Sandwiches at 11:00

The dust is getting thick in here. Root, hog, or die. Davy Crockett would never have let the place go like this. The trouble is, there isn't much on my mind. I am going out, though, so I expect a thing or two will wind up at home with me, if I don't drink too much.
Weddings are about the only occassions that people get universally excited and depressed about. As a one time bartender I can say that too many of you let the D.J. get away with murder. Wedding D.J.s are a squirelly lot, though. Ask him not to play the 'Chicken Dance' and he will. Funny.
The first wedding I ever asked a girl to, ended up with her vomiting under the table, on someone's shoes. She was a peach. To her credit she didn't expect a kiss when I dropped her off. The band was terrible, the church ladies scowled at everyone when they brought out the sandwiches at 11:00, and my cousin's boyfriend tried to pick a fight with the minister. Too bad someone broke it up. I bet God would've lent his spirit to the minister just to see a poor white boy get beaten in front of his girl. Ha ha. God is good.
I expect this wedding to be a little more subdued.

Too Kind

Damocles sat, yapping all through dinner. Talking about how great it was to be rich and powerful. He drank too much wine and ate enough figs to fill a barrel. Dionysius listened distractedly for a while, wondering if the thread would break before he had proven his point. That would be unfortunate, but it was a risk he was willing to take.
How long I sat there, blabbering on, I can't tell you because from the instant I noticed the sword, hanging by a thread, I was paralysed with fear. Drunk and reeling with self pity, I didn't understand the lesson, the severity of which betrayed your loathsome opinion of me.
Something took hold of me then and I wondered at my complicity in my own destruction.
When I awoke the next morning, it wasn't until the toast, black as night, came screaming from the toaster in a state of shock, that I remembered the warning. It was a long time ago but that's the last time I get drunk with you.
Damocles should have rolled out of the way, snapped the hair by which his life had been threatened and used that sword to poke a hole or two into Dionysius, proving his potential and contriving to become the world's first recorded pain in the ass for an entirely different reason. I ate the toast and learned to like the taste of revenge.

A Tree, a Clown and an Healthy Desire

This afternoon he was sitting in a tree. Whatever.
He saw her walking through the crowd at the fair. The skyline was filled with points of canvas that the wind barely moved, even as it shook leaves from the trees. That sharp pain of the coming winter biled up as a meloncholic burp of desire. He pulled up his collar and waded into the people, glimpsing the hat she wore only sporadically. The flow of the crowd took him past a clown blowing up balloons for children, the dart booth-mini-archers aiming for an apple on some kid's head-past the pie eating contest and into the main barn that smelled of fresh hay and cow shit. And now he was in a tree, looking at his dangling feet and, past them, the small crowd of angry merchants and carnies. The knees of his pants were stained and he feared his shirt was ruined. He stayed there until the Sheriff came and assured his safety if he came down. He lost a shoe as he slid backwards down the trunk, the pitted bark tearing at his hands and causing one to bleed. He wasn't exactly safe with the sheriff but he was better off than with the crowd. The fun a boy can get into in one afternoon. But he never forgot her.

The Stomach For It.

In 1908 Catherine Devine was stabbed to death in New York City. In an apartment at 226 West 37th Street. She had won a bit notoriety by dancing the Hootchie Kootchie naked at the World’s Fair in Chicago in 1893. She was also arrested for popping out of a cake. She danced in burlesque shows and as a belly dancer.
In 1908 Beatrice Lillie was fourteen and later said that the belly dance was a dance she,” …didn’t have the stomach for.”
That yearning that you feel comes from the division in your mind. The division of what is and what should be. But you are not off the hook. You can’t just point to your brain and say, ‘Sorry, …bit fucked up right now’. Do you remember talking with me about what is appropriate behavior? Why don’t you look at yourself to try to see if you treat yourself with what you might call appropriate behavior. The yearning is something you either have to tackle head on or learn to ignore. Do you want it? Then go and get it.
Beatrice Lillie was a comedienne who found that laughter at the expense of other's misfortune was good for business. Mix it with a good dose of self deprecating humour and no one can call you a bitch. I’ve been stuck on a quote by Kundera for close to 15 years now. He said-and I’m paraphrasing you literature snobs-“There are two kinds of laughter; the laughter at another’s expense and the laughter of joy and forgetting.” ‘Forgetting’ what? What do you need to forget so that you can laugh out of pure joy?
Catherine Devine’s death certificate is on file in New York City. You can buy a copy of it from them. She died laughing.

A Little Less Conversation

I was talking to the Great God Pan awhile ago and he was bemoaning his status, again. I said, "Are you nuts? You are more popular now than you have been for two thousand years. You're looking good and feeling tough. C'mon, hit me and show me what you got."
I woke up soaked in urine, spent and bruised with only a vague recollection of what had happened. I suppose I should feel a little embarrassed about it but, what the hell. He should be proud of his left hook. I know I'm quite proud of the events of the last couple of months. I was beginning to think I was getting old, but...

In the beginning, we liked who we were. We ate, we slept, we fucked; life was good. A little dust up now and again is good for the soul; it reminds us of our ancestry. I'm not sorry at all.

And I still like Wilcox. Phhhht.

226 W37th Street, New York, N.Y.

This is an open letter to my unconscious mind.
Let's get to the point here. I don't understand you and you don't speak my language. The images are terrifying, but that's it. I'm missing the point. Let's try again.

