Posted 9:08 PM by sport

Partook of some absinthe the other night. Highest alcohol content of any swill I've ever swallowed as well as the highest percentage of thujone (the wormwood-derived neurotoxin that makes absinthe illegal) of all brands listed in my research. The effect was powerful and helpful even though I could FEEL the threat of poisoning from sip number one. I'll skip descriptions of the high. It was nice, and I didn't need to drink very much of the stuff (not that I physically could - but I still had more than I should've). Naturally, I drank it alone. The hangover was mostly a short-lived headache and a long-lived haze. It did briefly pull me somewhat out of about the worst depressive episode I can recall; last week I was suicidal around the clock. Things were a little "lighter" until Sunday night, when we were suddenly subjected to another horrible incident that I'll not go into. Missed seeing Jim, Carole and guests on Monday though. Seems that every measly little attempt to socialize gets dashed.

Shelley is suffering daily. We wanted a little hope in our lives, but so far the cost has been steep and constant.

I don't know what else to say. Life here gets harder and unhappier every fucking day, and I don't understand it.

I can send the glad news that Paul LaGrutta married lovely Julia in Las Vegas on Friday, taking a break from the busy smash success of their restaurant in order to fly out for the wedding. Love and congratulations to them both.

As I write, I feel the depression taking full hold again.
I will shut the hell up and leave it at that.
If you don't hear from me very much here, my apologies and fond regards to all.
What my loved ones and I need are miracles, and there are no such things.
See ya.

Posted 3:49 AM by sport

Even though I am an old, old guy, I try to stay on top of contemporary culture just to keep my perspective fresh and to make sure my music keeps the "edge" that has made it so beloved by so many for so long. Sitting on my ancient, grotesque ass in front of the TV for hours is a big part of that effort. Saw a great one tonight.

"The Twenty Sexiest Outtakes From 'The Top Twenty Most Controversial Moments In MTV List-Show History'" was really good. They showed this fat VeeJay guy who has a really quick dry wit introducing a clip from the "Countdown Of The Hottest Hotties of MTV Spring Break: The First 10 Years" in which Crash Test Dummies were playing while Gilbert Gottfried squeezed some girl's tits (those were the days), and just when the fat VeeJay was gonna make some really cutting remark about the old clip, who busts in but some other guy from MTV playing a practical joke. It involved something getting whipped out, but they obscured it with that pixelly computer censorship distortion so you couldn't tell what was being whipped out, but I think it was the guy's cock.

The fat VeeJay said something but they bleeped him, but it was funny as hell anyway. Man! It was something! So anyway, this clip was I think number 15 in the sexiest outtakes list and they had celebrities commenting on it.

Apollonia from Purple Rain said: "I remember hearing about the time one guy just took it out right there on the set of the 'Countdown Of The Hottest Hotties…' and, man, that was INSANE!"

Henry Rollins said "If there was a moment when even that fat VeeJay guy was caught speechless it was when the other guy hung a snake on him. Now THAT was a moment for the books!"

Some actress who used to be on the Cosby Show said: "We were watching that show in the dressing room of a Lifetime movie I was shooting, and I was SHOCKED to find out later that the fat guy had gotten flashed by the other guy right when he was about to introduce a clip."

Bronson Pinchot (I think) said: "Just remember kids… don't try this 'whipping your schlong out to embarrass the fat VeeJay' stuff at home!"

This comedian named Titus something-or-other said: "No VeeJay penises were harmed in the making of this outtake!"

Boy oh boy! Bronson Pinchot's so fucking funny. Or maybe it was some other, newer guy from some other, newer show like "Will and Grace." I'm not sure, but ha ha ha, I say! And that Titus guy is funny too! What a great show. And the ads! I could've watched another thousand of them without even caring anymore. It's always good to see Rollins too. He's such a legend.
Why is that?
Aside from Black Flag always having sucked damn near absolutely, it was the finest work Rollins was ever involved with. Does ANYBODY listen to him? If so, why?
Just kidding. He's the greatest! Yeah! Just look at him! Grrr!

