Demons that chase you across the valley turn into scarecrows. The gentle wind sweeps away the smoke and clears the air above my head until new smoke is exhaled. The whole thing is fucking perfunctory, the repetitious act of a grown up kid who should know better by now. Maybe my real devout friends could quote a verse, maybe offer up one of those church phrases like “None so blind…” At this point, the issue is past the point of embarkation. The places swerve and merge then split off to appear further down the road. Everything is varied. One moment encapsulated by silence and calm followed by a frenzied expression agonized and erudite for want if time. This place is an ashtray with a breeze.
Forcing the issue only works so far. I can’t imagine what it would take to turn this river of poison into something useful, but for fucks sake I’m trying. The list would be a droll exposition of what happens to those without; all the same, a little guesswork and I am sure everyone can figure it out for themselves. Don’t we have to do that anyway? Like four fingers wrapped in a palm the image hits me in the guts. Something tangled up in what I meant to do or where I meant to go before my world began to implode from the pressure exerted upon it. I’m told there is a line to walk, a code of behavior against which to measure all of our small time infractions and big time crimes. I’ve never seen it, so the whole thing has to be discounted. It would be nice, in another life.
But what does it all mean? Where are the vengeful, the angered, the subtly infused characters made out of flesh and perfection? What’s with the comparison between an angle and a straight line? Nevermore a better infused spirit ready to take on what would be an unending line of taunts, chants, miracle workers and dirty jokes. I’m serious. Send in the rat bastards and let me go to work. I would be more than willing to bet that I have at least a 50-50 chance of figuring out the basics before the next thing comes along and my attention drifts elsewhere. Besides, as far as I can tell, to win this sort of game you need at least a modicum of physical strength, and that as they say is not my strong suit.
More likely the situation will just sort of stagger and bleed until it mutates into something else. For every fuel injected mouth to mouth performance comes the hammer and anvil style crushing of pills, digesting of sorts that leeches nitrogen into the bubbles in the beer. Even with a purpose, it still never makes any sense. The little I can see is without a real name, but very emphatic. Maybe it’s the way I wear my hair. Told you I can’t drink for shit.
I’ve been feeling much better at intervals throughout the last few days. This isn’t a story, it’s real. For several consecutive moments at widely scattered intervals, things have the capacity to appear much brighter than they really are. That is as self-reflective as I should get, but the empty logic of the moment almost calls for a soapbox. Too much time starring at a blank wall behind the television set and desperately hoping to see a few colorful shapes and maybe even a spot of natural light. Too many moments of indecision that ended badly, and a few too many plans that fell through for reasons still unappreciated. Too much pressure building on weakest parts of the structure, and a burning hope to see the whole thing go up in flames. Still, there is a sadness in knowing that I have to go up with it. Can’t have one without the other.
Let’s leave that madness where it belongs, on the trash heap with the old clothes and empty bottles of Southern Comfort. Every so often it helps to ditch out on some responsibility. I try not to abuse the privilege, but it’s such a seductive action to take. There’s nothing so easily cool as reawakening a sense of proportion. Whatever else can be taken away from the scene, there is always the option to blow it all up and start over. Another argument over sentimentality, another repose taken from an old story to be retold over cocktails and mirrors. A cheap way to settle an argument proffered on the promise that none will be taken seriously.
All of this for a sense of calm lasting a few moments before the something else takes hold. All of this so we can laugh at the present and come to terms with the tranquil reality of speed. All of this as a lead in to another year spent chasing that calm. Stagger slowly through the banalities with style and chance encounters. It’s all just words anyway. Not much power in anything that can be destroyed by an infant with scissors or a drunk with a torch. Perfunctory explanations of lapsed lunacy. Foreigners find it charming.
I’ve lived here before. I might be high on the idea that this is all for a reason. Of course, that in itself would be an excuse as my mind rages to find something to explain a long stretch of bad luck. I’m not even sure how all of this happened. The constant feeling of painful deja vu overwhelms every morning cup of coffee and every late night skull-fuck kiss goodnight. Living in between the two is akin to trying to answer a multiple choice question when you know all the choices are wrong. The whole damn thing tastes like copper pennies. Once you’ve been sucked through a screen, everything starts getting smaller.
