FireVaney

Rest assured, when really bad things happen in my little world, I am utterly without words. Life, after all, is very, very snug here, in my suburban cocoon. For Christ's sake, to think I was loosing sleep over an undelivered city vehicle sticker! I fake intelligence—or, perhaps, that much is clear.

While I cannot draw a distinction between infatuation and obsession, I certainly do not know what it means to love. Okay, scratch that. Having looked up all three, I've a handle on what afflicts me.

There he is, the FireVaney—yet again replaying the unremitting stretch of silken, violinistic sawing nestled (roughly) 3 minutes into the fifth track of String Quartet No. 5 by Philip Glass, performed by the Kronos Quartet—flailing his arms as if some crazed orchestral conductor. Why does this mad "conducting" of the music better connect him to it? Is his pen recklessly inscribing nonsense into the air (when it should be draining itself upon the page below) not some upper-limbed manifestation of the Modern Dance mode—albeit seated?

With a bit of a smirk, Dad liked to say, "You need to suffer more." Well, it's a work in-progress, Dad. He also liked to say, and always with a twinkle in the eye, "You need more supervision." After thirty-four years, Dad, that one, I'll give you.

With a bit of a smirk, Dad liked to say, "You need to suffer more." Well, it's a work in-progress, Dad. He also liked to say, "You need more supervision." And always with a twinkle in the eye. After thirty-four years, Dad, that one, I'll give you.

The thinner he is the more neurotic he is but the thinner he is.

"When would he learn not to plunge into the labyrinths of an opinion when he had not the slightest idea of how he was to emerge? And before a hostile audience!" — Beckett, Murphy

First thing every morning after pissing: he steps on the scale, waits for it to register, curses it, he steps off the scale; he steps on the scale, waits for it to register, curses it, he steps off the scale; he steps on the scale, waits for it to register, curses it, he steps off the scale; then he gets on with the rest of his day, stuffing his face throughout most of it.

" '...as it is with the love of the body, so with the friendship of the mind, the full is only reached by admittance to the most retired of places.' " —Beckett, Murphy

There is a God and He hates my guts. But this is not news. I'm just smiling at the reminder. Thanks, you Biggest of all Lugs. You offer nothing, and I shall, wholeheartedly , embrace it.