll have to trust that the symbol man I made was totatlly lewd! I just can't get it right this damn blog editor thingy! But man, it was totally, totally lewd!
We've named him Fred. We picked him out some time ago, based soley on the look of his egg- its the most organic of ways.
Fred has had a steady diet of corn, squash, nibblets and rasberries for that extra flavor. He still has a few last meals though- about a month and a week. A week before "his big day," we add a spoonful of brandy to his diet. Again, this will bring add to an all around flavor.
Crap. I lost my train of thought. Hmmm. Well, today is a pretty day outside. I bet I'll go for a quick bike ride.
Hey, did you guys like my blogs better when I was parading my ventures as a womanizer? I feel like you did- like when I was writing about neighborhood occurances. It felt like I was telling ALL of our stories, in a way. Now I just goof around.
Hmm...okay, okay, okay, here we go. I haven't been drinking too much, so I don't have that great of stories- except for last Saturday night.
I went out with a lesbian to some Park Slope bars. I had my hair back in a pony tail, wore a scarf and let one braided strand hang low. I wore the New Jersey tuxedo- jean jacket and jeans. I felt like the prince of Bagdad, way before the modern era. Let's say, in 1284 a.d. (the Muslim culture at the time was far advanced to most others--- including their understanding of irony and making fun of N.J., somehow it was/ is intuitive).
So we went out, we drank. We look fondly at women. That's it.
Shit. I got nothing, sorry. I am dry. No more alcohol fueled expiditons and memories to fall back on when writing. I must tally forth with entertainment......tally ho!
Roger wrote me a letter the other day asking for his $12 back. I replied, sealed the envelope, dotted the "i" on the exterior flap, and out it went. I wrote back, "sorry sucker."
I received his reply to my reply by email. It was this: : (----
I didn't know if he was sad or hitting on me. So I replied with this: "I don't know if you're sad or hitting on me."
/
/ /
He replied with this: *)-+~~~~~~~~~~---
/ ..
/
And that was that. We are no longer friends, AND I did send him the money back to make sure not to hear from him again.
(how was that? Funny? Anybody out there? Cyber-void!!!!!)
Oh, I have to run to a meeting. Peace!
*********** you'll have to trust that the symbol man I made was totatlly lewd! I just can't get it right this damn blog editor thingy! But man, it was totally, totally lewd!
Monday, October 09, 2006
Cesuo Zai Nali?
bop-a-lop bop-a-doo. Bop-a-lop-a-doo. Jazz, jazz, jazz....just warming up the hands and vocals before I proceed with another fantastic blogging. Me me me (sung in triads chromatically ascending).
I, I, I (thoughts of what pleasures may come tonight)
U, U, U (how I'll steal kisses from your mouth)
We, We, We (how we'll be caught in the bushes by your mother's boyfriend's searchlight).
No, No, No (how we'll plead he won't spill the beans).
Ney, Ney, Ney (how we'll plead in Czech, just in case).....
Columbus Day, people. The big CD. I've been waiting for this day to come for 356.25 days, and I'm giddy as Andy Roddick's Labrador on Christmas (I imagine this dog retrieves sport important tennis balls).
Why the love? Because Columbus was not only a great explorer who fought the odds, but a visionary.
See, Columbus didn't want to find a new world. He just wanted to find India and China, right? This is common knowledge. But did you know that Columbus carried a letter? It was from the mystical queen of Europa United. She is an underground, but transcendent queen living in the roots of the Swiss Mountain Life Tree-thing. She is what keeps it together, when she keeps it together.
So, he was delivering a message from her European Highness to the mystical continental queen AsiaAsiaAsia (big continent), and this message? It was the oil to anoint a new continent epoch ruler.
See, every epoch / age / era has a continental ruler. It starts with big organized culture and civilization and all that. So, take my word for it, the first spot was in China and India through a combined powerhousy-dealy. And then this AsiaAsiaAsia queen/entity gets bored and passes the buck West through the mid-East and the Mediterranean and passes the buck onto the emerging Europa. But, see it was like the lend lease act. Because it is lending, she wanted the power to rule back at some point- for her people's sake. She’s a good mom/ figure / type.
