Aesop Rocked. But He Was A Piker Compared To This
January 26, 2008
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Abandon Hope (For Fresh Content) All Ye Who Read Here
January 25, 2008
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[Editor’s Note: Originally offered more than a year ago. ]{Author’s Note: I could use one of those gold-plated Republican jobs right now myself. Then I could afford a better editor, unlike this one that doesn’t exist.}
Can you tell me the way to Hope Street?
They tell me the road to hope is long, and fraught with peril, sir.
(Stunned silence. A moment of recognition. Wry smile.)
Yes, but at least it’s paved now.
The cobbles are made from the hearts of policemen, sir. They are only mortared loosely with good intentions.
You have the gun, so I defer to your judgement. The way?
Go back up the hill and turn right, if you want to find Hope. Abandon hope, all ye who stand here in the middle of the street with a policeman in the sleet.
Would you like a cup of coffee, officer?
I’d like a gold-plated Republican job and a roast turkey with a side order of another roast turkey, and a whiskey and an upholstered woman with a fireplace and access to more whiskey, thank you. But I’ll settle for a cup of coffee, if that’s what you meant.
I’ll need to cross the street to get it. Will you stop the traffic?
Sir, I’ll hold them here until the ammo runs out, then go hand to hand with the stragglers, if you’ll bring a sinker with the joe.
Done, and done.
Dunne and Dunne? Are those your lawyers, sir?
Spring is coming, officer, if we keep this up.
Go. I’ll cover you.
I Could Use Some Good Bass Playing Right Now
January 24, 2008
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Marvin Gaye’s dead. James Jamerson’s dead.
Maybe not.
Elevator Jones 4
January 23, 2008
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You collect yourself in the car. I never knew what that meant before.
I hate the Star Trek doors. I want to feel the weight of a door when I push on it. A building shouldn’t devour you. I don’t want to go in its maw.
There’s something wrong with everybody. Spectator or actor or stagehand or director — doesn’t matter. Everyone’s a mess. There’s a man in pajamas in a wheelchair on the curb smoking a cigarette. It’s twenty. You could grind him up and make a paste of pure corruption.
VCT. That means vinyl composition tile. Twelve inch squares. Hard. Cold. Everyone stares at it and walks. There’s nothing to see and that’s the point.
After a while it’s over. It’s late. What difference should it make in there what time it is? But we are humans no matter the VCT. The moon is up and the sun is down and the day is over and that’s that.
You go down the long lonesome corridor and stare at the flecks in the floor and there’s nothing and nobody for the last fifty yards. You come up hard at a doorway. There’s a badge and some writing and it doesn’t matter what it says. The room has no people and the television is screwed to the wall in the last place it should be, in the corner at the ceiling, and it yells at no one. Not even me. You stare slackjawed for a moment and the corpse of some hoary joke is hurled at the audience of dead souls in an empty room.
Going down.
A Lot Of Thrust. Big Payload
January 22, 2008
4 Comments
I don’t see TV much anymore. Is there anything like Night Music on the tube now? David Sanborn’s hair helmet was great. I used to be up late in the eighties and early nineties a lot for work, and I used to see this show all the time. I got the impression the performers outnumbered the viewers sometimes, at least when the Sun Ra Orchestra was on.
That’s Dan Hicks. Dan Hicks was always just the right mix of sophisticated and crazy, wasn’t he? The intellectual’s Screamin’Jay Hawkins. The song’s not about me. I scare other people. Wait, what?
Month: January 2008
sippicancottage
A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything.
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