Posted 1:33 AM by sport

I've decided to avoid regular contemporary television as well as daily newspapers, so that my cultural alienation will be closer to absolute. This means videotapes. Tonight I viewed some 1950s citizenship films and IWA wrestling from the mid-70s. Last night I watched old parades. The parades are poignant. The citizenship films are sweet. The wrestling is magically scummy: dim footage of fat guys pretending to gouge each other's eyes out in skid-row arenas not even CLOSE to half capacity. Microcephalic children and dangerous, smelly loners (of the exact type I used to avoid sitting next to at Show World) cheering it all with no evident enthusiasm.

None of this current-day slicker-than-owlshit folderol with steroid monsters hollering that exact same gruff throat bally, each with an overproduced theme song to announce his explosion-punctuated entrance.
This old stuff is so grubby you wanna wash your eyeballs after ten minutes, and all announcers, wrestlers and managers seem to be denizens of some used car lot of the damned, replete with Peter Lemongello hair and Tom Carvel charisma.
The squared circle never seemed so small... so dismal... so inviting.

In search of more video delicacies of this kind, I checked eBay and found lots of prime potential... but HOLY TOLEDO! Who knew? This one fellow purveys a line of videotapes for MARX playset enthusiasts. This has nothing to do with communist theatrics, but the sort of plastic toy layouts kids played with circa 1950 - 1980: gas stations, castles, western forts, etc. These are very popular boomer nostalgia items, and as with most collectible type stuff, MIB ("mint in box") is the ideal. So each volume of this vhs series covers one genre of playset. What would a such a video consist of? Here's a quote from the item listing:

"We put you in the worlds of the Marx playset, show complete sets, full displays, sometimes even the rarest of experiences: MIB openings! It's the best way to spend a rainy day with friends and vintage toys from the Atomic Age!"

"MIB OPENINGS!" The tapes show collectors OPENING THE OLD BOXES! This is TOY PORN!
Now... an open request.
Some of you folks as old or (gasp) older than me... or some of you young 'uns whose parents or elder siblings got in early on the vhs thing... may have an archive of nearly-forgotten crap you taped off television years ago.
Maybe a stray episode of THAT'S INCREDIBLE!
Maybe some random EYEWITNESS NEWS broadcast your cousin happened to appear on.
Perhaps a PRICE IS RIGHT from '81 where your granny never got to "come on down" but could clearly be seen as the camera panned the audience.
Anything?
A DINAH SHORE SHOW somebody caught because a favorite singer was scheduled to appear?

If so, and ESPECIALLY if the COMMERCIALS are intact, let's talk turkey. I'm dead serious.
The more boring you think it is, the more I'll probably love it.
6 hours of the 1978 FOSTER BROOKS INVITATIONAL PRO AM DESERT CLASSIC sponsored by Williams' 'Lectric Shave?
Mmmmmm... come to Papa.
Some worse-for-wear SLP episodes of NEW ZOO REVUE your mammy taped to shut your preschool yap up?
Waaaaa-Hoooooooo!

Please! Please!

Posted 12:52 PM by sport

Things were quiet and almost pleasant for a while, and then all hell broke loose again. So today, in the post-traumatic daze that seems more and more like the ordinary state of things, I am glad to report that I'm just plain blank.

The great news is that we've established genital confirmation regarding our forthcoming offspring: what we're dealing with is one penis, one vagina ("…memories are made of this…") So "Dean and Jerry" will not do as names, and we'll have none of that "Dina" or "Geri" nonsense. Back to the drawing board. The girl is mellow and relaxed… the boy is berserk.
I'm never resort to Ritalin, though... Percy Faith albums and a Similac/Ketamine cocktail oughtta settle the kid's hash.

One of each sex is about ideal, far as I can see. As this will certainly be our only foray into breeding …yup, we done fished our limit… a mixed pair provides a swell parental sampler.