So yeah- Columbus, message deliverer. A kind of mystical / political / off course Samuel, if you will. A John the Baptist, who only lost his head, directionally. A Sally Struthers infomercial, aimed at the people, not the concentration of the people's power through the government (that last one doesn't hold, I know...but I won't edit it out. No, No, No ((us agreeing (((through singing))) that it won't be edited out)).
So yeah, so basically, yeah. He was supposed to deliver the letter back to China / India AsiaAsiaAsia and this visionary ASSHOLE, decided to go across the Atlantic instead of the normal trade route East. And you know what happens? He gets out in the Dominican Republic area, and spills the seed all over AmericariremA, Continental Queen of the whole Hemisphere. And so here we are today, prosperous and leading the world as the only super-power, because mystical / delivery boy Columbus took a short cut.
But as we all know, and as I've been trying to get at, but I find that you're not following me and that I have to keep backtracking….that China and India will soon enough rule the world when their gigantic populous emerges from their own "Industrial Revolution" and we'll all be speaking Hindi or Mandarin, depending on who wins their 4 or 5 wars (I'm betting on the Chinese- and learning Mandarin each day - through fortune cookies.
“Cesuo Zai Nali?”
(ps) pretty scary with North Korea, right? Maybe he really wants AsiaAsiaAsia to get that anointy thingy back quickly? Scary. Crazy people shouldn't be in power. They should be left to drift off in their imaginations like me.
I, I, I (thoughts of what pleasures may come tonight)
U, U, U (how I'll steal kisses from your mouth)
We, We, We (how we'll be caught in the bushes by your mother's boyfriend's searchlight).
No, No, No (how we'll plead he won't spill the beans).
Ney, Ney, Ney (how we'll plead in Czech, just in case).....
Columbus Day, people. The big CD. I've been waiting for this day to come for 356.25 days, and I'm giddy as Andy Roddick's Labrador on Christmas (I imagine this dog retrieves sport important tennis balls).
Why the love? Because Columbus was not only a great explorer who fought the odds, but a visionary.
See, Columbus didn't want to find a new world. He just wanted to find India and China, right? This is common knowledge. But did you know that Columbus carried a letter? It was from the mystical queen of Europa United. She is an underground, but transcendent queen living in the roots of the Swiss Mountain Life Tree-thing. She is what keeps it together, when she keeps it together.
So, he was delivering a message from her European Highness to the mystical continental queen AsiaAsiaAsia (big continent), and this message? It was the oil to anoint a new continent epoch ruler.
See, every epoch / age / era has a continental ruler. It starts with big organized culture and civilization and all that. So, take my word for it, the first spot was in China and India through a combined powerhousy-dealy. And then this AsiaAsiaAsia queen/entity gets bored and passes the buck West through the mid-East and the Mediterranean and passes the buck onto the emerging Europa. But, see it was like the lend lease act. Because it is lending, she wanted the power to rule back at some point- for her people's sake. She’s a good mom/ figure / type.
So yeah- Columbus, message deliverer. A kind of mystical / political / off course Samuel, if you will. A John the Baptist, who only lost his head, directionally. A Sally Struthers infomercial, aimed at the people, not the concentration of the people's power through the government (that last one doesn't hold, I know...but I won't edit it out. No, No, No ((us agreeing (((through singing))) that it won't be edited out)).
So yeah, so basically, yeah. He was supposed to deliver the letter back to China / India AsiaAsiaAsia and this visionary ASSHOLE, decided to go across the Atlantic instead of the normal trade route East. And you know what happens? He gets out in the Dominican Republic area, and spills the seed all over AmericariremA, Continental Queen of the whole Hemisphere. And so here we are today, prosperous and leading the world as the only super-power, because mystical / delivery boy Columbus took a short cut.
But as we all know, and as I've been trying to get at, but I find that you're not following me and that I have to keep backtracking….that China and India will soon enough rule the world when their gigantic populous emerges from their own "Industrial Revolution" and we'll all be speaking Hindi or Mandarin, depending on who wins their 4 or 5 wars (I'm betting on the Chinese- and learning Mandarin each day - through fortune cookies.
