“The world is a comedy to those that think; a tragedy to those that feel.” -Horace Walpole.

What the fuck is wrong with us?

Congress refuses to help people out of the mess they made. Unemployment for 1.3 million families abruptly revoked from families who’d much rather have a goddamn job that pays more than $7.25 an hour. 4 or 9 million by the end of the year, depending on what you read. We spend how many times as much on defending, promoting and even subsidizing the most profitable industry in the history of humankind who, by the way, would have us believe it’s perfectly okay to drink flammable tap water?

West Virginians can’t drink their water but a poll reveals they don’t blame the company that poisoned it.

WTF?

I get no pleasure out of anything anymore. I don’t look forward to anything.

That’s not true.

25 songs I want to hear today.

Ode to Billy Joe (Bobby Gentry), Back in Black (AC/DC), Junebug Vs. Hurricane (Lucinda Williams), Shadowboxer (Fiona Apple), Sultans of Swing -live version (Dire Straits), Bloody Well Right (Supertramp), Funk 49 (Joe Walsh), Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes (Paul Simon), Walk and Talk Like Angels (Toni Childs) She Talks To Angels (Black Crows) My Hero (Foo Fighters), Big Iron (Marty Robbins), Ice Cream Man (Van Halen), The Zoo (Scorpions), Barricuda (Heart), Wichita Lineman (Glenn Campbell), Boy Named Sue (Johnny Cash), Tommy the Cat (Primus), Life Without You (Stevie Ray Vaughn), Dragon Attack (Queen), When The Levy Breaks (Led Zeppelin), Imagine (John Lennon), I will Always Love You (Whitney Houston), Roll With The Changes (REO Speedwagon), Rock Candy (Montrose).

What this is, is a vulgar display of abject prowess.  A tragedy.  A mash up of unused ideas that weren’t going anywhere but sounded pretty good.

Bear with me.

There was this zaftig woman once with bleach blond hair who french kissed me in a glass elevator at the Tropicana in Vegas. It was awesome. I kissed her back. I saw it coming. She telegraphed all of it. I ended up in her room much later and told her to leave her bra on because it was white and her tits looked fantastic in it.  She had a great tan and her bikini lines were above the cups. She was very sweet and accommodating. I think her name was Tammy.  Wow.  She gave me her card and a warm damp towel.

I never had any contact with her again.

We as a country, insist on making stupid people famous.

I’ve pretty much given up on the idea of suicide. Really hard to prepare for. Afraid of all the solutions. Despite there seeming to be a good reason to do it every day, I’m resigned to the fact that I will probably die before I really want to anyway. Now I tell myself I shoulda ended it that day when the supreme court masturbated in public or that day a year or so ago, when congress forced it’s mottled penis in the ear of an innocent weeping kitten.

I have found that one thing women I’ve had anything to do with have in common is a beyond casual, often profound appreciation of quality bread products. Garlic knots. Toast points. Fresh, yeasty, aromatic loaves. With rosemary and garlic. In fact, I’ve never myself had sincere fondness for a woman who’d no less than swoon over a fragrant crusty loaf and the availability of various oils, tapenades and condiments for the dipping, immersion and unctuous slathering.

Chicks are sensual. So are cats. I find myself surrounded by estrogen and femininity.

The real problem is this.  We used to be the most powerful nation in the world.  We are still the mightiest and the wealthiest nation in the world.  By virtue of those things,  our corporations are the most dominant in the world.  And those corporations have left America behind.  It’s truly a global economy and America doesn’t matter nearly as much as she used to.  American companies have decided that. 

Oh boy.

Maybe I should become a luthier and a socialist.

I get up in the morning and regardless of the success of my sleep cycle there is juice. Tomato, apple, cran-grape, orange, Gatorade and often something flavored with blueberry and or citrus. We’re big on juice.  So we bought a juicer.  Now I make all kinds.  One day a week I buy a couple bags of good organic produce and grind it into liquid.

While I do this I look for and listen to records I’ve forgotten about.

I check my email. We’re still bombing Yemen and governor Christie is such an asshole that he’ll never even be elected dog catcher and Beyonce shows some thigh in a breathtaking seasonal frock while her sister beats up her husband in an elevator.

I think Jennifer Hudson was way hotter when she was “fat”.  She did that because bitches were jealous.

Maybe I should become a luthier and a socialist.

Who the fuck is Justin Beiber?

Why do you need more ID to vote in red states than to buy a gun or even liquor?

Why do people care more about who gets medicare/food stamps/unemployment/abortion than who gets a gun?

Why do most pro life people assume that if you’re pro choice, you’re pro abortion? Why can’t they understand that all it means is there is a modicum of humility and a great deal of common sense in our understanding that it’s just none of our goddamn business?

I contemplate the living room from different angles. I talk to myself. I talk to bathroom. Then I contemplate the bathroom. I conclude we need a hamper and shelves. I just like shelves. We don’t really need them. The toilet is pretty dirty. So is the sink.  We could use a hamper.

Maybe I should become a luthier and a socialist.

I contemplate the kitchen and how there is no such thing as too much counter space.

We bought a new broom. We needed one for the linoleum.

When I can longer decide if I’m insane or getting a real grip on things, when I just have no idea, when epiphanies begin to pop like those old instant flash bulbs on cheap cameras that leaked blue foam all over the smooth foil hemispheres they came nestled in……………..

When all else fails, I get in the shower and begin my ritual. I avoid it because it is my most introspective zone. It is here my future and past collide.  I shave and wash and scrub. Where did I go wrong? My torso is immense. Where do I go from here?  My legs seem to atrophy. I wonder if this is cancer. My mother grows more alone by the day. I spare no yoga when cleaning my trunk and my junk. Maybe this infection isn’t as bad as the last. My sciatica seems to be better because of my new shoes. I have a toothache and just got insurance.

I recenter the bath mat.

I’m a salesman.

It’s an excellent product.

It saves lives.

It’s cheaper than a cable or cell phone bill.

They just want to see the fucking brochure.

If I emerge from the shower and my youngest kitty is there to yell at me while not looking at me………   she just asks what into space.  I assume it will be a good day.

She cracks me up.

I take stock.

I have a family. There is love. They care about me and I care about them. They love me and I love them.

I count my blessings.

A very dear friend said to me not long ago in an airport lounge that she would obtain a bottle of pills and that would be it.  If it got bad, she meant.  If it got to be too much she meant.  She’d just take the whole bottle. She looked me in the eye when she said said it.

She saw me.

I saw her.

That blue foam goes cold just a minute after the bulb pops.

“To be, or not to be, that is the question—
Whether ’tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?” -The Bard

I just can’t stand it.

I think I still have potential.

Drinks for my friends.

11 Responses to “The land of several large breasted women for a month one night”