The pain borders on intolerable. Thankfully, I have been assured that this will continue to worsen without some form of actual treatment. If you think about it in just the right terms, you might have discovered a barometer that can tell us all when we’ve made progress. This stands in stark reference to most non-physical kinds of pain, both in variability and velocity. Even when my mind is clear from the influence of the physical pain, the feeling of hot metal ripping apart the fragile scar tissue and the lightning bolts flowing down my leg remind me that there is still a long way to go. It could be several more months without medical treatment, and I anticipate the whole situation degenerating into a frenzied attempt to end the pain any way possible without regard to consequences. That probably won’t happen until I reach the Mad Dog stage of “recovery” where things get far enough gone that the loss of my few god given rights is relinquished in exchange for a deal with the devil. It pains an atheist to no limit that this discussion must be put in such semantics, but I’ll gladly bend the rule on philology as a sacrifice to the greater point.
The fantasy is that this twisted road even has an end to it. Near as I can tell, the worse the physical pain gets, the more clearly I can see that my whole conception of a tethered universe was part of the problem to begin with. More to the point, there are few constants, and I fervently hope that searing pain is not one of them. It would certainly make my life easier if that were true.
The cunt and I last watched the whole show years ago. Now it’s on again, with the volume turned off while I retch and cough my way through an early afternoon storm. The shadows flutter and arc and evade everything but the very edge of my eyes ability to focus. It’s a cock tease, the same kind of ichneumon sting that characterizes every strong relationship. Hatred won’t help, though there is plenty to share. Just another amorphous cloud that might be a sign or just water droplets collecting into an odd shape. Straight jacketed into one of those if/or kind of situations where force and fear meld into something that lacks a title but packs the punch of an atomic explosion across the manifolds of existence.
The straight jacket keeps the style tight and the expressions frozen. Amidst the plunder of another movement; joints scream out to be sedated. The hips want pharmaceutical relief, and to emphasize their point are squealing like stuck pigs bleeding out on the ground. Even without the flowing blood, I can feel the sensation of tiny fragments of detritus sticking tiny knives into tiny spaces. The agony is as pleasurable as meeting an old friend in a comfortable bar. It comes around much too often. There are times we are so inextricably linked that we can act as one. I feel it good, like a steel shiv in just the right place. I feel the myth of fingerprints to be as close as I’ll get to the magic of creation.
There is screaming outside the windows of this place. The words are obscured by the intervening space and time, but they don’t matter because the screaming is so beautiful. For a moment I can share in the extremism, even become a part of the harsh sunlight coating the voice in the hopes some of the beauty will rub off on me. The mirrors are hidden, so visual confirmation is impossible. My ears take in the sight as hope; I hope for another scream so I can get high off it; so I can feel the tremor in the vocal cords without the meaning of words to get in the way of the beauty of the voice of feeling. The whole situation slides between degradation and obscurity. Alone in this apartment, I’m joined by my protesting hinges that link straight line bones to the muscle structure that makes them shake and rattle.
This repetition of instability is getting to be a drag on the last bit of resources available to fight with. The whole painful thrust of the magic eye catches me muttering under my breath about where they can stick this farcical experience with reality. The whole scene could be finished if not for the arguments and recitations that must be accumulated and resolved before notoriety sets in. The bastards won’t let me loose for a moment’s rest; it continues unabated with rage.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Uncertain laughter in the music playing over an empty room. A sigh hangs in the air, a reminiscent stitch in sound that veils the empty room in a dark study. From the television set eyesore the camera recedes, slowly, though certainly perceptively in catching the reflective dust illuminated by an unshaded window. I love this song. It makes me feel the bucolic truths that slip away when the lights come on. I can’t imagine sharing this sight with anyone; it’s too difficult to conjure up with no audience… what would a visitor see but me in the center of the room begging my muse to give off a few more words before the session dies. Tonight the cage that seems so far off from here doesn’t bother me. There isn’t any explanation, just the fantastic occasionally sticking her head into the room.