“Cesuo Zai Nali?”
(ps) pretty scary with North Korea, right? Maybe he really wants AsiaAsiaAsia to get that anointy thingy back quickly? Scary. Crazy people shouldn't be in power. They should be left to drift off in their imaginations like me.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
I'll stick my face in to see
Who's to say what is real and what isn't? Me. Because you're on my terrain right now, and so here we are. Follow the Leader.
See that bush over there? The one with tiny pink blossoms? Upon closer inspection we see decay, slight wilting, frosty dew. We further inspect the specimen, licking the rough dew drops....sweet....a tad tangy....odd.
Let's insert our hand into the bush. You go first. Deeper in, please. Push through the bramble. Anything odd? Hmm....yes...that does sound odd. Perhaps that's a squirrel licking your fingertips. I'll stick my face in to see.
(pushing my face past the exterior leaf fortification, dodging tiny trunks and sticks and bramble, bobbing and weaving as I move to the center of the bush. I see your hand to the right of me. No squirrels here. The liquid you feel comes from a single leaf. The warmth from the center of the bush has completely melted any dew, which drips down and pools upon this leaf. I think it likes you. It has the appearance of the Queen Leaf and her highness is fawning over your pointer finger*. I take my head back out of the bush).
So that's that. You can take your arm out now. Let's go play. I have a rehearsal at 1pm, so there is time still for a quick bike ride. What says you, knave?
Yes, in reference to yesterday's blog, I'll be skipping the Renn Fair today. Eh.
*if anything, it's like the cartoon squirrel in the Disney King Arthur, "Sword in the Stone." Remember when Merlin turns little Arthur into different animals to teach him lessons? And a squirrel? He runs around the tree and this female squirrel sees him and has a crush on him. But little Squirrel Arthur doesn't like her and he tries to shake her off and ends of breaking her little Squirrel heart. That made me sad as a child. It still does. That queen leaf is like the Squirrel is what I'm getting at. Or maybe you were, last night?
** squirrel is one of those funny words if you look at it too long….
See that bush over there? The one with tiny pink blossoms? Upon closer inspection we see decay, slight wilting, frosty dew. We further inspect the specimen, licking the rough dew drops....sweet....a tad tangy....odd.
Let's insert our hand into the bush. You go first. Deeper in, please. Push through the bramble. Anything odd? Hmm....yes...that does sound odd. Perhaps that's a squirrel licking your fingertips. I'll stick my face in to see.
(pushing my face past the exterior leaf fortification, dodging tiny trunks and sticks and bramble, bobbing and weaving as I move to the center of the bush. I see your hand to the right of me. No squirrels here. The liquid you feel comes from a single leaf. The warmth from the center of the bush has completely melted any dew, which drips down and pools upon this leaf. I think it likes you. It has the appearance of the Queen Leaf and her highness is fawning over your pointer finger*. I take my head back out of the bush).
So that's that. You can take your arm out now. Let's go play. I have a rehearsal at 1pm, so there is time still for a quick bike ride. What says you, knave?
Yes, in reference to yesterday's blog, I'll be skipping the Renn Fair today. Eh.
*if anything, it's like the cartoon squirrel in the Disney King Arthur, "Sword in the Stone." Remember when Merlin turns little Arthur into different animals to teach him lessons? And a squirrel? He runs around the tree and this female squirrel sees him and has a crush on him. But little Squirrel Arthur doesn't like her and he tries to shake her off and ends of breaking her little Squirrel heart. That made me sad as a child. It still does. That queen leaf is like the Squirrel is what I'm getting at. Or maybe you were, last night?
** squirrel is one of those funny words if you look at it too long….
Saturday, October 07, 2006
yes, one of the funniest and most dangerous combos ever is the D&D Fantasy player on PCP. Don't worry about ole' Gabriel. He is fine and dandy. Sure
Don't worry about ole' Gabriel. He is fine and dandy. Sure, he had a speedy, demony, drinky bike ride home last night with a stovetop pot for a hat. But it was all practice for the joust.
Yes. The joust. For tomorrow by thy Renaissance Fair in Washington Heights! Yippieth Skippieth!
