(via Brian Turner)
(via my close personal friend Karl Lagerfeld, whose email address I have)
WRITING IS A PERFORMANCE
AND HOW MANY PLAYS HAVE BEEN PERFORMED IN AUGUST RESPECTABLE THEATERS IN NEW YORK CITY BY DRUNK ACTORS
IS THIS A PROPER SCHOOL OF ACTING? DRUNK ACTING?
GUYS, I’M WASTED
AND HERE I AM ON THE INTERNET, HOLDING MY fIREHOSE
I’M THE CLEVERSEST PERSIMMON IN THE BUCKET
AND THE BUCKET IS EMPTY
I WENT TO “DADDY’S” AND DRANK A BASKET OF WHISKEY WITH INTERNET PRIVACY, WHO IS A FINE WRITER AND SOMEONE I ADMIRE DEEPLY, WHO WITH HIS INTERNET SAVVY AND HIS CRITICAL THINKING SKILLS WILL SURELY FIND THIS WEB SITE
I ENJOYED LISTENING TO HIM RESPOND TO MY EGOISTIC, EARNEST ENQUIRIES WITH GRACE AND TINY GLASSES
GOD, FISH, BREATH, WATER
NARNIA, SPAIN, LONDON, INDIANA
CHANGE, SQUASH, BUTTS, FAT,
LABIA, LARD, LARDO, LANYARD
SO IT’S NEW YORK, AND IT’S YOUR OWN CRITICAL FACULTIES PREENING IN THE MIRROR, “OH, OH, THIS DRESS MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A FALUN GIXEN, A TROMPE L’FOXXXXX, WEAR IT, GIRL, AND BE BLONDE AGAINE”
SHAME ON YOU, SHAME ON RICE, SHAME ON ME SHAME ME TWICE
LADLES APPROACHING INFINITY
MY FEELINGS CAN BE TWO THINGS TONIGHT: HURT OR BLESSéD. WHICH ONE YOU PICK? BAMFA
DUDE, I’M WASTED, I HAVE TO GO TO SLEEP, I JUST ATE A TUNA MELT, THERE IS NO-ONE WHAT WILL MAKE YOU A TUNA MELT AT 3 A.M. IN SAN FRANCISCO UNLESS IT’S YOUR GORGEOUS WIFE BUTTHEENISTRIAHG, AND ONLY THEN HER MELTSZ IS FULL OF RESENTMINTS AND PIMIENTOES
I shook a dead cat, elegant and invertebrate, out of the bag. Now the cat’s out of the bag.
I’m in New York City. Every person here is John Lennon doing a spot-on impression of Lou Reed inside of Andy Warhol’s large intenstine. Just kidding.
Every person here is either a cabdriver, an ethnobotanist, or unemployed. Every single person.
No one complains about getting enough sleep. They just wake up, have a cup of coffee, and start writing poems. Then a crabface salad at 1, a Diet Coke at 1:11, then it’s disco sexpo 97 till the next day.
I met a really nice welder. The subway system is Andy Warhol’s large intestine. Lol
Have you heard the parable about the jackass that found himself all but lost in the desert? He pins back his ears in frustration. He takes it out on his desert companion, the magpie. A single, beaten-down cloud hangs in the sky. The wind sounds fake; it’s an audio recording of someone going “wooooomb” over and over.
MAGPIE: We’ll die if we don’t find water.
JACKASS: We’ll die either way. Finding water will prolong our lives for another day, but what’s the use? We’re still lost.
MAGPIE: Ok hang on a sec I’ll figure something out
Yesterday while mopping (aka playing Zamboni’s Space Hockey™ with dirty water in my kitchen) I listened to the Congos’ “Can’t Come In” at high volume; therapuetic.
At one pt they say “A rolling stone gathers no moss” –but it sounds like “gathers no mass” (2:31), doesn’t it? And rolling stones do gather moss—and mass—when they roll over a bunch of “stickymoss.” Sorry, this is where I’m at right now. (Also, fn1: In this paper I will argue that NewVillager‘s vocalists cover two different types of reggae vocals: Ross is toasting, and Ben sounds like he’s been listening to the Congos.)
A new discovery, for the TBR file: Rebecca Solnit in the LRB:
[and why not mention: one of the joys of reading old essays like this online is accidentally finding the deeply trivial letters to the editor that get appended:
Rebecca Solnit refers to ‘”Wanted Man”, which Bob Dylan wrote in 1969’ (LRB, 9 October). The song is generally credited to ‘Bob Dylan and John R. Cash’, and Johnny Cash’s performance makes clear enough how much he contributed to its composition. Perhaps more to the point, though, is the absence, in both the Knopf edition of Dylan’s lyrics and on several websites with Cash’s lyrics, of the line that Solnit quotes. I’d be interested to know what version she refers to.
Boone, North Carolina
Rebecca Solnit writes: I was quoting Nick Cave’s version of the song from memory.
] That’s going to be my catchphrase for the summer: “I was quoting Nick Cave’s version of the song from memory [vintage Mac beep]!”
Dan Weiss got his due from the Chronicle.
Brief moment of self-consciousness about “blogging” while still totally skronked from Friday’s disaster and simultaneous total skronkness at work. Whatever: It’s OK to blog in times of peace, in times of war. Blogging heals all wounds. Tom Scharpling’s dog died on Wednesday. This is what the internet is “all about.”
W. was put to sleep Friday afternoon after a veterinarian at Mission Pet Hospital discovered a splenetic mass had filled his abdomen. He was an old, lumpy dude, and the immediate surgery that was our only alternative would have put him in still more pain, with an emphatically slim chance of survival or recovery.
I feel incredibly lucky to have been with this dog for his last two months.
do you want to go with me to this play tomorrow (Friday) night? I have an extra ticket. Let me know. Don’t feel weird about saying yes.