Last night my pal and erstwhile violinist Meredith was kind enough to ask the old fool along to see Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds at Roseland. Nick Cave is one of the few living songwriters I consider GREAT. I mean it, too. Right up there. He's also one of the few performers I'm always eager to see; he's a compelling onstage character with a remarkable band. Meredith plays with a Bad Seed, Jim Sclavunos, in his band The Vanity Set, so she got me in to the show and backstage afterwards. The highlight for me was the older song "Sad Waters," which references "Green, Green Grass of Home" and builds steadily and unbearably like an out-of-control sobbing jag. It is a thing of awful beauty, and quite a surprise in a set of new stuff and reliable favorites.

During the show, several people I chatted with were complaining about the last Bad Seeds NYC show at the Beacon. Apparently it was too ballad-heavy for them. This reminded me of the Jonathan Richman shows I attended years back when Jonathan and the Modern Lovers played their irresistible, minimalist savant-rock over endless calls for "Pablo Picasso!" "She Cracked!" and other earlier numbers from his dark Velvet Underground phase. Seemed to me that "Hey There Little Insect" and "Egyptian Reggae" were as perfect in their own way as the other stuff, and far more original besides (meeting Jonathan was a riot… talk about the real deal… the guy is guileless). How audiences could scorn this sweet music baffled me, and I feel the same way about Cave's ballads.

They have a gracefulness and intensity I associate with old, old songs, without coming off as pastiches of antique forms. This goes for the wild-eyed showstoppers as well as the ballads ("Loom Of The Land" …oh my lord): a solid tangent off well-absorbed traditions as personal and obsessive as say, Monk's departures on Ellington and Willie Smith. And his sense of humor… the guy is a stone hoot, even though many people mistake him for a mere gloom-n-doomer. I just don't see why fan expectations should lead this middle-aged fella to carry on like he did in his youth. You play Romeo, you move on to Hamlet, and if you're real lucky and real good, someday you tackle Lear. Seems to me that audiences have a short window of cultural openness, then forever onward they want recreations of that. Ugh. As if I know what I'm talking about.

Afterwards, amid fellow schnorrers and well-wishers upstairs, I turned to find who else but Nick Cave standing next to me, and told him how stoked I was to hear "Sad Waters." It was great to shake the guy's hand; this ranked with meeting Leonard Bernstein and Brian Wilson as an encounter with someone whose music has meant a great deal to me for a very long time. While the other two were pretty much as I expected them to be - Wilson sweet and addled, Bernstein sort of warmly grandiose - I'd have figured Cave to be a snotty sort of cuss. While obviously exhausted from a typically intense performance and overwhelmed by the very hectic meet-and-greet, he was truly gentlemanly during our short exchange.

Cave gave me the kind of unexpectedly pleasant and open vibe I often sense from people with whom I "click" …some odd recognition behind the eyes. Nice surprise. I'm kind of sorry we couldn't have had a real conversation, and I'm certain Nick is similarly grieving his thwarted chance to "get to know" this tall, overstuffed sack of wet chalk that thrust out a humid paw, grinning and babbling about a number from 17 years ago. Somehow I know that - were we given half the chance - Cave and I would hit it off like beans and rice. We'd quickly agree to collaborate on operas and opuses of singular magnificence. Ours would be a friendship of legend… Van Gogh (Vincent) and Gaugin (Clyde)… Hemingway (Ernest) and Fitzgerald (Eddie). I would share with him the rare insights one may glean only from consistent, long-term rock-bottom failure, and he could, in turn, point out some of the finer pleasures of making lots of money and getting lots of respect. Say la Vee.

Speaking of which, I would recommend to Nick Cave that he cover Bobby Vee's "The Night Has A Thousand Eyes." Well, someone should… I would do it myself, but who'd give a shit?

Anyway, most enjoyable. Shame Blixa Bargeld is gone, though.

I missed the 1:26 train home by ONE FUCKING MINUTE and had to wait until 3:15 for the next one. This sucked. Then I got home and found myself locked out, with a bad headache and a mean thirst. Broke in eventually. By the way, train fare went up four bucks each way. Scumbags.

Anyway, Happy Birthday again, Mer. And thanks again.

