Saturday Night Jizm-Jive (Dedicated to Mr. Cobb) Gracie P? You wanna hear more re: this scribbler’s fancy with the glorious Gracie P? You really do? Alright. You asked. ‘ Member that. All I’m sayin’. First, though, you all who haven’t had the pleasure of a gander at the glorious Gracie P, click yourself an eyeful anywhere right here. See that? She is f-ah-ha-ine. Is she not ? ‘Course, beyond her f-ah-ha-ine-ness this scribbler don’t know the first thing ‘bout the glorious Gracie P. What this scribbler will tell you, is that a boy, a boy not only can , but a boy, he WILL , and he DOES dream. ‘Course this boy writing these words—this scribbler’s scribblings you’re eyeing right here , right now —he ain’t likely ever to set foot in the same room as a room in which the glorious Gracie P is present. Aw, but, he’s lucky bein’ in the same hemisphere , let alone the same solar system . This boy’s got it made just havin’ spotted her heavenly heart-heaving sight once . Never— the les
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Showing posts from April, 2005
Reminds me whenever I’m looking to rent an apartment—so many times the For Rent sign or ad will ask you to call for the rental rate. Why? Why waste your time? Why waste my time? Because is it really ever negotiable? If you want to rent the place, you’ve got to pay what the landlord wants you to pay—right? Anyway, it’s usually the Goddamn janitor who shows you the dump—and it’s not like this dope has the power to negotiate anything. And here’s a guy, the Goddamn janitor guy—who, nowadays, always has a title more politically correct, if not, at least, ego-boosting than the title of “janitor.” No, no, he’s not the “ janitor ,” he’s the “ Building Engineer .” He’s a guy paid to do the least possible amount of work, because, otherwise, the landlord’s overhead increases . Right? The guy who shows you the apartment is the same guy who can barely keep the bathtub drain from backing up every two weeks. Sorry, he’s not negotiating the rent with you. If I can only rent at six hundred dol
[He displays an apple for all to see…] Apples must be… crisp . When they lose all crispness—and this occurs shortly before the innards begin to turn brown—you should no longer be interested. A soft slice of apple—you, the veritable consumer, should spit right out. And you should not care how it looks after your teeth have attempted the munching of it. A non-crisp apple is an insult to your teeth. Not that you should not like apple sauce . No, no, love apple sauce. Nor am I commenting here on baked apples, or apples one finds in a pie. But when you bite out of an apple you believe to be ripe for consumption, you’ve got to hear , you’ve got to feel , that essential crispness. Because that is happiness. Not a “warm gun,” but a crisp apple. Happiness is also a brand new toothbrush, preferably an Oral-B…but we’re talking about apples right now. Jewel, Dominicks, Kroger, Piggly-Wiggly. The produce section: The cheaper the apple, chances are, the longer it’s been sitting in the bin.
What he does is, he leans over a chosen receptacle, yawns open his mouth; lets gravity do the rest of the work. Then she revises to you, “Really, all the work.” She hates it. That this is the way he doesn’t spit out his gum. She points at the framed photo—the two of them smooching less than a year ago; says, “ That’s how lazy.” As if, perhaps, this snapped shot was, on his behalf, just a pose; a half-hearted effort. “Yeah,” shouts Bobby, later, at the bar, through the smoke, over the jukebox cranking Seger and the Silver Bullet Band. “Yeah,” he shouts, soaking in the aforementioned second hand from you. “But marriages?” he says, “They’ll break up over less than even that .” What you wanna know is, what’s “less than even that ”? What possibly ? Bobby, though, he won’t share. Being a recent divorcé and all. And for something like the seventh time.
We barely knew each other. A good thing. This way, you see, you’re in my heart in the best possible way. My love, or whatever it is, is this impossible ideal. And it makes me happy. Or, at least, it does now. Finally . You’re perfect for me in a way that is an utter fantasy. Thank God you’re not now in my life to ruin it. Odds are, if we knew each other any better, ultimately, you would’ve killed me, or I would’ve killed myself. Anyway, if you ever happen to read this, and realize it is about you , please consider quitting cigarettes; consider cutting way down on the drinking; and consider having more self-respect—at least, with regard to your career goals. You have it within you to make quite an impact on the world. Of that, I have no doubt. Lung or liver cancer, however, might set an otherwise avoidable limit on said impact. Don't die full of potential. Die having made your mark.
Anyway, spending money, of course, is easier than checking a book out of the library. Because then you have a deadline. Also, you have to figure out the Dewy Decimal System. At Borders, on the other hand, everything’s arranged topically and alphabetically. Which really is great. But with the Dewey Fuckin’ Decimal System—even if I’ve written down the exact categorized combination of numbers, letters, and decimal points—I STILL need a snooty librarian to find the book. And that’s assuming I can even locate a librarian in the place. It’s as if, at a library, they don’t want you to find the book. Don’t get me wrong—I’m REAL happy the Card Catalog is, for many libraries, a thing of the past. But why can’t the library be arranged like a Borders, or a Barnes & Noble? There must be a logical reason. But can’t logical reasons be logical and stupid at the same time? No? Doesn’t the Dewy Decimal System seem to defy common sense? Of course, of course, I’m speaking from a position of tre
As you may’ve noticed, your local White Hen is no longer a pantry . Pantries, of course, are no longer in fashion. But white hens —they never go out of style… Pink hens, mauve hens, rufescent hens—now, along with pantries—have gone the way of the outhouse, the bell-bottom, the eight-track-cassette, and, of course, the digital clock-radio you could set with a clockwise and a counter-clockwise button. (I defy any of you to find a new digital clock-radio with a counter-clockwise button. Ah, but, them were the days...)
Why can’t You grant the guidance so many millions plead for? Why do Your true expectations remain in the dark? What is the problem with, once and for all, putting Your foot down; pointing to any one of those revered ancient texts and declaring: “ This book; this religion; this way of conducting life”—why not? Or do they all have it wrong? And if they do , why can’t You just SAY so? Do it like George Burns did it; or, more recently, how Morgan Freedman did it with Mr. Carrey. Why not? Just lay it out so everyone can understand the way it’s supposed to be. Or, is it, now , THE way it’s supposed to be? All this killing and suffering and bullshit? You want it this way? Is it really all going according to plan? Because I don’t know who or what to believe. Our President prays, I’ve no doubt, for guidance—and no doubt—he firmly believes You are offering exactly that. But so do so many suicide bombers—they’re convinced You’ve given them the go-ahead. So when I ask for guidance wh
Boil orders rock HARD . I say, we need more boil orders in this supersonic society of ours! Ain't nuthin’ like boiling pot after pot of water. Ain't nuthin ’ like stalking every Walgreens, CVS, White Hen, and Jewel on the North Shore for bottled water and Toweletts. Nuthin’ like it in the world! Can't brush your teeth; can't even wash your frackin' fruit!
Nuthin’ starts your day like an over-flowing toilet of your grandfather’s piss and shit seeping through to the first floor… Little yellow droplets plopping upon your forehead… Streaming down, over the bridge of your nose, cascading over your lips, and, now, dangling off your chin… (The author writes of this actual, minutes-ago experience.)