Sweet on the Pill (The Devil has our Lunch)

Aristotle stated that one is not truly human until one laughs - laughter being the expression of a soul. He supposed an infant to be soulless up to that point. Usually a newborn laughs within the first couple months of life - I’m told I didn’t laugh until I was three-years old. 

It's not what's written in the diary that's humiliating; it's the spelling errors.

I was with Allen the other day and we took in a show. He's a poet of sorts, an interesting guy, who likes to get around. He says things and when I challenge him he gets very romantic about objects. Going on and on with very big words he declared the inherent animism of material speaks to the hand of the artist - consuming him as he consumes it. I asked him to prove it. We went downtown to see a nice show of butter sculptures. Allen asked to whom these objects might belong and the door bunny said the fat man. I asked her why he's the fat man and she told me he can't stop licking his fingers. Allen's got a keen sense.

From the Green Coast and Paris Underground

It's expensive to drink, eat, and sleep in Paris if you choose to pay. We'd been in town only four hours before we committed our first crime. Paris can be done on the cheap if you got quick hands and fast legs. The trick is when you run away, and someone's yelling, just call back "Merci!" Wear a few layers so as you cut up, down and thru the streets, avoiding the waiters and bakers you just stiffed, you can shed one shirt for the other - ball it up and hide it in you hand. Bold colors work best - and hats. Hats to put on after you jump from your beautiful terrace seat. Everyone told me that the french are rude - I didn't experience any of that, I thought that they were a friendly and generous people. I recommend making the trip if you can. Everything and everyone is beautiful - but you can skip the Louvre - it's overrated.

Soft edges, or I don't live today (maybe tomorrow)

Terry Jones is stuck in my butt. Like right up in there, and he hurts. I find him and then I gotta pick him out and that hurts even worse. He’s always showing up at the worst times too. My doctor has no advice other than to suggest that I not go anywhere near a cable news camera or I risk a serious infection of asshole. I guess I should clarify; Terry Jones, as in The Terry Jones (the psychopathic pastor from Florida) is not in my butt. I’ve just named the dirty little wads of TP that get caught up there after him (sorta’ like little prayers I can crush down the drain with my heel). Even if you’re dumb enough to agree with his “anit-islamic” sentiment – the limp prick still burned a book! When did that become a good idea? Yet, Terry Jones is effective – and what I mean to say is that Terry Jones inspired me a great deal. I’ve had a vision. A vision of America, the United States, the greatest country God could imagine, (whatever flavor of crazy you prefer), as my butt - America as a giant butt. You see, there’s the left and the right, both fairly benign when taken alone, but where the two shall meet things get a little dirty; this cleavage of darkness, crevasse of reason, black hole, has destroyed all sanity and intelligent discourse. Most of us reside somewhere on the rolling expanse of either hemisphere bordering this great valley, but as science has proven a positive cannot exist without its negative. Where these two regions of ideology are supple and full of interesting ideas, a mighty fault line divides the pair where they meet, and typically nothing you’d really want to hold onto comes out of there. The big problem is that certain individuals live there in the valley and spew idiocy like napalm–we all get burned. You already know about Terry, but Palin has a ranch, Jon Kyl just moved in along with Limbaugh, Reagan is buried there, Bush kept a summer home, and I’ve heard rumors that Obama is looking for a time share.  Suffice it to say it’s been very difficult getting clean – these phonies hang in there, and hypocrisy is sticky. I’m leaving for Europe in the morning and I’ll admit it – I don’t know if I should defect or wax.

A Life of Radiant Desperation

Men of boys or some reference; Ishmael, or Salinger’s rebel if you prefer (at what age did you read it ‘cause it matters). We are these things. I’m some kind of ignorant infant in a swarm of older boys holding to me to rules of a game I didn’t know I was playing. There’s time on the clock and I have no choice but to run the ball down the field. So sad. I would like to speak to people as they deserve it, but that’s a foul.  I would like to live, or imagine myself to live, without contradicting myself but it’s an obvious prerequisite to get on the field. I can see men on the tv! Men in holes bringing out black gold - sensitive stoicism. I think I can score some points here. We must succumb to the rules of our game. One rule: complete and impenetrable devotion to the ironic duplicity of the game – replacing religious tyranny with democratic ultra violence. Benefit the youth by sacrificing their bodies, and the elders will reflect (and audience is entertained).  The teams’ been on the field a long time and I can hear some string music; just one musician, very small and far away in the distance – this tune is for all the whiners. You never grow up and if you think you did you failed.  Read this – players quit everyday, but not mine. I’m sorry for apologizing for your loss, because I don’t get it, it’s not my loss. I’m sorry for mine when it comes, and you won’t get it. We never will. I’m just getting into the second quarter, and coach hasn’t made his speech yet and I got nothing to go on, so I think the best thing to do is hustle. We play through, and our game gets better or it doesn’t. The field gets bigger and the players faster, but I’m getting help - I’m playing in the ref’s blind spot. 

Wash your privates twice behind the ears

I hear alot of things. Stories and rumors. The big problem is that it's all good. Every story, no matter how poorly communicated, is worth something. Granted the better the storyteller the greater the impact/meaning/effect of the story - we get this. I find that my taste inhibits me, more often than not, from taking in a good story. I'm too concerned with the effect of the communicator; his/her presence and theater. Homer could tell you a shit parable and you'll listen, Jerry down the street could express the great American epic and you won't hear him. Jerry is a crap storyteller. But Jerry's story might be pretty good. I have to feel for Jerry. It's not his fault that he can't speak for himself, but it's just that I want to hear something with some character, give it to me good. Jerry has things to say, but he's so dumb it doesn't work. That's what frightens me. We'll gather for our storytellers. If you tell it, people will listen. Right now thirteen year-old white boys have captured our attention. I'm so scared - and my cave isn't dark enough to block out this sound. 

Things to meet in a Room

Jerry wore a cowboy hat. Beneath that a patrolman's cap, tuxedo jacket, brown paisley belt, checkered slacks and a black pair of hushpuppies. Susie wore ribbons. A pink tee shirt with "Male Gaze" in black block lettering printed across the chest, cut off jeans and two mismatched flip-flops. They had left their sunglasses at home. Every piece of fashion carried meaning, signs for others to read, and for Jerry and Susie the pieces added up significantly. Problem - fashion's capital is trend, and the TV broke so they got nothing to go on. Blair wears no hair. White cotton ties over yellow dress shirts, balloon pants and well-kept boots. Susie goes home with Blair, not because Blair has any greater quality than Jerry, but because Jerry wore black shoes and a brown belt without irony. Susie doesn't need the TV to tell her to trust her instinct - she got out as fast as she could.  Jerry has since fixed the TV and Susie and Blair moved in together - they got the last cold water flat in the city.