On several recent nights, songs have come to me. Surprisingly full blown things, music and words. I lie there futzing around with them… imagining different chord changes, refining lyrics, mentally "arranging" them. Then there's a point when my mind says "get up and put this on tape" and that's the cue to drop the whole thing and start settling into sleep. It's really perverse, but a lot more fun than subjecting songs to the hands and ears and opinions of other people. We know what Jean Paul Sartre said THEY are.

So, enough of this. Time to go create tonight's smash hit will o' the wisp.

Posted 12:44 AM by sport

Better than all the nonsense I just wrote...
My Dad, after trying to watch the first segment of a lousy comedy show:
"Well, that was a real roundabout-nothing-of-shit!"

Posted 9:38 PM by sport

Let me write this while we're enjoying a break from the rounds of hospitals and doctors' offices… the sleepless marathon of anxiety and panic that has become daily life. We hoped this would be a happier time. That was part of the idea: new life and optimism. Instead, the good lord has bombarded us with new sorrows, physical pains, impending poverty and sundry reasons to worry and stew. I am still not smoking. I'm sure it's a wonderful thing. It's incredible how rotten life has been for so long. I've not written for a variety of reasons, mainly boredom with my own moaning and general apathy about expressing anything. Some friends write me still, and that's nice, but why post this shit? For the entertainment of whom? Right now I write only because I've finished the DC "Secret Origins" reprint Thomas kindly sent me, and it's too rainy to mow grass. I've done nothing creative at all. Events have fucked even the vestiges-of-a-delusion-of-a-long-chance-at-nothing-much that hitherto occupied me.

Incidentally… here are some of the plans scotched in recent months and days:
Tour of UK clubs with friend Milo
Several creative collaborations with other musicians
Free vacation to Paris
Wedding reception of Julia and Paul LaGrutta
Participation in a various artists comp of 80s covers
A video for a tune from Uncle (and subsequent inclusion of this on a soon-to-be-released KRS dvd)
Various gigs, parties and events
Off the top of the head, these are.
The reasons for all these dashed plans are varied, mostly worthy and all unavoidable, but it all adds up to some dismal, homebound inertia. I assume people interpret these cancellations and postponements as proof of my unreliability and laziness. It sucks because everything mentioned was something I REALLY looked forward to. This endless routine of "my life is bad lately" gets to looking suspect, which I can dig. Some friendships might have hit the end of the line.
Again again: Who cares? Me, but I'm learning not to.

I did manage to finish some writing and a series of illustrations. That's because these jobs PAID MONEY and other pals were depending on me. It's good to retain a bit of whetever ethic that represents.

This of course is all me me me crying. Looking like a self-pitying jerkoff is not the desired effect, but I'm not at liberty to lay out the various trials of loved ones. Without getting more detailed as to all the recent storms, I can at least say we have all survived, Dean and Jerry included. I don't know the degree to which these purgatories change (as opposed to reveal) a person, but I do feel different. However, in these rare times when things slow down I can actually feel good and enjoy the hours in a very ephemeral way. Once I wrote a song about this called "Black River Falls," but few listened, fewer "got it" and nobody at all gives a rat's ass. (Emily Dickinson got to another side of it with that poem "After great pain a formal feeling comes…") It's a feeling of peaceful "eh." One just IS and small pleasures are quietly indulged until the other shoe drops, as it always will. It can be a very nice feeling. Provided I don't think too much about some things, that is. When I start thinking too much, I run to the tube for the lobotomizing effect that is sought as a replacement for the mental stimulation I used to get from creative work. Of course, there are appropriate responses to the banal or egregious content of television. In the spirit of the wonderful response I've received for the work of a lifetime, I now tap out a few of these half-baked thoughts and then return to… nothing.