Come all ye knaves and friars and.....ballhohooians! Let's make a pilgrimage through the "A" train to a land transformed. We'll eat fantastic meats; meet fantastic actors with magnificent accents and tights and weapons and hair weaves.
We'll pick flowers and run from those tending the flowers. We'll recite sonnets to each other, and although we don't know sonnet form, they'll be lewd as nosotros please!
(I wonder what ole' Spanish sounds like? Just more lisp?)
So, whoeth amongsth thou will join me in this quest? Who is strongeth enough to face an hour train rideth with me in costume-eth and mannersith?
On a side note, I was at dinner party last night and between sips of a wonderful Cote du' Rhone, fiercely holding the peppered steak and Wisconsin twice baked potato in duck gel together, we conversed on a wide range of socio-conceptual topics: foreplay if you will to the brandy crumble coffee ice mink-wraps for later.
I "caressed the outer labia" of the conversation with this statement:
"Remember when we were young, hearing about how Dungeons and Dragons players would use PCP and then think they really had those powers and go out and punch through cop car windows, and swing maces around and dress up and so forth....?"
Funny, right? Because as this musing continued, we realized that, yes, one of the funniest and most dangerous combos ever is the D&D Fantasy player on PCP. He he he....I'm thinking about it right now....hardy hardy ! Funny, except to the loved ones who get in the crosshair of the crossbow…or magic wand....or elfish boots......har...).
I did have another wonderful realization that resonated deeply to my understanding of relationship, shyness and so forth. I can be obnoxious hitting on lesbians!
Man, was I jerk last night! Or, no, I wasn't a jerk, but I was one of them cocky guys to this girl. Why would I finally act with this uber-confidence and not all the time? Because she ain't interested in the first place….so it’s comedy. (Or was it, Gabriel? This is your interior mind writing back, and I say Balderdash. You hit on her like that because you were drinking the darkest of dark rum and just played your best game of ping-pong ever. You asshole, fess up. You are a drinky monster, Mr. Jekyll / Dr. Hyde. After not drinking for 2 weeks, you're back and behaving poorly. And that bike ride back home was dangerous! But so much fun.......LET'S DO IT AGAIN TONIGHT!!!!!!!)
He, he…little cameo from my interiority- hope that came across clear (me too). How many voices are in here, and what separates me from the crazies? (At most 3, and you never had deep childhood trauma, therefore never having to depend on the other voices to deal separately with reoccurrences of the trauma. Lucky you).
Woah! This baby is getting long. You still with me, mein Readership? You look good today, by the way. That dress is kicking! Hmm....want to come see some weird videos with me? Sit back and relax....oh? Is that my arm that just went around your shoulder.....oops did that hand just rest on your thigh, I was reaching for the popcorn. Might as well leave it hear and enjoy the ride....
Yes. The joust. For tomorrow by thy Renaissance Fair in Washington Heights! Yippieth Skippieth!
Come all ye knaves and friars and.....ballhohooians! Let's make a pilgrimage through the "A" train to a land transformed. We'll eat fantastic meats; meet fantastic actors with magnificent accents and tights and weapons and hair weaves.
We'll pick flowers and run from those tending the flowers. We'll recite sonnets to each other, and although we don't know sonnet form, they'll be lewd as nosotros please!
(I wonder what ole' Spanish sounds like? Just more lisp?)
So, whoeth amongsth thou will join me in this quest? Who is strongeth enough to face an hour train rideth with me in costume-eth and mannersith?
On a side note, I was at dinner party last night and between sips of a wonderful Cote du' Rhone, fiercely holding the peppered steak and Wisconsin twice baked potato in duck gel together, we conversed on a wide range of socio-conceptual topics: foreplay if you will to the brandy crumble coffee ice mink-wraps for later.
I "caressed the outer labia" of the conversation with this statement:
"Remember when we were young, hearing about how Dungeons and Dragons players would use PCP and then think they really had those powers and go out and punch through cop car windows, and swing maces around and dress up and so forth....?"
Funny, right? Because as this musing continued, we realized that, yes, one of the funniest and most dangerous combos ever is the D&D Fantasy player on PCP. He he he....I'm thinking about it right now....hardy hardy ! Funny, except to the loved ones who get in the crosshair of the crossbow…or magic wand....or elfish boots......har...).
