Wednesday, October 15, 2014

When all else fails, try stand-up comedy

This blog being dormant for a while, I will have to attempt, like my old musical friends who called themselves the Mumbleducks (former duct installers all)--something like stand-up comedy. Take tragic instance out of your life and turn it into comedy. Like being born into a potato field (true story) where is seems your first cousin was kinda sweet. Or hitting on the same woman for the third time that night, and being told,"Hey,don't you think you're spreading yourself kinda thin?" Charlie Sheen manque', that's what one is. Told by a prospective pick-up, "Sorry. I don't have 'father' issues." Kinda tough, dating as a slightly (slightly?) older guy. Cover the balding head, wear an ear stud. Get a small tattoo. "Any more assholes like you in Newmarket?" Sit there at the bar, waiting for the ladies to make the first move. Hours later, in the mirror, you is a skeleton. Dating is tough for the slightly older guy. Until you finally learn, you don't have to do nothin'. Just sit there at the bar, looking all f*cked up. This is deadly. Even Lizzy the Lezzy will come right over. "Oh, you poor man!" Takes a long time to become a cad. :)

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Discovering the Higgs Field at 76

I have always had a paranoia about  cosmologists, usually  shaped a bit rotund, like the planet.
Sometimes they are a bit more athletic, like de Grasse Tyson, but in most cases, something like old blues players, "Blind, Lane and Crippled Horribly."
It is my belief that cosmologist through the ages, have always been tyrants or politicians,
(Like possibly mistaken Aristotle, "The sun goes around the earth, therefore I should rule..?"

...Certainly the position of the Roman Catholic Church for a millenilum or two.

I had entertained such thoughts until I met Cosmo.

Cosmo, who in appearance, was a little like Deepak Chopra, finally set me straight.
Synchronicity. Yes. Nothing is absolutely so.
Cosmo, perhaps like Dante, suggested to me the only way out of a major problem--was down,
Was he drunk across the hastily wiped table at the English pub?

"The only way out is down.

I was poised at my dumpster, looking for not-yet-stale dated meat.

In the wind, a hlundred dollar bill few by.
Which I plucked forth.
Corollary: Fuck it up completely, and only then will the truth be supplied."





Thursday, August 28, 2014

Writing, just for therapy, on the fly, or, rather on the wobbly walk

Not so steady on my feet these days, I nevertheless  had a drink in a lady's apartment, and after a quarter bottle of rye, went out to the balcony-- and promptly lay flat unable to move.
My lady panicked and dialled 911.
Crap, here we go again. Ambulance, hospital EEGs, outfitted with the usual patient "Borg"
gear.

I didn't want to go through that again, especially in a smoke free hospital (aren't they all smoke free,
the goody-two- shoes medicos?) When they were finished with the EEG "You've got an irregular hearbeat") I picked  a moment while they walked away with the EGG and printout--left my gurney--and made a run for home and freedom.

Over my shoulder, I almost yelled an explanation: "F*ck this noise."

Fugitive.
They called my home the next day to ascertain I was home. It was likely that my heart was okay, but my walking, even before drinking, wasn't so hot.

Trardest thou an antiseptic smoke-free hospital for the comfort of your own home where people could at least monitor you? No. Strike a blow for freedom. Pull all that crap from you chest and arms an flock off.

I wouldn't recommend this escape to anyone, but it seems in the short run...victory!  Lol.