Another thing you’ll lose when you let newspapers die forever is reading the Sunday Times on a Monday night after two beers. (Substitution: if you’re an alcoholic in recovery, substitute two furious phonecalls to your ex-wife or whatever.) (I feel sympathy for alcoholics in recovery. I’ve had two beers. Stand up comedians don’t publish their routines in print because they’d be apologizing in parentheses until the sun rose on Tuesday morning.
“It’s gonna be a hot one. I’m glad we moved to L.A.” “You can give yourself Deja Vu the same way you can give yourself herpes.” “Blank Dogs on Myspace.”)
Staring at an ad for James Taylor the immediate thought is: “I wish I was James Taylor.” That’s not quite it — I’ve lost the thought. It’s something like: “In death, I want to become James Taylor, as he is. As he will appear in Ozawa Hall, Thur June 30, 8 p.m., in Tanglewood — between Lenox & Stockbridge, MA. Taylor looks like a hospice in the photograph. [LIKE A HOSPICE PATIENT? No, like he himself is a hospice for the dying. ALL RIGHT].” He’s holding the belly of a guitar like it’s filled with the space his coffin will hold. I hope James Taylor’s people don’t reach out to me. That would feel like the iciest skeletal racoon-penis bone-finger cresting the miles between me and my coffin. I just googled James Taylor illness — I wasn’t the first — to make sure he was OK, that these disassociated speculations aren’t out of line. I think I’m OK. [“THRESHING” THE MILES? Fine]. Groundwater seeps through like tears……
God, I’m just kidding. Last night’s dream — I wish I could offer more details — I was using my penis like a frosting gun. I wrote phrases in unspeakable places in a festive birthday-cake cursive. In frosted semen. Pretty gross.