I also think Colin Quinn's show "Tough Crowd" is just wonderful. It follows "The Daily Show" the way Monday follows the weekend. The way the void follows all we know, alll we love and all we dream. Quinn stands drinking deli coffee and bringing up topics from the news while a bunch of comedians sit around and insult each other. There's usually one female, one male negro and two male caucasians. Boy it's edgy! They affect that fake, forced "street" attitude that makes you glad you don't hang around with comedians. I watch it religiously because I'm sure that one night Colin Quinn will actually say something both coherent AND funny, and I wanna be there when it happens. Now he usually just makes funny comments on how his own gags bombed with the audience… the old Carson monologue "I know that joke sucked" save. Remember how hilarious that was the first 5,000 times Johnny used it? The best thing I saw so far was when Denis Leary was reduced to a sputtering, outraged embarrassment by the cutting, retaliatory remarks of a sharper, fresher comic. What could top it?

Maybe Quinn might make up a wacky story in which, let's say, his mother aggressively excludes (for the sake of example) my sister from planning her own son's memorial service, claiming that "the Kennedy family did it this way." Wouldn't that be funny? You bet! Imagine the nutty, unlikely-but-hilarious scenarios he could spin off of that premise! The antics of a whole brood of lace-curtain mick harpies and their spineless, eunuch males… all wallowing in their own ludicrous pomposity and the blood and tears of others! Hot dog! I bet that would be a hoot.

I love our culture!
I love people!
I love this life!

Posted 2:52 AM by sport

When I got sober back in 1993, even though AA had all this "one day at a time" stuff (which is truly the way to go, then and now), one of the things that got and kept me off the sauce for 8 years was the private promise to myself: "One day I WILL drink again." There are already too few pleasures in life, and cigs are one of my true satisfactions. Sorry, but it's so. Fuck… I don't want none of them horrible consequences any more than you do, but damn I enjoy cigarettes. And one day I WILL smoke again. Maybe I'll go on occasional binges and do this quitting thing all over again. Maybe better and better cessation measures will keep getting developed and I can keep quitting and resuming all the time, maintaining a serpentine self-abuse pattern even cancer, emphysema, heart attack and stroke can't draw a bead on. For now, though, I can't smoke and I won't. Temptation's been stronger than I can convey, but I deal.

Anyhow, I have not actually smoked. Bought a pack of nicotine-free smokes - which are still loaded with tar (and taste, no doubt, like ass) - as a psychological comfort in the pocket. Have not cracked the pack. Whether I ever do it or not, it's surely way too soon now. In fact, the more horrific withdrawal symptoms are behind me. I feel pretty "good" mentally and there's a marked improvement in my blood flow and breathing. No chest pains, bla bla. I think I'm an ex-smoker, by cracky! And if nothing else can keep me smokeless, it's the twins.

Saw them today on ultrasound! Wriggling and writhing in there… all's well and on schedule. What a strange thing it is to see your own enwombed progeny frugging on the monitor like Sea Monkeys. I have been examining the printouts the ultragal gave us as souvenirs, like those photos you can buy at theme parks showing what you look like shooting down the log flume. The kids look great, thanks. One of them has a face like Van Gogh's "Potato Eaters" attached to a head like that of the Metaluna mutant from "This Island Earth." This one was gamboling, flailing its limbs and generally indicating a boisterous, energetic nature. A go-getter. Full of piss and vinegar. This tells me he or she will get along well with Shelley. The other one was more relaxed; the fetus seemed to be assuming a "John Glenn in the capsule" or "Seamus Murphy on the La-Z-Boy" pose, and I could swear I saw a tiny, itsy bitsy remote in this kid's embro-mitt. Another odd thing I noticed was a sort of Commedia dell'arte mask on the infink's teensy face… Cyrano nose… a real cut-up. Zany, but in a pretentious and antiquarian way. And sedentary. He's all mine. Navel-gazing from the inside. Enjoy it while you can, kids. Life will never be this good again.

Nevertheless, I can't wait until they are out here so I can squeeze their faces into amusing grimaces and photograph the results. I can't wait to dress them in matching fishing hats decorated with pictures of Bing Crosby. Shelley is enduring the tortures of the damned, but with today's thumbs-up on progress, her preggo burdens and my quitter's psychoses are far less troubling. We even heard their hearts beating… sort of like an LTJ Bukem track... pretty cool.

I read some newspapers today. NY Daily News, June 1968. Turns out the guy who shot RFK is a disgruntled Arab named Sirhan Sirhan. John Cassavetes, current star of Rosemary's Baby can be seen with wife Gena Rowlands on ABC's "Suspense Theater." Does anyone recall the opening of that show? Animated stick figures darting through barren De Chirico idscapes. Really nifty staccato music. I'm looking for a video of that.