It’s cold again. The early darkness robs the late afternoon of sunlight, and this mostly empty room offers warm coffee. The minor adjustments to the sweetness of the brew and the caramel color of the filtered water are robotic. The whole scene is like a gesture to small comfort and quiet rewards. Every time the words flow there is the feeling of success. For a short time a place opens up that gives off the hint of warm winds that speak a thousand languages and tell a million stories. Tonight, we’re working off of various theories and textures and trying to piece together the next move.
Before and after the empty room are just periods of cooling down or heating up, revving the engine then shoving the transmission into park. For the few moments the wind blows away the low hanging clouds, and I can see. I can see the sharp straight lines carved into the territory, the long curving rivers of feelings and expressions that come forth without conscious effort. All of the petty hatreds, the jealous glances, the retold jokes that inspire the same old laughter, all of it wrapped up in the quiet room. The sum of my resources get poured into trying to see and tell, trying to explain why one foot follows the other in supplication.
I’m able to hide here, able to sit a spell and gather up the fragments that fell in front of eyes and ears and noses and make it into something else. Pulses of light get caught sneaking across an asphalt road before diving into a ditch. The sound of a piano accompanies the feeling of dread at the top of a roller coaster, or maybe it’s the singer’s voice echoing in the foreground while two strangers embrace. Every last tiny piece of the scene comes together as an amalgamation of influences curving time around an iron pole. The whole scene feels; every action is a feeling inspired by the mercurial mixture of unknown origin. Faces tether to voices, ears intercept the sound of a million incarnations of the past and present in a vain attempt to distinguish the good from the merely necessary.
As the center surges outward from pin-prick point to blinding field of light, the room becomes a capsule of languid expression. A voice mentions turning points while my eyes adjust to the light chasing the shadows off the walls. It could mean something…but most likely the meaning is a secondary characteristic of the experience. A whole network of connections bursts into life, pulled from a dozen locations into this room. For a brief moment I wait for the the background to catch fire before falling back into the stasis of inundated singularity. Maybe the whole thing is just an imaginary sensation. I’ve lost the ability to know for sure.
I need a certain song that will only come to life as a snippet of rhythm. The search for the sound of a reaction merely occupies the memory while confusing the mind. I can hear the short riff echoing across the room. Curiosity is a slow cancer that eats away at certainty. The sound fades away and is forgotten in the rush to identify the words that live in the song. It might be a failure to remember, or possibly just another instance of the mind making up the world as it works along the path of least resistance.
But here in this quiet room there is time to make a determined investigation into where the whirlwind is going. All the shit combined into the answer to the eternal question. The room just amplifies the minutiae into readable type, but without any hint of totality. This is the only faith I know how to express. Some tangential express arrives as lateral movement without progress. Frustration is a temporary side effect of knowing the work continues while the questions accrue. Just another kid talking to an empty room, waiting for a response. I share the best I have, because I don’t know what else to do.
Filed under: love n' luck
Ain’t got much to tell. Moment to moment calligraphy, images chiseled onto dream walls, finding a place to speak safely without bars on the windows and locks on the door. The old feeling of wanting to scream while whispering an oath or ode. Existing in wreckage is encumbered with the material of squandered choice. For every split lip that bleeds out onto a sterling white napkin there comes a variety of mundane associations. Blood, then baseball. Blood, then film. Blood, then water. Incandescent under the black light while another five and dime bastard culls the flock by tossing a sheep to the wolves. Savagery like you could only imagine. The foresight comes in when the whole scene is avoided, discretion the better part of valor. If I’d had even an inkling of all this, we could have cut to the quick years ago. Instead we’ll just dick around looking for greater meaning behind bare knuckle segments of apportioned pleasantries.
