I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Sunday, January 12, 2003
One Of These Days...
I want to buy a bunch of Duraflame firelogs and light them all, and spell out something to a passing plane. I dont know what. But I want to do it.
And I won't make the same mistake that Gilligan made in the episode when the castaways used Mr. Howell's brandy to light some palm tree trunks on fire. For some reason, astronauts were orbiting low, the Professor figured out that they would be seen, so they spelled out SOS. Gilligan did something stupid and messed it up so that it spelled out SOL - which was the name of one of the passing astronauts.
I could be lazy and just spell out a bad word. But then Gilligan might mess that up too, and the passing plane would wonder why I spelled out "Fork You".
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