I'm also SERIOUSLY searching for a tape including the "Carolina… the extra-long-grain ri-ice" jingle. And Fifth Avenue candy bar: "Oh it's the NUTS!" It was on the tube when we arrived home from the Sanders theater after watching "One Million Years BC" and the fresh memory of Raquel's cro-magnificence va-va-vooming in lush fur-o-vision imprinted on my mind in connection with that jingle forevermore. Oddly, I can see the film itself and… nothing. But recalling the jingle gives me that twice-removed mnemonic "zot" mit "Booiiiiinggg!".

Nah, not really, but it's otherwise totally true.
There is some discussion of a new album. While it's still possible to rehearse, I remain open to gigging, too, if anyone knows anyone that can and will play my shit. Yeah, I know... forget I mentioned it.

Posted 2:21 PM by sport

Two limericks on Lemerick

There was a young man whose demeanor
In court couldn't have been serener.
For the killing of Jews
(Though it's certainly news)
Is barely a B misdemeanor.

The jury said, "though we're disquieted,
The Jew should've hid while they rioted.
So, sure, the kid grabbed him
And fatally stabbed him…
Were you never young, drunk and exci-et-ed?"

Posted 10:06 PM by sport

Greetings from the sullen streets of Anhedonia. The misery continues and keeps me from maintaining any interest in ANYTHING. Been trying to divine some wisdom about all this. For instance…
http://www.acsh.org/publications/priorities/0501/depression.html

"Once smokers develop the routine of using nicotine as an aid to altering their mood states, they may also grow to depend on the drug as a tool for "dysphoria-avoidance." Nicotine, while not necessarily making people "high" may make them "normal," or what David Krogh defines as a state of "psychological neutrality." In individuals prone to depression, such a neutral emotional state is highly desired and, perhaps, only achieved through the use of drugs. Nicotine dependence in the smoker with a history of depression may be particularly difficult to combat."

Right now I am so sick of feeling completely alienated, joyless and edgy that I'm pretty close to lighting a cigarette. I dunno… I read that people (with my tendencies) who try to quit are twice as likely to succeed if some "nicotine replacement" (like the patch) or an anti-depressant is employed (my friend Liz - who should know - concurs with that and chastises my stupidly spartan attempt to go cold turkey). I'm told that the odds improve further with some combination of the two. Could be, But I know that if I light up RIGHT NOW I'll feel "better" RIGHT NOW. When the only emotions one can fully experience are sorrow and rage, the knowledge that this is all "healthy" helps about as much as the faith that - once I've truly kicked the habit - I can return to my former state of "normalcy" …which is to say, profound depression. And even though I'd feel better ("real, compared to what"), there would also be this sort of "aw, shit…" feeling that I punked out and crawled back to the weed.

So I try to remember all the chest pain, wheezing, vascular twitching, coughing, et al …all of which stopped IMMEDIATELY upon laying off the butts… and gain resolve from observing pics of gaunt cancer victims, blackened lungs and orphaned kids… considering that consummation devoutly to be dreaded. This helps squash the urge to surrender for a while.

Then I ponder the sure fact that - though I may remain maddeningly hopeless, jangled, irate and distracted - at least I'll put on tons of new lard.
Hither the rock, thither the hard place and yon the deep blue sea. Devil's looking better and better.
Part of me… a part you are all by now way too familiar with… sez: "Well, with my luck I'll quit completely... go through all this hell... and THEN find out I'm dying anyway."
This is probably true. My doom is probably festering silently inside me as I write.

But maybe not - and maybe this ordeal (which is, of course, my own stupidass fault anyway) will presage a new awakening of health and happiness just in time to share it all with the kids! Yeah right.

But I mean, I could smoke now and go to the doctor anyway, like, tomorrow or sometime, and start fresh with the patch and the pills and then it'll REALLY work.

But that's bullshit.
Is it?
Sure.
No it ain't.
Fuck you.

Just as my comedy writer pal Steve can cook up material all America will bust a stitch over as he himself remains poker-faced at the keyboard, I can see the humor in this situation without feeling any amusement whatsoever.

There are smokes nearby. My zippo is full.
My only other words for tonight are:
O cocksucking, motherfucking, shitpissing, cuntbastardly, smegmatittish, anusnippled, choadbitchulous, scumtesticled, fartfelchular, pusroids of life: I hate. I hate. And that's no lie.