Remember the time I screamed for an half hour straight? Man, that freaked everybody out. It was fun. We were communicating directly then. Boy, were you pissed. I knew it and knew I could help. Since then, though, the day to day pressures have made you seem distant. I know you don't care where I park at the mall, or what I eat for dinner, but these are issues I have to deal with. We've drifted apart, somewhat, over the years, but not so far, I think, that we can't mend this little rift. So, here goes. I promise to pay attention to you. I won't ignore you anymore, if only you'll stop throwing all this shit up into my face. I'll try to be more perceptive and intuitive if you try not to be so heavy-handed. We can do this. We can calm this down and work together a little better. By the way, I have no idea what the fascination with W37th Street has to do with me, but I'm working on it. And the dog kennel? That was genius.

Jesus, it's like talking to a child. Oh. Did you hear that? Uh oh.

78% Water!

Yesterday, I watched a truck drive by, on it the name of a local transmission repair company. The logo said, "We specialize in honesty". I'd rather they specialize in transmissions.

As a walking billboard for who I am at any given moment, I'd like to say, "78% Water". If the truth is to be told, I am usually hopelessly unaware of what it is I am advertising. I obviously haven't considered just what it is I'm selling. Any good marketing scheme begins with the product.
A guy. Doesn't jump out at me.
A man. Better, but there hundreds of competitors out there selling the same thing.
A nice man. See below.
A strong man. Phhtt!

"It sleeps, it walks, it can drive a car! This limited time offer is available to you! Tired of no one sleeping on your couch? Tired of the dishes remaining where you put them, clean and out of site? Then this man is for you! He comes with little or no ambition, will make bad decisions without consultation, knows little or nothing about the world outside of where to find the beer store, and will entertain your friends by starting arguments about nothing after only seven beer! Don't wait, act now! With your self worth as a downpayment you can have this specimen for the low, low price of your dignity, your dreams of a happy future and for a limited time he'll appear to be nice, normal and without a mother complex."
Keep in mind that the word 'nice' is derived from the Latin nescius, 'ignorant' and meant foolish and simpleminded.

Maybe today I'll shave.

Tuesday

sleep (slep) n. [OE. sleep] 1. a natural, regular recurring rest for the body, during which there is little or no conscious thought. 2. any state like this -vi. slept, sleep'ing to be in the state of, or a state like, sleep -sleep off to rid oneself of by sleeping -sleep'less adj. -sleep'less.ness n.

Sometimes I get it; sometimes I don't.

In the dream, Rob and Bianca were over, watching a movie with me. It was very late and, as Bianca had already fallen asleep on the other couch, I suggested to Rob that I get him a blanket. I was half-way up the stairs when I heard the front door open and I could hear voices. I could hear Beth talking about her trip and I began to take the stairs two at a time. I couldn't wait to see her and tell her everything that had gone on since she left. As I reached the top of the stairs I began to wake; the chattering in my head re-playing, "She's not here. Your not going to see her. She's not here." I remember opening the door at the top of the stairs, muttering, 'just a few more minutes, just one more minute.' And I was lying in my bed. The rain was coming down hard and I had to piss.

I heard somewhere that we spend one third of our lives sleeping. I'll take it, if I can't have any more.

Trust the Cookie

Never move into an apartment that comes with a 'FREE' de-humidifier. When the water started to seep in I was told to plug it in. "It might help."
Trust is an institution.
Trust is an ideal.
Trust is an illusion.
Check the one you would like to believe.
I was recently doing a little research on Mandalas, and discovered the notion that if you put your trust in yourself and draw a little circle you will be entertained with what could be called an 'inner vision'. Carl Jung said, of Manadalas, "It is the exponent of all paths. It is the path to the centre, to individuation." I trust Carl Jung. In his autobiography he talks about the dreams he had as a child, filled with phalic symbols, dark caves and a healthy disrespect for his father. Me too!
The first one I drew looked like a cookie. I had a break for lunch and started in on my second one. It was a little more detailed. I'd show it to you but then I'd have no secrets left at all. It did look a bit like a bloated Lou Diamond Philips. I have no idea what to do with it.
What I'm really hoping to acheive with my Mandalas is a 'behind the scenes' expose into why I was so gullible when I took this apartment. If all goes well, they will allow my psyche to speak, indirectly, to these issues of trust and naivete. If not, I'll wallpaper my landlord's car with a lot of very pretty circles.

Susan

My sister, Susan, came over for lunch yesterday. We sat on opposite ends of the couch, had a cup of coffee and talked about her new job, our mother, my prospects and the weather. It had been raining all day, after a long, hot, sunny week. She had less than an hour, so it was a compacted visit.
To have been this close to her for so many years, and not know her saddens me. If I had been paying attention I would have realised that she was always there for me. Intelligent, quick witted and beautiful, she interacts with people so easily and yet guardedly. She's had her difficulties, of which I knew little. I know more about her now; I've started paying attention.
When I was small, I reached up to put my hand on the iron. The house was noisy and full of activity. My father was pissed because it took so much effort to get five kids into the back of the car. The camping gear was everywhere and no one could find a way out of the chaos.
The iron left a stinging red welt on the palm of my hand and I could hear myself howling. My mother, already so nervous and afraid of my father, had no time for this. She wet a towel and threw it at Susan and said, "Will you shut him up?" Susan and I sat on the stairs for nearly a half hour. She had my hand between hers, wrapped in a damp cloth and we watched the craziness unfold in front of us.
She's holding my hand again now. Many years have passed and I don't know her at all, but since Beth died she's been sitting with me, my hand wrapped in a damp towel, singing softly under her breath.

Centre Line Rumble Strip

Wouldn't This make a great name for a band? It's yours if you want it.
Late one night coming home from Drew's and I'd never heard the expression before. I had to try it. It definitely rumbles. It makes me wonder what kind of rumble strip I have laid out and if it will really wake me up before I drive headlong into oncoming traffic.
Look at me Andrea! I'm not the technoidiot I thought I was.