x-x-x-x-x. Politics of Sex, Noise and Depression

| | | — | | The August heat reveals more truth than the Bible, Koran and Bhagavad-Gita all put together. Our divine purpose: mosquito feed. This new friend is trying to get me a gig writing a column for Spin magazine. A diary of sorts. Call me jaded (and cynical bitter to the full), but I fear Spin exists in the “real world” in which I’ll have to portray myself as a freak of nature. Someone who never grew up. Someone who you couldn’t want to be. No one, nowhere. John Lennon’s Nowhere Man. (Please listen. You don’t know what you’re missing. The world is at your command. Living in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans… for nobody.) A spiraling dream, life. No newspaper, no radio, no television. An emotional whirlpool, spiraling in and out of blissful exstacy, leaving it’s rider washed up in the timeless confusion of confusion of confusion of confusing lack of confidence. ‘Till we hear something like, “God gives the biggest challenges to those he feels are strong enough to take it.” What is Two in tha Morning and how dare a poor motha-fucka like I, with rent still unpaid, be babbling up recycled ideas into the black hole of cyber-space.? Cyber-sauce. Who cares? Do you care Renee, Caryn, Lea, Dad? Good Goddess Daddy, you’d be ashamed of me. Not for the acts revealed herein, but for the simple act of these irresponsible meanderings themselves. When I should be sleeping into tomorrows pizza delivery or classroom or banking or some other respectable money-making occupation. (And Dad’s pretty cool too.) My Karma will be to read and listen to this pile of shit for a small eternity. Pity Eminem. (No, he’s bad-ass). Mad Happy’s supposed to go to Lexington on Thursday, but the tires are worn to metal and the gig don’t pay (well… maybe). One of those conVEN-sh’ns. Gotta love ‘em. My balls are so big I can taste ‘em. Like it too. Salty. Rivka’s asleep under the sheet. Protection from the ugly bloodsuckers, one of whom has just launched from my calf, full. We hunt the suckers by their shadows on the wall. Someday we’ll afford window screens. Am I showing off our poor-ness. Think poverty is too strong a word. When I was young, I remember hearing that Ringo Star of The Beatles, when asked what he would be if he wasn’t a Beatle replied, “A shoe salesman.” I didn’t get it. I was young. Hey Randy Meyer, do you care? Wouldn’t it be great if tomorrow we all woke up?

28/03/2001