Posted 2:34 AM by sport

Misery. Still no smokes. It's virtually impossible to think straight, let alone write in this fucking blog. I just watch tv all day and night. If the physical effects of the cigs were not so pronounced and uncomfortable already I'd probably put off quitting even further, but I can't. The effect I feared has taken hold... brutal exacerbation of an already deep depression / anxiety spiral. It sucks indescribably. I keep writing other lines and immediately deleting them, and that probably means I should stop now. Maybe this whole blog should be permanently shitcanned.

Posted 1:24 PM by sport

Wretched overindulgence and obnoxious capers. Enough is enough. I am trying to quit cigarettes. It's now the fourth day, and my oh my, it's as insane-making as ever. Will have to avoid the booze too, as that will lead directly to the weed, but that's oke since I need to not drink or nothin'. That's all for now.

Posted 4:48 PM by sport

Quoted below is an announcement for an upcoming show by my friends the Sharp Things. I've done a little bit of playing with the band, which includes 2 chaps who've been great supporters of my stuff, Perry Serpa and Jim Santo. I was on my way to to Sharp Things session when I had the vivid hallucination (at a shop window) that led to my deep obsession with Berrie Jigglers, which compensates for the fact that my efforts as designated atonalist never made the finished cd: a rich brew of strings, brass and lovely songsmitherance.

In addition to the unusual discipline and devotion necessary to keep such a large band operating, they should also be admired for pursuing a brand of serious-minded orchestral pop that recalls artists like Burt Bacharach, Scott Walker and David Bowie (back when he wore dresses and sang Biff Rose tunes). Since I can't ask you to come see me perform live (unable as I am to attract serious-minded musicians of sufficient discipline and devotion), I urge you to attend this show. Here's the poop:

SAVE THE DATE! The multi-timbral glory that is the Sharp Things will appear in concert Tuesday, June 3 at Joe's Pub, a swanky venue located at The Public Theater, 425 Lafayette Street in Greenwich Village. Tickets are $12 for this show, and worth every penny believe you me. To mark this auspicious occasion, The Sharps will present a luxurious, 60-minute program of music, with special secret surprise guests that will be, uh, special and surprising. If you only see one Sharp Things show this year, make it this one!

Posted 3:46 AM by sport

Damn it to shit...
My hated-since-day-one computer pulled a typically evil stunt at a typically crucial moment.
Cocksucker froze just as I was to snipe a bottle of ABSINTHE on auction.

Who can find me some good (genuine) absinthe?
Who can find me a new computer?
If the computer is over 100 bucks, I'd rather spend it on absinthe.

Posted 6:30 PM by sport

Emails… we get emails…
Actually, not very many. For every message from an individual person to me alone (not all the batch mails and gig spam etc.), there are 20 with those nonsensical "message filter override" headers ("Xmrawfbng Mohenga, Mcvouty! Free trial") or promises to add inches here and remove inches there. Usually a half dozen from Biff Rose, bless him, whose wit has been sharper than ever lately. Here let me thank those of you who continue to write despite any misgivings about the state of my mind, annoyance at my recent tone and topic or the tardiness in replying that's become chronic. You have no idea how good it is to hear from friends these days.

But I got one from a well-meaning oaf who shares mild praise for my first and third cds while (typically) putting down the second, Magic Beans, and closes with "condolences on your music career." Again, not to fuss too much, since the guy obviously didn't mean to insult. But he did. Let me demonstrate the effect: "Hey, guess what happened to me at lunch today ...and where'd you get that swell tie? By the way… your mother is a whore."
Do you suppose you'd follow the chatty drift of the questions after the blunt force trauma of the statement? Well, this is how it feels to read such impertinent criticism.

You CAN'T comment freely to me on work I've made, uless it's invited and remains respectful. Does anyone think Magic Beans is no good because it "sounds weird" and not "nice" like Willoughby and - to a lesser extent - Uncle? You are not the first. Others think it's too smoothed over; other others think it's too dissonant or too sprawling or too silly or too this-and-such or not so-and-forth enough. Fuck 'em all and all the sad nags they rode in on. It's MY album. I made it the way I chose to. If the other two albums fit anyone's criteria of "nice" then it's an accident I regret. I never wanted to make something "nice" to provide wallpaper for lazy ears. If you bought my record, thanks, but the few bucks you spent buying my cd does not entitle you to insult me with such commentary any more than reading a few words on my blog grants you any sort of intimacy with me. I would not go to someone's place of employment and say: "I don't think you shoveled that pile of shit with very much style" or arrive at your home and remark "I'd never live here... what's with that carpet, dude?" Some people get paid to write their opinion of other people's work. They're called critics: a necessary annoyance in the process of album promotion to whom companies send products for evaluation. Some are disciplined and informed; most are complete clowns whose interest and involvement in the work they review is comparable to the romantic fancies felt by a prostitute toward her client. Then there are friends, who are entitled to have an opinion of one's work, which they may then share if ASKED. Usually a measure of civility and support can be expected, or at least tactful silence. In the future - and this goes for everyone - I will post, verbatim, any offensive emails I please, along with full email address of sender.