Is this funny? Why aren’t you laughing? I saw it clear as day while smoking a cigarette in the morning winds, shared humanity based on the ability to obtain an emotional response. Desire has nothing to do with it. All the laughter tells me is we’ve managed to evade another gut-wrenched chaser. The easy scent of burnt gasoline used to mix the various additives in a clear, reflective case for ease of access and quick come-ons. Until the addition of motives and meaning, we might as well simply keep circling, together in the encumbrance of fate. We only demean with quantitative measurements; applique doesn’t keep in the warmth. Laugh at the false front, and anythign else that takes itself that seriously.
Considerate apportioning the intensity. All of that horrible laughter, all of those waning moments when movement is a dream is a worry that vibrates and shimmies into something like a dance. Total farce on stage, set for momentary transmission of meaning to an audience rarely evenly assembled. In the center of the crowd stand the most shamelessly opportunistic, those most willing to seize a piece of the pie. Ignition would be too good for them. The scene frightens off the marginally intelligent. Only the dumbest SOB’s have a need to see the end of such a sick display of people imitating peacocks.
This all feels invective. Tiny imperfections blowing into an ashtray. Burnt to a crisp by unrelenting force is just more evidence of some terse inversions of milk and coffee. Try as I might, the spit just sounds like words. Distended to be sure, but the lack of anything real is breathtaking, as seen from a high mountain. The far-off felt covered lands sit still for the picture. Breathing is hard, getting a ragged sound that can’t be healthy. Another human signal flare flies out into the night, screaming in a voice that rapidly loses connectivity as the object veers away from this corner of the world. The color is a come-on for an arcane sexual practice.
Pulled down like cold air, returning to earth as if there was a motive for all of this. The pretense is crushing. I can’t help but wonder what goes on behind closed doors and shuttered windows. Music is as good a guess as anything else, rooted not in evidence or some obvious retainer. I bet on music like a junky, moving through great swaths of time and possibility with the flick of a wrist or the bent of an ear. Amazing if true, though probably not. I’d kick up wasp nests, but they disappear come winter’s icy tongue. A guy like me has to settle, to compromise. A guy like me would have to be crazy to let the rest of the vipers get what they want, coming as it does on my expense.
When we awaken, sweating bullets and burning with fever, we embrace for a moment as we pass on the way to the next big thing. Dancing flames on wicks in wax do us proud. A dream is a worry. A dream is a worry. I’ve reached my apogee, and fall back to burn again. A dream is a worry for a single soul.
I can’t drink for shit. Never could. That’s OK. There’s so much I can’t do, it makes the few things that I can seem like nothing in comparison. Seeming sobriety on an easy pay plan. All of this (gestures wildly around the room) feels like the great cover-up never caught or explained. Sometimes everything hits me all at once, and all I can do is duck behind the counter and hope the flying shit doesn’t stain my shirt. Nobody gets off on coffee and cigarettes. It takes an effort beyond what is called into existence by violence or the ability to feel so much that it’s like feeling nothing at all.
None of the characters that waltz in and out have the kind of staying power found in ashtrays full of crushed cigarettes. The wind attacks, but only for a few moments before the cigarette butts are dispersed by a wall. There are limits to everything. Personally, I’m laden with dead eyes. Everything looks the same. In the suburbs, that is on purpose. They got the big houses and parkways, the places behind the dumpsters for cheap skags to play games with needles and lighters, the kind of people who would gladly lift a man’s spine right out of his flesh.
With the melange of painted walls, I’m the crossover archetype that’s one part limp walk and one part pierced ear. I spend a lot of time wishing my beard would finally go gray; another wish comes true somewhere down the line. Luckily appearance doesn’t count for much. In the past, I saw a blond that wouldn’t quit squirming like a worm caught on a hook. She was waiting for a better fish than me, and I was hoping to swim away before the water got cloudy. Just in time, right baby? The resultant scream was heard a mile away. The bigger fish came along, and the last I thing I remember was an argument and a slamming door. Who did what to whom is lost. Even if you could go back, who would want to?