I did have another wonderful realization that resonated deeply to my understanding of relationship, shyness and so forth. I can be obnoxious hitting on lesbians!
Man, was I jerk last night! Or, no, I wasn't a jerk, but I was one of them cocky guys to this girl. Why would I finally act with this uber-confidence and not all the time? Because she ain't interested in the first place….so it’s comedy. (Or was it, Gabriel? This is your interior mind writing back, and I say Balderdash. You hit on her like that because you were drinking the darkest of dark rum and just played your best game of ping-pong ever. You asshole, fess up. You are a drinky monster, Mr. Jekyll / Dr. Hyde. After not drinking for 2 weeks, you're back and behaving poorly. And that bike ride back home was dangerous! But so much fun.......LET'S DO IT AGAIN TONIGHT!!!!!!!)
He, he…little cameo from my interiority- hope that came across clear (me too). How many voices are in here, and what separates me from the crazies? (At most 3, and you never had deep childhood trauma, therefore never having to depend on the other voices to deal separately with reoccurrences of the trauma. Lucky you).
Woah! This baby is getting long. You still with me, mein Readership? You look good today, by the way. That dress is kicking! Hmm....want to come see some weird videos with me? Sit back and relax....oh? Is that my arm that just went around your shoulder.....oops did that hand just rest on your thigh, I was reaching for the popcorn. Might as well leave it hear and enjoy the ride....
Thursday, October 05, 2006
oh Suzy Tuesday
What a gig it was last night? Can you believe it? I knew a few people were coming- but I was actually overwhelmed by the magnitude and love in the room. Actually.
Lola cranked up for the first song doing her patented "lawn-mower" dance move and wa la! We were off and running on high octane. It was crazy- because I haven't practiced in a few days, but my fingers found the mark fairly well. Stain Bar! Man, their mulled wine is dopeje (czechlish for "dope").
I do love the fall, but does the fall love me? I ask this question once again peering out my window in a break from my personally bad work habits. Running the gambit of distractions, I should harness the power and focus on a single distraction. If only I could get my (Anthony's) bike fixed- that would take care of so many things.
I ran into a friend on my way home from Williamsburg. Let's call her Suzy Tuesday. Suzy was waiting to meet up with a manfriend at Blue Ribbon. I said that we should get a drink at Great Lakes until he arrives- I'd even let her pay. She agreed. We sat and talked and found out that the Masons are opening up a bit more to the world- it was fun. She told me her friend spoke to G-d yesterday during Yom Kippur. I wasn't impressed. I was skeptical. I know I shouldn't have been- but I can be a real jerk with my mug of cider and flannel waistband.
She said she wished she could talk to G-d. And the conversation went on.
She wanted to call the manfriend again- get drunker- go to him and straighten all the relationship thingys out. And I realized something......something deep.....something deeper than deep....something G-dly.
I said "Susy- don't go to him drunk. You and I both know he stood you up and it’s happened twice and a guy speaks with his actions. Don't go to him. You want to speak to G-d? G-d's right inside you and in your decisions. G-d’s that self-respect, that joy in simple beauty- that love that you feel for yourself. You just have to feel through the filth of self-pity you wallow in."
I harkened back to a previous reference "Suzy," I says, "Maybe he just had a great inner dialogue with himself. See, right now and right then, well, we can all have an inner dialogue with ourselves, but its when we see our limitations but have the faith in the emotional feeling of purity and joy for joys sake- then we are doing something holy...something G-dly…see past this dialogue / rationalization….we know there is something sound inside of us….reach for that souniness……does that make sense?" I'm not sure to this day (the day after) if it makes sense.
I said finally and most forthright, "don't go to him. You want G-d, well G-d is now." She wringed her hands, pleaded with me, said, "I know, I know, but I'll find G-d tomorrow. Tonight I want to go to my manfriend."
I really did my best to convince Suzy Tuesday that she shouldn't go to the guy drunk- that she should at least wait till the next day. I don't think it worked, but I tried.
