FireVaney's

This morning, gave myself an enema. By mistake. After that, strange things…

Life’s a potholed one-way street; you, you’re barreling down it full speed in your jalopy on your chopper or your luxury SUV Behind you asphalt’s falling away into oblivion So there’s no — there’s NEVER — any turning back. The dashboard red warning, it’s not blinking the fasten seatbelt icon It’s flashing: Dwelling is putting on the breaks Dwelling is putting on the breaks Dwelling is putting on the breaks And putting on the breaks the asphalt’ll just crumble under your tires And then you’ll have to hop out and run the rest of the way And running the rest of the way’ll wear you down faster sooner than later ‘cause the whole point is later than sooner right? Then faster than later asphalt’ll give way beneath your feet. After that some say you’ll float Others they say you’ll fall. (Narrator sighs. Shakes her head.) But if you must dwell, dwell ONLY upon the page. Dwell that way keepin’ the pedal to the metal Or one foot poundin’ after the other… ‘Course that way any way really, you

Why, you want to know, does your face breakout always the day before, or morning of, a major family gathering (the likes of a wedding, Bar Mitzvah, etc.), or a job interview, or an acting audition, or the first rehearsal, or opening night, or a date? Why, the mornings of these same occasions, won’t the coarse little hairs on your neck shave off ? Why does the razor, always and ONLY on these mornings, leave red blotchy bumps and streaks all over your neck? More, on these particular days? They’re ALWAYS Bad Hair days. It just sticks out everywhere. Why, you want to know, do you look your best always and ONLY on the days when no one you know, and/or no one you want to know, sees you? (This last bit, albeit interesting, is, admittedly, extraneous…) This is why you don’t see me very often. This is why , my hanging-out is rare. ‘Cause for you , even my best , will barely do. -- -- -- -- Re: Collateral. Went to see a Michael Mann movie hoping it would be a David Fincher-esque flick.

To the young, snot-nosed punk letting the weight plates slam on every machine, don’t say, “Kid, keep doing that, you’re gonna break one of those.” Say , with a smile, “Yo, dude. I think you’re stronger than that machine.” At the gym, this gym, the pulchritudinous people — these six foot plus tall, tanned, chiseled, perfectly haired, six-pack tummied Olympian Gods, or, the toned, just-the-right-size breasted, slender legged, perfectly assed, glowingly skinned, silkily haired Amazon Queens — they don’t look at you. They only look at the other pulchritudinous people. And the ugly, the elderly, or the plain lookers, they’re eyeballing everybody . They’re comparing and contrasting. Or, they’re tryin’ real hard not to. This bunch, most the time, they look pissed. Or just tired. Sweaty and tired. The pulchritudinous people, you note, they’re all smiles. They’re pulchritudinous. They’re why the word exists. And they know it. And they know, you know it, too.

We never first met. Never, really. Never in any formal, “Hello, my name is…” / “Nice to meet you, I’m…” sense. The recital, that was my first sight of you. You never saw me enter, you couldn’t have seen me sit, you didn’t see me applaud, you shouldn’t of seen me depart. Okay, maybe you saw me applaud, but there were hundreds of patrons applauding, so, it isn’t likely. You were on stage, behind that big, black Steinway. Everyone else? They sat in the dark. And, my seat was at the back of the mezzanine. Neither was I, somehow, conspicuously dressed. So, no way did you see me — me, in particular. Only, upon my second sight of you — really, the first time we legitimately “met” — several years later? You knew me. Treated me like an old friend. While this was flattering, it made no sense. And I hadn’t the courage to ask how you knew me. Perhaps, I’d forgotten. But, no. Having reflected long and hard, it is undeniable: We never first met. Had you seen me perform? That’s doubtful. Beside