If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don’t speak often) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me.
It can be anything you want – good or bad – BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.
When you’re finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON’T ACTUALLY remember about you.
ETA: As I read through these responses, I realize I know some really, really strange people…thank God.
here’s the minimalist schedule:
MARCH 6 (next Monday) — Jester’s Cafe, Westfield, MA.
MARCH 29 (last Wednesday in March) — Cantab Lounge, Cambridge, MA. Most likely recording for a DVD that night.
I’m still a-looking for more features, workshops, etc. Let me know if you want the never ending, Intermittent Brokedown Palace Tour to visit you. (And I have no idea why I called it that, so don’t go looking for meaning there, or even any association with the Grateful Dead, as there is none. I probably should change it, but now that I’ve put all these disclaimers on it, forget it, you’re stuck with it.)
i have read so much bad poetry lately i’m thinking of becoming a butcher.
not so much here, but elsewhere…
http://www.cnn.com/2006/SHOWBIZ/TV/02/27/obit.weaver.ap/index.html
Boy, a rough couple of days for old TV stars.
my furniture hates me.
my rugs are conspiring against me.
my love for the plaster is sadly unrequited.
my papers sell my secrets when my back is turned.
in the middle of the night i am drawn awake
by the sound of the wardrobe breathing.
the clothes i have worn for years
slip off me no matter how tightly i fasten them.
i came into the world naked, squalling, and alone.
everything i’ve owned reminds me of that fact
at every opportunity. there’s too much of my life
in my stuff and now i can’t get it back.
my friends are noncommittal
when i tell them this.
my girlfriend has taken to kissing me
only when i keep my mouth shut,
so i’m stuck with the company of inanimate things.
i ask the ridgepole, up there under the roof,
do i even matter to you down here? it remains silent.
it knows the wrong words will bring the house down.
A recent poll revealed the strangest street names in the country.
Read the whole story here: http://www.boston.com/news/odd/articles/2006/02/24/psycho_path_voted_wackiest_street_name/
But for the impatient among you:
10. Tater Peeler Road in Lebanon, Texas
9. The intersection of Count and Basie in Richmond, Va.
8. Shades of Death Road in Warren County, N.J.
7. Unexpected Road in Buena, N.J.
6. Bucket of Blood Street in Holbrook, Ariz.
5. The intersection of Clinton and Fidelity in Houston
4. The intersection of Lonesome and Hardup in Albany, Ga.
3. Farfrompoopen Road in Tennessee (the only road up to Constipation Ridge)
2. Divorce Court in Heather Highlands, Pa.
1. Psycho Path in Traverse City, Mich.
In the interest of inclusion, my own town has “My Way.” One of the streets off of that is “No Way.” It’s nowhere near the highway.
In the midst of the mourning for Don Knotts comes the news of the death of Darren McGavin, aka Kolchak, the Night Stalker.
I didn’t watch huge amounts of TV as a kid. Never watched the Brady Bunch (everything I know about the Bradys comes from people making fun of the Bradys in the years since), for instance, and I don’t have fond memories of a lot of anything else on TV. (Well, OK, Bruins hockey. But I mean, c’mon — Orr, Esposito, Sanderson, Cashman, Westfall, Johnston, Cheevers…)
But I LOVED me some Night Stalker. I religiously watched the travails of the rumpled, porkpie-hat wearing reporter as he battled various beasties from the Dark Side of the human subconscious (my all time favorite was the Pas-Mal Fait (sp?), the swamp critter from the Lousiana bayous that somehow made it to Los Angeles). The show had a dank, seedy feel to it, and a lot of that came from McGavin’s portrayal of the battered truth seeker dealing with the disbelief of the folks who lived solely in the world of Light.
Years later, of course, the same territory was mined more deeply and intricately in the X-Files (or so I hear, as I’ve seen maybe 5 episodes in my life), but Mulder owes a direct debt to Kolchak, who was there before him.
NOTE: Over on the gotpoetry.com forum, where poems are so frequently misinterpreted, someone called this poem “cute.” Am I missing something?
o is for opiates on my
hip, just for kicks.
d is for drink, drink
all over my lap and belly.
s is for smoke,
the color of her eyes.
l is of course for love
that comes too easy,
a young trail i’m nonetheless
holding to as close
as if it were a meridian.
g is for a gold rush,
the hope of easy street, the fine wares
of gangster and greedyguts, and g is for
groaning under the weight of pretending
that i expect something to go well.
s is for spill and sorrow,
second guessing, susceptible.
c is for cleaning up
stains left on the floor
no matter how c for careful i am.
a is for afterglow,
abstraction, absolutes.
i would someday like to say i’ve run the gamut
from a to z,
but there is so much left to do
and what’s already done spells nothing
i can even pronounce.
right now, z stands for zebra,
and i can’t see how a zebra might fit in here
except that after all this it might be good to be a zebra
running like a fire across the grasslands,
doing things without overthinking them,
never doing much of anything alone.
m is for mescaline,
is for peace
of mind. o is for opiates on my
hip, just for kicks. d is for drink, drink
all over my lap and belly. s is for smoke,
the color of my own love’s eyes.
l is for my life’s
that’s wrecked. got no job, no true home,
family a cipher, love’s
a young illusion i’m holding close
as a meridian, waiting for it to help me
track home eventually. g is for the gold rush,
the hope of easy street, the fine wares
of gangster and greedyguts. g is for
groaning under the weight of pretending
that i expect something to go well.
in the morning
i’ll wake up
and slip off the hangover long enough
to dump the trash and pretend
there’s nothing left behind, nothing fell out
to stain the floor. c is for cleaning up
the stains that are always on the floor
no matter how c for careful i am.
a is for absolution, absinthe,
amazing the way i can be when left
to my own devices.
and z?
z is the place i end up
when i lose the thread. the last place
i remember to look. the place
as distant from a beginning as i can find.
currently, i use my bed as my office — got my stuff spread out all over, Powerbook on the lapdesk, and pillows to prop me up.
and a large cat at my side providing heat and comfort.
and a Coke Zero providing caffeine.
and NPR providing news.
I know I said I was staying away for a bit, but had to chime in…there are moments in the chaos and stress that feel pretty good.
for a few days. nothing serious, just feel like i spend too much time refreshing the screen lately when i should be working/writing/doing something else.
hit me at the livejournal e-mail if ya need me.
chocolate, tylenol,
lithium, flatpicks,
water, chewing gum,
knives, rocks, wrappers,
bottles, glasses empty and full,
ointments, salves, lights, lamps,
blankbooks, dried out pens,
books, magazines, hangers,
t-shirts, CDs, socks, bags, hats,
shoes, messages, letters, bills,
batteries, dirt, rug, papers,
and what i really have to clean up
isn’t even on the list.
i want to afford an arsonist
and burn this ground
down to the rocks.
i will sweep up after, i promise.
i do not want it to feel
as though it never happened,
i just want to carry less of it with me
when i go.
Sounds like profiling to me.
I fault the administration for a whole host of things regarding due diligence, conflicts of interest, incredible ignorance of public opinion toward Arabs (which of course they helped create) and the whole notion that Shrub didn’t know about the deal till, say, ten minutes ago; but the reaction has been so fucking xenophobic that it’s downright laughable.
Dark Matter 