Monday, September 29, 2008
Warning: NIce Ladies and Children should not read this blog. But Wallabees and Rheas can..
Some say the blues is getting up in the morning and stepping into the toilet bowl.
Well, it's one of those mornings
I am a caricature out of MAD Magazine #2, "Prince Violent", (picks up bow, drops bow, drops chain mail pants).
And even then, I look down at myself to find I have an extra belly button.
This is the goldenrod that once thrilled a bevy of beauties?
But, said one," I wish the rest of you were as good as your legs."
Well, I'm fancy!
Ah, Lothario turned into old goat.
It's a MAD, MAD world.
I think of "Clark Bent", hobbling from spitoon to spittoon, flies buzzing around him, the last frame in MAD having Lois Lane give him a backhander and yellinng, out of her talk balloon, "CREEP"..
Obviously in a funk this morning. Picking up my geetar. Thinking not so much of Transom-window belly to Leadbelly.
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines
And you shiver when the cold wind blows
Woo. That indeed gave me a shiver.
Well, Norman Podhoretz says when a man has done some good writing, he feels like masturbating.
Says a friend, "Well, you can see the essence of his work."
Well, he did title it "Making It", but it seems all he had made was himself.
But it made him rich.
"Brilliant but broke doesn't cut it any more," says Mr. Podhoretz somewhere.
Well, I am certainly broke. And obvioulsy, not that brilliant.
I am working on another novel. Felt good to finish Chapter One, but I fear I am becoming like my contemporaties, all content and no style. Damn. It could have been a football schedule for the Hamilton Tiger-Cats.
Scratch one chapter.
Gets pretty desperate when you strive for dullness, just to satisfy some fuzzy-eared editor going over my stuff with probably spermy hands. "Write something people want to read."
Well, Ive tried everything, though I must admit Philip Roth got off to a good start with a magazine piece titled (sic)
WHACKING OFF, later retitled to Portnoy's Complaint.
Ah poor Alexander Portnoy and his valentine notes to the family's grocery liver.
Ah well, to each his own.
And yet, and yet, I sometimes get e-mails from bemused guitarist Liona Boyd and old school pal way back.
"Hee...Ivan, are you still writing about masturbation?"
She goes on to say they were some really weird people In San Miguel de Allende.
Thinking of this old cartoon chickens looking like Al Capp shmoos:
Chicken to other chicken:
Do people get laid?
No, people are chicken.
Why, that's it.
Rooster has become chicken.
But then rooster once spent $40,000-- to very nearly get aids.
Ya never know.
"How come the young girld don't go with me any more? I ask a friend in the building.
"You ain't got no money, honey."
Ah, back to the geetar.
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun never shines.
And you shiver when the cold wind blows.
I am not built for tragedy.
I am built for comedy.
Tear up that first chapter. Start a new book
"Naked Came the Ukraiinian."
Envy is ignorance.
And imitation, especially imitation of dull work, is suicide.
But then a man from another ethnic group, Norman Podhorets has beaten me to it
Well, damn it all, Saul.
Have you ever tried women?
Not so lonely that way.