I used to talk to myself. Now I have cats.
I once heard Rachael Ray say, “It’s a dinner you can make, literally in no time.” That’s not possible.
George Carlin wrote this:
“Here’s something no one ever wrote before: ‘Big bats down to one five, five over cross, up the thingo. Nose, baseball, hieroglyphics, hopscotch, pouch. Inevitable, two four eight, four eight, four eight, four eighth. I. I with a two, two, two. Three. Four. Five. Down here, Mother, we’re all home now. So long, Jill. Beep beep. Hungry, hungry. Are you? I couldn’t stand it. Not in my house. Up yours, too, Don. He’s packin’ them in! We’ll all try it. Fifty-five? Okay, but not me.’ No one ever wrote that before. Not even Shakespeare. I’m proud of that.”
I wrote this:
Big bats down to one five, five over cross, up the thingo. Nose, baseball, hieroglyphics, hopscotch, pouch. Inevitable, two four eight, four eight, four eight, four eighth. I. I with a two, two, two. Three. Four. Five. Down here, Mother, we’re all home now. So long, Jill. Beep beep. Hungry, hungry. Are you? I couldn’t stand it. Not in my house. Up yours, too, Don. He’s packin’ them in! We’ll all try it. Fifty-five? Okay, but not me. It. No one ever wrote that before. Not even Shakespeare or George Carlin. I’m proud to be clever like that.
Like a brand new BMXers bike after hitting a jump, I’m hard to handle. Wow, that was way too long. I’ll keep it anyway, fuck you. I don’t care. It’s good enough. If you don’t like it, I don’t really care. It did something for me. It made me feel good about myself. Get up off me.
Things I am quite particular about: How the cream cheese is spread on my bagel.
Something I saw today and I can’t quite figure out: A woman with a seeing eye dog at a parade.
Just put a stupid look on your face and smile.
When I walk around town dressed as Superman waving to people I realize that the terrorists have not won.
I don’t think it was the Europeans who discovered America. I don’t think it was Christopher Columbus. Hell, I don’t even think the Indians discovered it. I believe the buffalo did.
I was going to write something funny but I couldn’t think of it so this is here instead.
White men can’t jump. Black women can’t spell. Mexican men can’t play chess. Black people can’t come up with non racist movie titles. Chinese girls can’t sing. African people can’t play video games. Black female teenagers can’t shut up on the bus. Asian boys can’t play rugby. Eskimo people can’t tan. Black men can’t stop talking about being it.
One time I left my half grinder on the table at work while I mopped. I wanted to take a picture of it. I would call it, “The Lonely Grinder.” There it was, half a grinder, missing its other half. It must have been lonely. There it was, sitting on the edge of the table. It is on the edge, it is alone. It is the lonely grinder. It is missing its other half, it is on the edge, it is just sitting there waiting to be eaten. It has no purpose. It can do nothing but wait, alone on the edge without its other half. I picked up that grinder and ate it as I drove away from work. Lonely grinder no more. That shit was in my stomach. It was now part of something. It was now part of me. It now had a purpose - my sustenance. It now had a meaning - keeping me alive. This has been the story of The Lonely Grinder. Soon to be seen at Mass MoCA.
GG Allin would have been much better had he been a comedian.
What is style if it can be stolen? What is religion if it can be refuted? What are ideas if they can be ripped down? What is life it can be taken away? What is freedom if it can be locked? What is fire if it can burn out? What is hope if one is to know it might not always work? What is anything if it isn’t something?
No one turns down Cheez-Its. At least they shouldn’t.
I could have laid down a beat, instead I just speak. I live in a valley but I’m a mountain, my talent still yet to peak. I could have waited for music, I don’t need it, the words don’t need to use it. I could have produced some sort of record, got out the guitar, but what for? I could have strummed, but instead I don’t waste the time, I just sit around writing, letting it come. I could have found another and collaborated, but writing isn’t good when it’s being masturbated. You need to make love to the words, can’t leave them alone, must come together with them, connect it all with your soul.
For fun, at a wedding instead of throwing rice, throw Chinese people. They are about as numerous as rice itself, and almost as small. They don’t taste as good, though.
Theater is not always on stage. Some of us live life as if the planet itself is the stage from which we perform.
As you get older, you don’t remember what you once were. You lose something by not remembering this.
Save The Whales…blubber. We need that shit for oil.
A Pile Of Vomit
What am I thinking about? I’m thinking about the fact that I don’t have that much I am thinking about. I’m thinking about how I can’t think of anything to write about. I’m thinking about having to force writing out. I’m thinking it is like I am bulimic and I just ate and now, because I have this writing sickness, I have to stick my finger down my throat in order to get this up. Well, here is some forced vomit. Taste good? It always feels somewhat right, even though it probably shouldn’t. Even when it is forced. Even when I have to make it happen. There’s a little pile there are on the floor, take a look at it, tell me what you think.
Thanks for reading.