See, I'm that guy who helps others with their self-actualization instead of working on my own. It's so easier to prescribe the answers to others, because then I feel like I kind of helped myself, but without having to change or do anything real.
he he he......oh well.....I think I'll take a nap.
Lola cranked up for the first song doing her patented "lawn-mower" dance move and wa la! We were off and running on high octane. It was crazy- because I haven't practiced in a few days, but my fingers found the mark fairly well. Stain Bar! Man, their mulled wine is dopeje (czechlish for "dope").
I do love the fall, but does the fall love me? I ask this question once again peering out my window in a break from my personally bad work habits. Running the gambit of distractions, I should harness the power and focus on a single distraction. If only I could get my (Anthony's) bike fixed- that would take care of so many things.
I ran into a friend on my way home from Williamsburg. Let's call her Suzy Tuesday. Suzy was waiting to meet up with a manfriend at Blue Ribbon. I said that we should get a drink at Great Lakes until he arrives- I'd even let her pay. She agreed. We sat and talked and found out that the Masons are opening up a bit more to the world- it was fun. She told me her friend spoke to G-d yesterday during Yom Kippur. I wasn't impressed. I was skeptical. I know I shouldn't have been- but I can be a real jerk with my mug of cider and flannel waistband.
She said she wished she could talk to G-d. And the conversation went on.
She wanted to call the manfriend again- get drunker- go to him and straighten all the relationship thingys out. And I realized something......something deep.....something deeper than deep....something G-dly.
I said "Susy- don't go to him drunk. You and I both know he stood you up and it’s happened twice and a guy speaks with his actions. Don't go to him. You want to speak to G-d? G-d's right inside you and in your decisions. G-d’s that self-respect, that joy in simple beauty- that love that you feel for yourself. You just have to feel through the filth of self-pity you wallow in."
I harkened back to a previous reference "Suzy," I says, "Maybe he just had a great inner dialogue with himself. See, right now and right then, well, we can all have an inner dialogue with ourselves, but its when we see our limitations but have the faith in the emotional feeling of purity and joy for joys sake- then we are doing something holy...something G-dly…see past this dialogue / rationalization….we know there is something sound inside of us….reach for that souniness……does that make sense?" I'm not sure to this day (the day after) if it makes sense.
I said finally and most forthright, "don't go to him. You want G-d, well G-d is now." She wringed her hands, pleaded with me, said, "I know, I know, but I'll find G-d tomorrow. Tonight I want to go to my manfriend."
I really did my best to convince Suzy Tuesday that she shouldn't go to the guy drunk- that she should at least wait till the next day. I don't think it worked, but I tried.
See, I'm that guy who helps others with their self-actualization instead of working on my own. It's so easier to prescribe the answers to others, because then I feel like I kind of helped myself, but without having to change or do anything real.
he he he......oh well.....I think I'll take a nap.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Have you ever blogged so hard- it hurt?
Have you ever loved a woman so hard it hurt- and then tried to write about it; and it hurt more?
Because you're trying to express everything in your heart, and writing wrings it out like a sponge, but then you just have a digital mess of unrelated garblings.
....."Love is a panther- UHauled me."...."misers never love, but you were gold to me"....."davey crocket in a jump suit sent from a cannon of love, my seed to thee"......
For instance- the above writing makes no sense. None at all. And sometimes this hurts- constructing your life to follow a narrative logic- and to convey this to both yourself and others- to feel purposeful AND entertaining. Tough stuff.
Well, I had a dinner party last night; kind of rad. I wish I had invited you, though. I feel kind of bad. Don't be offended, but we were serving meat on meat on meat.
We used hamburgers as plates- bacon for silverware and carved out walrus tusks for cups (still considered meat cause it was still attached to the heads). Yes, we mixed cheese on everything- I don't keep kosher.
Isn't it funny that I think eating pigs is worse than eating shrimp on the Kosher scale of things? It isn't. Trefe (non-Kosher) is trefe, I don't think there is a degree of wrong here (although I think cannibalism trumps pork for sure- that I'm sure of. Absolutely).
Hmmm, sometimes you contradict yourself in the middle of a blog- and it hurts.