Look! There on the screen! There is a "musical" performer named FIFTY CENT.
Fifty Cent.
If that isn't a new low in crow-jim ignoramusizin' then my name be Stepin Fetchit. Jesus! This guy has a "song" which pretty much consists of "yeah sure you love me now but when I go up for a 5 year bid in the state pen - and, naturally I'm planning to do just that - will you still be my 'boo'?" It's full of standard, redundant shee-it about "the thoughts I think in my mind" and "we'll do the things you like…would you like that?" But the video is what floors me: Mr. Cent and his lovely bizzatch are enjoying an evening at home when a bunch of cops arrive with a battering ram. These whiteboy (a term of understanding and respect liberally employed on a recent C-Span broadcast of Stanley Crouch and somebody named Playthell Benjamin discussing their book about W.E.B. DuBois… a more smug pair of fat-ass windbags I've not seen in a while, though I still have a small measure of respect for Crouch as long as he doesn't write about music) motherfuckers are apparently out to deprive Mr. Cent of his civil liberties, so he and the biotch commence to flushing all the contraband and hiding all the benjamins. This cuts to a fantasy of the prison life awaiting our hero should the white power elite succeed in incarcerating him. Turns out the cops were actually coming to arrest the brotha next door, so Fifty and his ciommon-law wizzife collapse in relieved amusement to the floor. How charming.

This is the kind of sewage now filling the airwaves and the otherwise empty heads of the citizenry of this collapsing society. Especially the feral, awful children. I've seen a lot of it in these recent weeks, staring at the TV. Now I also notice this guy named… oh jeez, I don't remember right now and I don't wanna go look it up and interrupt the typing flow… but he's the young guy allegedly banging Demi Moore. Used to be on something called "that 70s show" …Jason Kutcher? Ashton? Something. Anyway, this guy is suddenly EVERYWHERE. A superstar, is he? Appears so. Among other things, he has a show on MTV where he pulls practical jokes on his other vapid young celebrity chums. Like most of the infinitely diminishing-return retreads of the immortal "Candid Camera," this is some mean spirited and witless shit. Nobody has ever gotten Funt's magic down. First off, his intention was never to make people look foolish, which is the exact, sole point of the imitators. (to make EACH OTHER look foolish but to make US wish we were important enough to have pals like Justin Timberlake who'd want to prank us) Funt's humor was imbued with warmth and humanity, but these antiFunt stunts are cold and charmless… the victims become apoplectic with that lizard rage only seen in the young, stupid and obscenely spoiled anytime their absolute comfort and privilege are challenged for a second. That is, until the "reveal" comes and it's a mere "I KNEW it! You PUNKED me! You #&^%#*, you!" The whole idea, really, is that we are such drab fucking dullards we're happy to watch this community of wealthy nonentities short-sheet one another in the endless frathouse hi-jinks that comprise their unnecessary lives. Well it's all absolute bullshit that wouldn't make a nitrous oxide fiend grin, concerning small, unpleasant people who are famous for absolutely ZILCH, but someone's watching it I guess. Unless you are sitting dazed amid the moans of your suffering loved ones after weeks of sleepless nights and relentless, horrific emergencies, there's no excuse for looking at this crap. Fuck these people. They use terms like "old school" and "back in the day." Fuck them.

Reality shows about Gary Busey and Chuck Woolery? Are these guys supposed to be interesting because they actually DID something once? (Buddy Holly Story - the dramatized story of a dead singer; Love Connection - the televised result of a blind date matchup) Got to be. But wait... Where do all these supposed young celebs come from? I got Woolery and Busey, but where are these kids from when all that's on is one "reality" show after another? Sure it's a passing trend, like hiphop, but whaaaa?

There are TWO relaibly funny things on television: The Daily Show, which is still brilliant, and Curb Your Enthusiasm, which - going by the HBO track record - should begin to completely suck when the new season arrives. There are TWO interesting reality shows: Animal Precinct and American Chopper. Little else is any good whatsoever except reruns of really old shit. The political shows are intolerable ("The McGillicuddy Effect" "The VanGoozen Syndrome" "Gloves Off with Warren Guanobat" ) and the news at six is only an ad for the news at seven. I couldn't care less about this rancid society, but it amazes me how low it's gotten. Well I do like LINGO.