Lately I been noticing that the powder power seems to decreases in direct correlation to how much time is spent searching for sterling silver spoons. Bunch of bullshit, like the three layers of bullshit I’m fighting off with a strategy ripped from one of the greats. My capacity for creation is nowhere near what it once was. I employ a hat and sunglasses over a beard, and even though that beard refuses to go gray, I can wait. Waiting is the natural antecedent of desire. It’s hot in here when the cold wind blows.
Did you want to be the cool kid? How’d you manage? Ever feel the kind of pain that keeps you up at night cursing and spitting and waiting for it to recede? Such a damned kick to the lungs. They tighten until the point of vexation, a tight embrace that pulls and gives short shrift to sound of unknown people people fighting over some unknown thing. I’m pretty sure the guy downstairs punched his old lady in the jaw, but she’s wearing a scarf as big as her head. Not enough for conviction; it barely enough for suspicion. I’ll hold tight to the silence, until a scream splatters sound all over my apartment. I don’t really know who is waiting downstairs. It’s too early to stumble around without blood flowing.
Impermeable condensation on the bottom of the coffee cup. Lucky for me the heat keeps the liquid like steam. All the hellish ontogeny of proper commiseration can’t seem to stem the tie of red lined fusion. The sound of my voice sickens me, and frightens the congregation (me again.) I’m almost always sure my voice comes from somewhere else. What you see here is just the rambling explication of a side character, a cautionary story of stupendous success. The place is wrecked, pieced together from a dozen other lives that never touch. The bands tighten, stiffen, crack, but never relax. The voice never stops; just a machine gun rattle of things that ain’t there. Memory beads together. How sure can you be about what did or didn’t happen? Everything here is just as it was left when the remains of last night were sanctified into today. I don’t know nothing. I know it real well.
Back here in the world of directionless antipathy, it’s all one small part of a larger picture. I’m in the vein now, feeling the pulse and concerned that the pain is spreading. It hugs on to my hips, shoots down my legs, scratches at my ankles. I never want to be recognized for anything that might be true, so the freight train continues unabated. It continues coming through a tunnel, that light freezing my dark eyes until all I see is the light, and all I feel is the pain. Another injurious phone slamming moment of ambidextrous ecstasy. I don’t bleed much, so none of this must be real.
Here ensconced in the land of somnolent fixation, I wonder about all my friends. Can they be trusted? Perhaps. Can they trust me? Perhaps. As much now as earlier, though not quite the same as soon to come. It is what it is. I’d buy them all a drink, but I don’t drink. I’ve smashed up the viral, made it to the morning cigarette. My mind wanders, wondering just what the hell they might see when they look at me, or if they see anything at all. In my imagination, there’s always someplace to go, someplace you just have to be, a certified time to be there. For me, that only exists as a transitory imagination. We can’t really let go in public, but in this sphere of graphic novelization, there is always a chance that things will turn out just like they should. Let me see your marching orders; then we can talk trust.
I think the neighbors downstairs broke someone’s nose. He must really love her. Thank fucking Christ whatever he has ain’t catching. I’ve done some rotten, but all he is is rotten, to the core, like a bad apple. The standard amount of ridiculous salvation should be denied to people like that. Supposedly, he drives a really nice fast car. I’ll bet it cost a fortune in missing teeth. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and he’ll come up here to talk.
Sometimes it is a nasty business feeling like you got what you paid for. I look back at so many fucking moments of indecision that turned on a simple sign from some unseen hand and wonder where this goes from here. Not much a future in pain, but it has a hell of a present tense. Comes with the territory and makes me want to destroy every last word I’ve ever written in the name of hiding the evidence. A little bit more complacency would do us all some good. I’m past any of this making any sense. Binged out on ephedrine flavored licorice and apple juice. Bite the hand that feeds, even if it’s your own.
There’s no end in sight. I still can’t drink. Not for shit. It’s been tested, so I know it’s true. I’m just walking around, trying to remember if eccentric is a synonym for crazy, or just precedent. To all my friends…have a drink on me. When this is all over, I’ll leave some money at the local bar. I’m feeling bad poetry and old music. I’m wondering… what do they see in the reflection of the booze? Do they see a halo surrounding their image made out of glass? Me too. Me too.