And most of all... You CAN'T close your letter with "Condolences on your music career..." in place of "Sincerely yours..." or "Kind Regards..." or likewise. I write about my life, among other things, here in this blog. It's here for the perusal of anyone interested, just as my albums are. I'm as honest, whimsical, melodramatic, deranged or inane as I please. Such content may be disregarded or considered by anyone in the group of friends for whom it is intended (and by "friends" I also mean strangers who've taken an interest in my music). Sometimes people mention specific entries to me when we're talking, or touch upon them in the stream of an email. Some of these friends even take issue with stuff I say here, and good-natured exchanges/arguments often follow. I'm cool with anybody saying "your comment on Gene Simmons was stupid" or "quit putting yourself down" or "I'm happy with the NYC smoking ban, so go eat shit" or whatever, but there is a limit. Anybody close to me who'd have the audacity to include "condolences on your music career" would cease IMMEDIATELY to be my friend. It's an act of utter hostility. The words I post in this personal journal are a means of expressing nothing more than my individual experience living this particular life and nobody has the right to diminish them with such a crass little "toodle-oo."

While I understand that many people would not choose to "lay their souls bare" as I seem to have done here in the blog, the fact is that these shifting feelings are a small part of what I think on any given day. The reason I share such unflattering thoughts and moments of weakness so openly is not because I care what anyone else thinks about my problems, but exactly the contrary. I START caring about what one other individual thinks when that individual responds in kind. I'm sure many of my best friends find much of what I write disagreeable or even embarrassing, and that's fine with me as long as they don't bust my balls about it. These are my dreams and my woes. All my life (as is true of the life of anyone who has had the chutzpah to pursue a dream) some have derided them, ignored them, impeded them, belittled them, attempted to co-opt them, attacked them with pea shooters or bazookas and tried to make me feel foolish for dreaming them. But I've never done that to anyone else, and cannot fathom the depths of insecurity and cluelessness motivating such behavior. My hands are fuckin' clean and my eyes have remained fixed on what I consider important even when human scumbags and the hellbitches of fate distract my attention from the higher things I'd rather concern myself with. Whether I continue to make music or not is entirely my choice, as it's always been. I've never asked for anyone's permission or approval, and if I get frustrated with the work's reception, I ask nobody for sympathy... I just voice my pain as willfully and shamelessly as I sing my joy. It's how I regurgitate poison so it'll stop infecting my daily thoughts. No claims of importance are made for it. No more than anyone else deserves for his or her own. If I piss and moan about my "career" it's my business; if a person says "I'm too fat" or "I can't sing to save my life" that's his/her prerogative and it doesn't entitle anyone else to say: "yes... you're too fat and you cant sing." Anyone who does so is beyond my ken whether the intention is benign or otherwise. Even those friends who are revolted by my whining (as I often am) are usually smart enough to let it pass until my mood drifts to the more pleasant polarity.

In recent years my loved ones and I have been hit with a succession of horrors that would break most people in half. I know others who've borne comparable burdens more gracefully than I have, just as I know plenty who've complained more loudly over far less. The fact is, through all our trials - which I've only touched upon in these casual reports - I've remained creative and productive. I have made albums and artworks, given performances and participated in the personal and commercial work of others. I've supported the work of other creative friends as much as possible, celebrated their achievements and comforted their afflictions, just as they've done for me. I've often done so with humor, and sometimes the darkest confessions are the subtlest jokes. Respect me or piss off. When I dismiss my own work it's because I aim for a standard too high for most monkeys to grasp. I know fully well that those aspects of my favorite work that reward and resonate with me most deeply are usually regarded as flaws by even fairly savvy auditors. The things that make Cassavetes films "boring" or "formless" are where I see excitement and focus. The things in Ives that seem "amateurish" or "unlistenable" are where I find the greatest mastery and sweetest music. Where Scott Walker starts turning rockists and other microbes off with "pretense" is the place his genius begins for me. All these things and so many more have helped form my work. If I were to compile the weakest moments of all 3 of my albums, it would still be one of the greatest albums in your collection. If the genuine majesty of my finest work were to be revealed to the vast herd of douchebags who flatter themselves on cultural astuteness, all would fall, blinded by awe and dumbstruck with humility. They'd form a fucking religion around me, just as I have. And I'd loathe them for not devoting their devotion to themselves, as I have.

