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.
Tuesday, March 11, 2003
Spur Of The Moment...
Party here at my house, I guess.
You're more than welcome.
And I really needed it due to my inability to move or due anything productive,
so I might as well be unproductive in the company of friends and beer, right?
I almost fell in the flower bed in front of my house today.
I'm hanging out with my friend Ijazz. He's Indian, and he's a pilot.
His last name is something I find hard to pronounce.
He has been investigated by the F.B.I., so he's safe.
He once offered to drive me to Vegas. I didn't go.
When he was studying for flight school, he stayed with me and I caught him humpimg his girlfriend.
He looked like a brown lobster flailing out of water. His girlfriend just laughed.
Elvis Costello is guest-hosting Dave Letterman tonight.
My sister is boycotting Fat Free Milk because in my last post I called her a cunt out loud to my girlfriend.
Sindy, come back.
I need to pee.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment
Hi! Comments! Your FACE is a comment! Huh?