Wednesday, June 02, 2004


Typical male slob, that's what I feel like today. In an attempt to verify my virility, I feel like stomping around my pad all day in boxers and a baseball cap; I'm drinking milk straight from the carton, burping at my leisure. I'm allowing the dishes to accumulate in a disheveled heap and if I feel like washing them anytime soon in the near millenium, I'll baptize them with liquid soap and plug in the garden hose from the deck. I'm listening to gansta rap so loud that the entire floor of my apartment is wobbling up and down like a corpulent fat-millionaires double-clefted chin. I'll have the grill going all day, I want BEEF!!! None of this vegetarian ersatz-Boga styrofoam. Pure, unalloyed, Aaron Copland chiming in the background beef--straight from the udder to the grill, blazed up so that you can see little wisps of aroma steaming from my patio like a white flag. I'm walking with a limp and gesticulating with my hands and hell if I care what hemisphere the so--called lid is adjusted to when I leave the bathroom.

Can you tell I'm psyched about Detroit in the NBA playoffs?

I hate the Lakers. Let me amend that previous assertion, I Loathe, Despise, Detest, Abhor (insert your vitiating synonym for hate here) the Lakers. Have hated them ever since I held down folding chairs for the varisty elite in Junior high and sporadically the Coach would put me in at the end of the game to foul. Hate the feigned new age zen tea-room purportedly well-read guru Phil Jackson pawns himself off as. Can't stand bully-Shaq- Hall-of-famer-my white-ass; now how you gonna be an immortalized basketball player if you continually shoot fifty percent from the line? A well-trained monkey can even do that. There was an 80 year old man who made over three-thousand free-throws from a wheel chair a month ago. And here's SHAQ-think he's all that becasue he's looks like a disfigured Pepsi machine--all the brother needs to do is spend three hours a day, thirty-five percent of a workday, breezing free-throws. But, no, typical slothful millionaire. He's just lazy. If he'd quit making recursive loops around the buffet maybe he wouldn't embarrass the entire state of Claifornia everytime his size-18 addidas graces the charity stripe.

And Kobe. Honestly, if he'd play for any other team I'd be cheering the brother on. That was until last summer. If he was living in certain countries across the Atlantic and pulled the shit he did his pecker would already be guillotined and he'd be singing the Star Spangled banner with a high-pitched soporano-shrill. But no, intrinisically he's telling kids to get as much as possible, and if your ass gets caught, get a lawyer who knows how to manipulate the truth.

But that's just my opinion, on a day when I've already built my treehouse in my backyard Tree of Knowledge and thumb tacked a little cardboard No Girls Allowed sign in the tree house window. Sorry Eve, you can frolic in the garden and juggle apples for all I care. Play with snakes, be the more superior genus-- be the form that will inspire countless Adam's to drool their thoughts into aesthtic oblivion. That's totally cool.

Things w. Swissy-I-forget-her first-name are gradually wending their way to ashes. Adam doesn't care if he gets his rib back. He's content with the hollowness he's feeling inside his chest right now. Sometimes when a relationship doesn't work out, its a blessing on both sides of the pending-nuptial fence. Both sides have a chance to grow. As John Lennon once posited, "The more real you get, the more unreal life is gonna get." I couldn't concur more. Find out what is inside your chest that place where you not only feel real; find that place where you feel, and loft their like you are lounging on a futon, sipping champagne, clad in your boxer-briefs and twisted baseball cap, with your mind on your money and your money on your mind. Livin' Large.

Here's some cool lyrics (solace lyrics) by folk singer Greg Brown. Ironically (sychronously) his father, William Brown, was a peripatetic open-bible preacher most of his life, felt called to the ministry, started rustic churches all over Southern Iowa, prayed in tongues. In his fifties William felt the spitual tug and sated a mystical yearning. He went to Arizona to make jewlery and then, sonuvabitch, became Baha'i (I fell over when I heard that). He even re-wired the House of worship before he died so if it burns down anytime in the near future we know who to blame.

"would she have said it was the wrong time if I had found her then
i don't want too much a field across the road and a few good friends
she used to come & see me but she was always there & gone
even the very longest love does not last very long
she'd stand there in my doorway smoothing out her dress
& say "this life is a thump-ripe melon--so sweet and such a mess"

-Rexroth's Daughter


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