Filed under: Poetry
Someone I used to know played Steve Miller’s “Quicksilver Girl” over and over in a dream I had. I’m still in the dark regarding this person, the kind of fog that takes hold after the various scents and fires have been lit and dried. Songs change on the stereo, people fade away into whatever the fuck else there is to disappear in to. No amount of webbing can satisfy the struggle for movement against a background swelling and swaying when the wind blows. Such dissension in the ranks. With as much use as a pre-smoked cigarette, the whole mess is usually saved for the moments between events when curiosity overwhelms the senses. I am not a sentimental kid. I like it easy; taking what comes and spitting out the stuff I don’t like.
The constriction of meaning seems totally imposed. Get comfortable with the idea that you don’t know anymore now than you will later, or even in the past. I can see the difference between constance and constant, the basic rub of the whole cult of definition. They are the nounists; everything has a term to describe exactly what it is; end of story. This mindset works best in formulaic creationalism. Who knows why? The best guess I have is structural. The defect of the theorists is not in their brilliance and expectations, but rather the premise of grouping and like minded synthesis. A fancy fucking term that sounds dirty on your tongue. Nobody can resist the temptation. How does a wise and kindred spirit amalgamate power? Coopting the frontier. Normality becomes a function of time.
No time for staring blankly out across the room. The window shades are drawn, the kind of malicious daily routine that serves a purpose that can’t be seen. Everything pushed on the current until arriving at the appointed time. Mendacity at its finest.
Filed under: thoughtful trips
Another night without real sleep, and the multiplier effect is coming at me like like an aural freight train. I’ve planted a few songs from way back in my childhood around me, as well as turning on the television and coffeemaker for a good measure of sound around me. The pain of the morning is exquisite, something like a handful of knives searching for a home while vacationing in my spinal cord. With all the sound and flashing light, it is impossible to focus on any one thing. With pain riding the oddly formed and non-amphetamine caused sleep deprivation, everything loses rhythm. I’m completely over-stimulated with sound and feeling. Three seconds of John Hiatt rolls into the coffeemaker’s light which mutates into the feeling of being roughly shaken. I have to keep reminding myself that this was on purpose.
There is no morning after for a sleepless night. Like I said, everything rolls around, gets oddly mixed up into things it was never supposed to be, cover songs on New Wave albums, a remixed experience where radial access movement is impossible. I’m perfectly at peace with all of this. For one thing, I was so totally punch drunk that all of the sensory data was mangled beyond recognition. For another, I wasn’t even really sure what existed amongst the fabric of the room, and what was simple malarkey. One time I was certain that I had seen Ken Griffey Jr. walk through the apartment looking for his hockey stick. I even said “Hi Mr. Griffey” before realizing that it wasn’t him. My mind was obviously incapable of trust at such a moment of indecision.
Still, the pain kept on creeping around, from lower back to hips and the jitterbugging back before flying into a thigh. Unfortunately, it was one of mine, but other than that, it was mostly dissociative. It is not easy to separate the mind and the body. It requires brute force of will, and a little concentration. Luckily for me the coffeemaker was done gurgling and had spit out 14 cups of coffee into its little coffeejizzcatcher pot. Getting back over to the pot wouldn’t be pleasant, but it would be manageable. From thence to eternity, and coffee in the morning.
I tried valiantly to remember a brief period of painless existence last summer in an attempt to meditate out of this busted body, but that was an effort doomed to failure. Real good long term agony does not march off into the past that easily. My most recent MRI was filled with incomprehensible gibberish about bone spurs, narrowing canals, scar tissue, impinged nerves, and a legion of other terminology that didn’t mean a goddamn thing except that tiny hands were playing tiny games in the tiniest of places, and it fucking hurt. Lest I sound inconsolable, realize that this is just one of those things that happens. Like a single car crash or any other spectacle, it’s effects were extreme without being advanced.
