INT – BAR – NIGHT
Me: Goddammit.
Brother From Another Mother: Now what’s wrong?
Me: This is just ridiculous.
BFAM: What’s ridiculous?
Me: That we’re not married.
BFAM: Dude…I’m flattered as all hell, and you know I love you, but…
Me: Not to each other, you blowhole. That neither one of us is married. To anybody. Why the hell are we single?
BFAM: Um…because we want to be? Since when do you want to be married? Continue reading
Some seventeen Saturdays ago I was snuggling soundlessly on a sexy sectional with the girl who likes grellow, watching a bit of a chick flick. And it wasn’t half bad. Michael Scott from The Office starred in it, and he’s always good. Anyway, toward the end of the thing, “The Air That I Breathe” by The Hollies came on. I had heard the chorus to that song dozens of times, but I had never listened to the whole thing, soup to nuts, until right then. And my God…the melody during the verses….the word that first came to mind was “haunting.” The lyrics were beautiful, perfectly suited to the song. “That is exactly the sort of song,” I thought, “that I’ve been trying to write for 35 years.” The second word that come to my mind as I was listening enviously to this song was “familiar.” Hauntingly familiar. I knew I hadn’t heard this song before, because I would remember it, but, impossibly, simultaneously, I knew I’d heard it before.
Later that night, I found “The Air That I Breathe” online and listened to the shit out of it.
…and a laugh like last life’s lullaby.
Alas.
Dear Reader,
It’s been too long, and for that I’m sorry. For what it’s worth (and it ain’t worth much), I’ve been busy doing Very Important Things.
I spent the last few weeks grading standardized tests. Tests in which fifth graders from around the country were asked to list three qualities writers possess that other people do not. The “correct” answers come from a reading the students are provided that lists some pretty banal attributes allegedly found in all writers, such as “writers daydream a lot,” (which is just silly… I’ve known scads of daydreamers who not only couldn’t write but had trouble even reading) and “writers see the world not as it is, but as it could be.” I actually like that second one rather a lot, and would go further to say, “as it should be.” But whatev…they didn’t ask me. Continue reading
prelapsarian
adj.
Characteristic of the time before the Fall of Man; innocent and unspoiled.
Sunrise’s quiet
while I silence
the riots
inside.
Reviewed by Jayson Gallaway on 12 March 2013 .
out of 5
Unlike other ethnic restaurants that boast an “authentic” dining experience (I’m looking at you, Benihana, where the last three chefs who juggled Ginsu and gyoza and made onion volcanoes and pretended to throw shrimp at me in traditional Japanese manner were named Jose, Esteban, and Gonzalo, respectively), the staff of Wonderful Chinese Restaurant in Citrus Heights, California is authentically Chinese.
The family that runs this restaurant appears to be largely antisocial and downright angry at your presence, and greets your arrival with simple rudeness, but that quickly escalates into open hostility and apparent contempt. Continue reading
“Yes, I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” ~ Oscar Wilde
Dear Reader,
I am without an internet connection for a bit, but I’ll be back soon. In the meantime, please enjoy this video of two guys in Africa who really love ice cream and are quite convinced that you do too.
Reviewed by Jayson Gallaway on 19 February 2013 .
out of 5
Louis Wain was an English artist back around 1900 who painted cats. Well, I mean, he didn’t actually go around tagging neighborhood cats …he painted pictures of cats doing people things: wearing clothes, playing golf, litigating, whatever (the proper term for this is anthropomorphic, but my old lady is tired of me flaunting my vocabulary, so I’m trying to tone down the sesquipedalia). Anyway, his paintings were pretty popular in jolly old England, and his work was widely published and he managed to eke out a living for a while. But then things went south for Uncle Lou. There’s some debate over whether he was schizophrenic or just really Aspergery, but either way you slice it, he went nuts. Which is no big deal: artists go nuts all the time, it’s part of the gig. What’s remarkable is that he kept painting cats throughout his decent into madness, and oh boy…you should see what happens to the cats in his paintings when the carnival comes to town and sets up its tent in Louis Wain’s brain. Seriously, go check it out.
Anyway, I mention Mr. Wain here only because until this week he was the artist that I thought most effectively documented how one’s vision of the world warps during nervous breakdowns and psychotic episodes. But then I saw “Troll 2.” Mother of God.