We are one nation under battered wife syndrome. We are demeaned and belittled by the shit that passes for entertainment / culture, and we return every day for more. It comes on with that faux-cool that every scummy seducer affects. This is a prefab pose worn by every interchangeable performer and packager, and only those under the spell can imagine any distinctions between individuals. This applies to Country goofballs (all those husky putzes in hats drawling about the workin' man), Rock dunces (grimaces and novelty facial hair, groaning like some 10 year old's imitation of Darth Vader), Critic-pop (all this bold "Radiohead is officially the greatest band in the world" hoo-hah, when it's unlikely that on any given night they are even the greatest band in the goddamn HOTEL), Rap (I've said as much as I care to already), and on and on and on. This is not the sour grapes you think it is. I've resigned myself to never making any headway with my work; it's pearls before swine, full out and fuck y'all. But I'd like some entertainment MYSELF. For me it's all in the past: music, tv, film, art, you name it. Sometimes there's a good book. But anyhow, I had this whole theory to foam at the mouth over, and now I'm sidetracked, but let it go. I ain't gonna stop and try to make this coherent. Onward.

Incidentally… an Islamic scholar has a book out. One of the reasonable people… out to correct bad impressions and ignorance… kind of a Chomsky of metaphysics. Posed with the ol' "just god / evil world: explain" question, the guy snorts that only in the Judeo-Christian tradition has it happened that people leave a faith based on this "dealbreaker" dilemma. Muslims and Hindus and Buddhists, etc, never even deal with this silly issue. The Muslim rationale is hidden in the "more profound" question: Why did God create us? The profound answer (as opposed to the silly Christian refuge in "holy mystery" evasions) is that Allah wanted to be KNOWN. It wasn't enough being infinite, eternal, and such… since He encompasses ALL (though, mind you not EVIL, which is somehow excluded from the "ALL" of God while suddenly appearing in the ALL of His creation), that infinity of possibles had to include someone to recognize that there's a God at all. Sensible, no? And if you think this implies that I find Christianity more sensible somehow, please go fuck yourself. There is no religion. IT'S ALL BULLSHIT. You want to figure out some moral / cosmic scheme involving deities or forces or spirits or suchlike, fine. It can help sometimes. But ALL THE BOOKS ARE BULLSHIT.
ALL THE GODS ARE FAKE.
THERE IS NO AFTERLIFE.
GOODNESS IS NOT THE MOTIVATING FORCE OF ANYTHING.
THIS IS IT. IT'S ALL THERE IS AND IT MOSTLY SUCKS.
GO OUT AND HAVE A FUCKING DRINK.

Do I really think that way? Who cares? But life has sucked so hard I wrote a psalm the other week.

One God
True God
So-called by rote
From Whom all beguines begin
And upon Whom all begats begaze beseechingly
Look down upon Thy child
(Upon whom Thou hast always looked down
Thy great and glorious Nose)
And grant some measure of that infinite mercy
Of which centuries of surrealists, comedians
And bunco artists hath spake so stiltedly:
Delete me from thy holy files
And bless me with no further interference from
Thy omnipo'tentious Self
In Placebo Spiritum

O God, Who hath allegedly created All, only that All might join in praise of Thee:
Remove me from Thine infinite, tiresome Allness

O God, Who answereth prayers with brutalities;
Who rewardeth faith with despair;
Who repayeth effort with destruction and tears:
Oh Poet of misdirection
Author of all disappointment:
Nullify me

Dispenser of riches
To those least deserving;
Bringer of sorrows
To those most loving;
Dangler of faint, false hopes;
Concocter of diseases;
Fine-print-typer on the labels of all comforts;
Fallamooker and fuckwad;
"Abraham-tester"
"Job-tormentor"
"Jesus-crucifier"
Brobdignagian Bully of the imponderable, vasty beyond-o;
Wooly bearded buck-passer of numerous, interchangeable, nonsensical traditions;
All-purpose logic-squasher and discussion-ender;
Reliable war-goat;
Bogus Land-rights validator;
Amuser of the sneering atheist;
Starver of small dogs and entire populaces;
Immolator of small dreams and grand utopias;
Benefactor of thugs, dictators and psychopaths;
Winking gremlin of all grief and doom;
Inventor of bad doctors and the need for all doctors;
Of bad cops and the need for all cops;
Animating Power inside frail flower and hardy, strangling weed alike…
What is thy problem?