The whole morass would have been embarrassing save for my inability to actually feel embarrassed. In a greater sense, the whole melange if irresistible physical pain without a metaphysical meaning was interesting. This episode is a continual reminder that not everything has to happen for a reason. All of this aside, the name of the game is distraction. Distraction gets more interesting when sleep deprived, and since there is no choice to be made in any of these circumstances, onward and upward.
On the way back after assembling coffee I stopped in my tracks and stoned out into full daydream mode. This happens every so often, and is not something I have been able to control or influence, merely experience. My hearing and sight are muted and I’ll follow a long chain of events in my mind for as long as the imagery keeps coming. I couldn’t begin to describe what I see, only that it lacks a coherent time line/narrative and extends indefinitely into the future as far as I can tell. No, I can’t see the future. Neither can you, or anyone else, so this is not a predictive secret. It would be much simpler to say that at times existence recedes and possibility accrues. Of course, it all ends on a dime and I’m standing in my hallway with a cup of coffee in one hand and cigarette in another, so make of it what you will.
Two cups of coffee and massive infusions of sound and various rotating light patterns just brings me back to the awareness that this course of action seems to be something of a failure. In a mad rush of mental gymnastics, subjects are rapidly debated, decide, and decried in milliseconds. Everything is spinning, doors and windows are getting confused. Some draconian struggle between the audio and video brings on the worst kind of compromise, the type resulting in neither side getting anything it wants. I want a goo nights sleep, and feel pretty strongly that some part of the back of my mind wants an interrupted time to dream of better climes, better music, and happier moments. Arrayed against this is a constant pain that eats away at the desire to move. Both sides have gone to the mattresses with mixed but mostly disappointing results, leading me to the conclusion that this won’t be settled anytime soon. I would slay a dozen antelopes for a fifteen minute break, and don’t even get me started on what I would kill to feel better permanently.
As the morning wraps on, exhaustion conquers everything else, and I do fall asleep. It is one of those uncomfortable types of sleep, though to call this sleep is an insult to Serta. I’d just as soon chop my left leg off, but I’ve heard phantom limb pain is a bitch. Besides, Svetlana didn’t make it look that fun, and I don’t know any Russian gangsters to get my leg back for me should someone steal it.
For fucks sake, now we’re just inventing new problems, and as you can tell, there are enough real problems to address that we can dispense with these vagaries. I’d like to think this is leading somewhere, but I fear that it is not leading anywhere at all. Onward and upward. I’m going to cook a large meal, or pass out. It is going to be equite a feat to get up and get to the oven, but it does have to preheat.
Filed under: Sports
Just another reason why every once in a while a cold, curmudgeonly rabble-rouser such as Dan Shaughnessy gets it right. Many readers to this space; and I’m talking the ephemeral here; have heard my diatribe about certain volcanoes and geographically explicit coastal areas. This page has just over a thousand plus hits, an average of roughly 4 per day since it began forever and a day ago. Assuming none of these hits are from the same computer, there could be a sizable number of people who know how I feel about the top left corner of America. I’m talking literally tens of people.) At any rate, I direct you to the following link to the Boston Globe:
Some mornings coffee is served with justice, and also milk and sugar. Thanks to Dan Shaughnessy at the Boston Globe for actually daring to publish something as maniacal as this. The writing is sloppy and the evidence cursory, but the subject matter funny and enjoyable, so who gives a fuck?
Money paragraph (under fair use):
“They have very enthusiastic fans and crowds,” Belichick said when asked about Seattle. “The Kingdome was a tough place to play and very loud. This will be an interesting one in their new stadium, playing outside. I think this is a good football team.”
No. It was a good football team. Now the Hawks are one more layup in a Patriot schedule littered with easy games. The Seahawks are not a good team this year. They are exactly the kind of team the Patriots need to play right now. Today’s game should be Seattle’s greatest gift to Boston since Ray Allen.
Sleepless? In Seattle?
Try winless.”