Do you think when I send out a resume, the employer searches my name in myspace and reads up on me and my zani (and innane)ness? That is why I changed my headline to "separate the artist from the art." I heard the Boss (you know, the real Boss) say it in an interview onetime.
Springsteen trumps real bosses. Matter of factuality.
I think I'm going to see Object play at Trash Bar tonight @ 9pm. Want to come? Should be a rad show as always.
Oohhhh, Lola & Gabriel are playing a couple upcoming shows at Pianos. We are opening for some guy on the 16th, and then its our baby, I think November 18th, just need the return confirmation, a Sat. at 9, I think….yea!!!!!!!
Are you going to come see Lola & Gabriel at Stain Bar this Tuesday? I might sing a very personal song about Angels, Ice, Trains, Etudes and such and such. I'm a little nervous. I should go practice.
…Oh space-angel-blog-attendee, you love me don't you? You'll always be there for me, in the midst of hardship and shiphard? Sense and nonsense for nonsenses sake? Sensei sake? Sofa-loren? Sleep.....can't fall back asleep- have photo research to complete.
You reading this, Christine? Aren't I so responsible in my work, and so odd in my blog, which takes part of the day in which I should be working?
What is this thing called "life." Backwards, it is simply EFIL. Pretty deep, right?
I stop now.
Because you're trying to express everything in your heart, and writing wrings it out like a sponge, but then you just have a digital mess of unrelated garblings.
....."Love is a panther- UHauled me."...."misers never love, but you were gold to me"....."davey crocket in a jump suit sent from a cannon of love, my seed to thee"......
For instance- the above writing makes no sense. None at all. And sometimes this hurts- constructing your life to follow a narrative logic- and to convey this to both yourself and others- to feel purposeful AND entertaining. Tough stuff.
Well, I had a dinner party last night; kind of rad. I wish I had invited you, though. I feel kind of bad. Don't be offended, but we were serving meat on meat on meat.
We used hamburgers as plates- bacon for silverware and carved out walrus tusks for cups (still considered meat cause it was still attached to the heads). Yes, we mixed cheese on everything- I don't keep kosher.
Isn't it funny that I think eating pigs is worse than eating shrimp on the Kosher scale of things? It isn't. Trefe (non-Kosher) is trefe, I don't think there is a degree of wrong here (although I think cannibalism trumps pork for sure- that I'm sure of. Absolutely).
Hmmm, sometimes you contradict yourself in the middle of a blog- and it hurts.
Do you think when I send out a resume, the employer searches my name in myspace and reads up on me and my zani (and innane)ness? That is why I changed my headline to "separate the artist from the art." I heard the Boss (you know, the real Boss) say it in an interview onetime.
Springsteen trumps real bosses. Matter of factuality.
I think I'm going to see Object play at Trash Bar tonight @ 9pm. Want to come? Should be a rad show as always.
Oohhhh, Lola & Gabriel are playing a couple upcoming shows at Pianos. We are opening for some guy on the 16th, and then its our baby, I think November 18th, just need the return confirmation, a Sat. at 9, I think….yea!!!!!!!
Are you going to come see Lola & Gabriel at Stain Bar this Tuesday? I might sing a very personal song about Angels, Ice, Trains, Etudes and such and such. I'm a little nervous. I should go practice.
…Oh space-angel-blog-attendee, you love me don't you? You'll always be there for me, in the midst of hardship and shiphard? Sense and nonsense for nonsenses sake? Sensei sake? Sofa-loren? Sleep.....can't fall back asleep- have photo research to complete.
You reading this, Christine? Aren't I so responsible in my work, and so odd in my blog, which takes part of the day in which I should be working?
What is this thing called "life." Backwards, it is simply EFIL. Pretty deep, right?
I stop now.
BACK AGAIN, BABY!!!
well, I stopped posting on this because I didn't think you were paying attention to me, and wanted you to know what a life without me was like.
Then I got lonely for you.
So I'm going to continue posting my myspace space postings and repost them here, as well.
Because I love you.
And I want you to love, just like I love you.
Then I got lonely for you.
So I'm going to continue posting my myspace space postings and repost them here, as well.
Because I love you.
And I want you to love, just like I love you.
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