s T r E a M # 4 0

-
You missed the party. Well, you always miss the party. Well, you always miss. Well, you, well… and then you want to eat the potato chips at night. The medication is not recommended by everybody. Well, what’s the difference? Well, I soberly asked for the dip and she poured it all over my head. Maybe she was drunk. I don’t know. I did not attempt to sniff her breath. Maybe I should have. Had I tried, I would’ve tried to kiss her. And then, and then, Lord knows. That’s the one thing we know, don’t we? That the Lord knows. If He’s there, he KNOWS. And if he’s not there, who knows? Somebody has got to know, right? Somebody has to have all the keys to all of the doors. Right? Lord knows. Bo knows, too. Right? Or did he stop knowing once they stopped running those commercials? I don’t understand why they don’t recycle some of those old commercials. I don’t understand why they don’t use jingles much anymore. I’m so much more likely to remember a jingle than anything else advertisers throw my way. So you missed the party, as I was saying. You don’t care? Come on. You care. You wanted to know what went down. Don’t say that you don’t. I won’t believe you if you say that you don’t. What? What’s that? Yes, I’m going deaf. You said you went to another party? Why didn’t you tell me? Because I’m a dork? Jesus, had I known that I was a dork I would’ve called Maytag. They like dorks over there. I have no idea what that was supposed to mean. I mean no offense to Gordon Jump, RIP. He was a good sort of fella. Or, he seemed to be. That’s how he came across. Lord, I miss WKRP in Cincinnati. I miss Dr. Johnny Fever. I miss Bailey Quarters. That show was “the bomb,” as the kids used to say. I’m sure they say something cooler now, and, whatever it is, I’ll be saying it a decade from now – and, when I say it, I’ll have a false sense of being hip. But as long as I feel hip it won’t matter if it’s true or false. What matters is how I perceive myself. That is all that matters, right or wrong, good or bad. Is there a difference between “right or wrong” and “good or bad,” or is that just saying the same thing? I seem to think that there is a difference. No, I don’t seem to think, because I actually thought. Therefore, I am. Not. But I cannot be sure. I missed the party, too. Yeah, I’m a schmuck. But that’s not news. So is there a difference between “right” and “good,” and “wrong” and “bad”? Can something or somebody be “good” and yet “wrong”? When it comes to sex, I think so. I think so. Same goes for “right” and “bad.” That works in a political sense, too. This is not what matters today. They’re talking about heat, but I’m not feeling it. Deli and temple tonight. Yippee! No, not really. But that’s why I earn the “Big Bucks.” It’s all so scrumptiously absurd, isn’t it? Well, it should be. It should be scrumptious. But, mostly, unfortunately, it’s just absurd. Bottom reached. 

11 July 2008

Popular posts from this blog

SHUSH

-
Along with the stomping freak who uses the flipside of my ceiling as a floor, the folks with whom I share walls cannot tolerate silence. No, they must blast on repeat any of Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 2000 through their respective stereo’s speakers. This, in turn, forces me to blast all of my much less popular music to drown theirs out. It becomes a vicious circle of escalating sound. And perhaps the very point of loud music is to drown out all thought, fear, and pain. These days, who can bear to sit quietly and ponder life—let alone read a book? Indeed, the folks in this city—and perhaps the folks in every city—seemingly do whatever they can to stifle the natural inclination to think. At least, that is my impression. After all, the act of thought —the very act of reflection —necessarily slows production and consumption. And we mustn’t have that, no, no. Besides, we need not contemplate our lack of fulfillment or our actual worthlessness if we are too busy playing video ...
Read more

Ginny

-
10/24/2001 : Would you believe I was standing beneath the lit marquee of the Music Box Theater this evening, reading an Emily Dickinson chapbook? I was, but I was doing a poor job of it. And, no, I wasn’t there specifically to read poetry. But I might’ve been the first dude to read Dickinson at that particular location. And, no, I wasn’t reading it aloud. * In fairness (to me), I hadn’t thought to read it aloud. I bring a book or a magazine along wherever I go, just in case it rains. Gotta have something to hold open over my head. Can’t have a sudden shower muck up my carefully sculpted helmet of hair. And if I want something to read, I’ll take an umbrella. But seriously, it’s all about the waiting. If city life doesn’t cultivate patience, then it definitely cultivates insanity. If I find myself waiting (anywhere) beyond the walls of my apartment without something to read, I’ll end up gazing at the passersby, instead. They might gaze back. They won’t smile, though. Never mind if ...
Read more

S T R E A M # 3 0

-
Start: The dog did not enjoy the tuna casserole, and by “dog” I do not mean Sally’s pet collie, I means Sally’s husband, Al. When we stop to think about the things that do not matter – which is something we often do – then, when the time comes, we check our watches and eat our respective tuna casseroles. We eat the tuna casseroles because we know Grandma would be sad if we did not. Thus, or hence, or hence-thus, the problem becomes one of consumption. Finally, the problem is ALWAYS one of consumption. What do you think about Al’s dilemma with the tuna casserole? Beets are enjoyed by cats in the winter when strawberries are not in bloom. DO strawberries bloom? No. Yes? No. I wouldn’t know. I am not a strawberry farmer. Who told you otherwise? Who led you astray? And why would you believe his or hers or their words over mine? What I feel the next time we meet when you are not sad with happiness in the tuna casserole. I haven’t – I couldn’t tell you about the last time I ate apple sauce i...
Read more