Magic Beans is, to say the least, the best album released in 2000. I could have made it more "friendly" to the ears and sensibilities of asswipes, but I made it the way I wanted to. No conventional unconventionality, no coolness, no pandering to expectations of any sort. After having had some success with Willoughby I could have adopted its sonic / songwise aspects as a formula without ever repeating that remarkable album's content. While my renaissance-man versatility would have assured another wonderful work in the style I created for that opus, my searching soul deliberately avoids such redundancy just as it avoids letting stuff "pass" that sounds merely "perfect" by standard measures. I've reworked many things because they'd please people for the wrong reasons. Any moderately talented fraud with a pot of glue and an exacto blade can rework accepted forms to impressive effect. All the year-end critic polls are full of such superfluous crap. You should hear the cut songs, rejected mixes and abandoned ideas for these albums; most bands and artists would sell their souls to arrive at the places I begin, should they be blessed for one moment with enough vision to see just how colossally über-vouting is my every artistic gesture. I stand, godlike, surveying infinities of possibility undreamt by the other dabblers, and select my tools and topics to suit my mercurial mood. As finely as I slice these immensities so as not to overwhelm the listener, the resulting Art is so dense with ideas and inspiration even the most keen observer is only capable of digesting a fraction of the banquet. If it's a crime to serve the food of the immortals to clone-cattle who'd rather eat astroturf, then hang me, but blow me first.

To drop this comic pomp for the sincere kind for a moment: I go further because there's more here. Naturally, I get less back. Naturally, I remain dissatisfied with myself and my position. Satisfaction is a hammock for hacks. Praise is a bonbon that tastes yummy for a second. Artists live to create... the price is steep and the castoffs are unsightly. But I made the shit, and If NOBODY gets it now or ever, that doesn't diminish the accomplishment. I've made majesty, guided by the example of my great teachers and my own innate, promethean genius (yeah, here we go again). If you've been lucky enough to perceive a portion of that accomplishment, then your response should reflect nothing but abject gratitude. If you are possessed by a comparable passion, then you should share yours with me so that we may celebrate one another in a Valhalla of kindred souls unknown to the happier grunts below. I know some such titans, and we comprise a pantheon to make the prophets weep.

Now just look at all these words I've hammered out. That is what I've done all my life: taken nothing and made something of it. You really think I'm done? Even if I say it myself, it's impossible. I fart clouds of gold dust. I spit gobs of ambrosia. The darkest corridors of my benighted mind gleam with treasures rare and beauties grand. Take any amusement you like from this here grandiosity and operatic defensiveness... I'm laughing even louder at it and myself. Astute readers may sense that something "touched a nerve," because I don't adopt some cool stance that I'm immune to this shit. Of course it hurts and riles me; I am a human. But what's happened is that something troubling arrived at a particularly tired-out and sad time and put a useful thorn in my paw. It's the kind of thing albums are made of, and it has roused me out of defeat - just as every single kicking prick in my life has done before. It simply serves as a spur toward the furtherance of the creative career of a great artist. Whatever else you think you hear in these words, rest assured that it is the sound of a man pulling himself once more from the mire to continue onward. It's a Gulliver pissed off just enough to once again snap the tiny ropes of Lilliput.

Posted 5:48 PM by sport

I had a dream, oddly enough. Oddly because that means sleep and whenever that happens lately it's usually nothing or nightmares. But here was a dream, and it was funny as hell. Me laughing repeatedly, but all I remember is the part right before my own hilarity woke me up.

A woman is embracing and nuzzling a Frankenstein monster that has a shock of reddish hair. She draws a long, sumptuous breath at its neck and coos: "Mmmm… I love the fragrance you're wearing!" The monster tenderly holds her face in its hands and replies softly: "My darling, you have never truly known sweet aroma until you've savored it through the nostrils of the living dead."

This is the kind of thing my dream-brain considers boffo material.