I hear in Thee the guffaw of the hazing jock-child
I smell upon Thee the stenchbreath of the critic
I feel from Thee the radiant chill of the social poseur
I taste through Thee the poison of the gossip's tongue
I see around Thee the black nimbus of all-misery
Thou filleth up mine senses,
As Denver sang to Burns,
And I get mighty, mighty skeeved

Thou leerest from every eviction notice
Sad prognosis
Terrible report
Cruel insult
Callous betrayal
Grim statistic
Thou delighteth in the teardrop of the frightened child
Basketh in the spreading void of the senile mind
Taking, ever taking, and demanding more
Giving only for the pleasure of removing again
Like the fickle Indian of un-pc schoolyard calumny

Thy name is the stamp on filthy money
The graven motto of crooked courts
Through Thy professed omniuberallesation Thou confesseth all crimes
The luminol of Thine own hoary claims revealeth Thy bloody prints
On every supposed sin
O Perp perpetuo

Thou! O scummiest of rumored entities
Who whispereth small homilies and screameth vast condemnations
Who in thy gluttony for our fulsome praise;
Thy lust for our craven supplication;
Thy greed for our unearned gratitude;
Thy sloth at delivering the smallest of solaces;
Thy wrath… full bore… inexplicably …all the cocksucking time;
Thy laughable envy of other nonexistent deities;
And Thy misplaced pride in the catastrophic wretchedness of Thy design
Thou doth embody all that Thou claimest to rebuke
Dost Thou read me at all?
Dost Thou, Prick?

One song I heave to Thee
At a worthy altar
Of gleaming porcelain and swirling blue water
Sing Ralph!
Sing Bert!
Sing Wyatt Earp!

O all-encompassing Stormcloud of Wet Shit
O e'er o'er-flowing Font of Bitter Cess
To Thee I offer my meaningless but heartfelt resentment:
If in making me, Thou hast made nothing
Then in unmaking me, Thou unmakest nothing
What have we to discuss?

Master of tripwires and landmines
Agent of cancers and creeping blight
Crass prankster; orchestrator of all pointless misery
As Thou raiseth the lame to make them trudge;
So through thee are blind given sight to be shown the abyss;
And the deaf healed only to be subjected to fusion jazz;
In this way Thou gavest me a voice with which to whimper.

Deity most awful
Who removeth all songs: now remove all dreams of songs
As Thou hast crushed all laughter, now remove all memories of laughter
As Thou hast mocked all hopes, now remove all hope
Or else get out of my way

In fact, on second thought:
O justifier of hatreds: accept Mine

father of Jihads, Holocausts and Crusades: Fuck thee
Fuck thy holy name
Fuck thine entire creation
Fuck the sum and substance of thine infinite vanity
Blessed be the void thou wouldst fill
In the imaginings of thy believers

O myth
O nobodaddy
Fuck thee for this agony: life

Lo: thou hast promised all, delivered nothing
Hi: thou bringeth Me to sunlit pastures and there stomped Mine ass
Oo Wee: thou dost offer as sustenance
Antique perversities:
Blood of lambs;
Fires of righteousness;
All that Malarkus Anachronisticus hoo-hah
Yahoos take as fact or
Interpret as metaphor
Or properly discard as a bore
Even while wondering "gulp…what if…?"
Translated into every possible language
For every possible human to ultimately,
god willing, ignore

O nothing
To whom I address My dreary satire
Return
To thy nothingness
With all who worship thee
And all who reject thee
And all who never think of thee
And all who ever think of thee
And all others
Forever and ever

I proclaim:
ONLY:
ME
And I am lost

Amen

So that was the sophomoric result of one day's end-of-my-rope self therapy. Whatever. Again, who cares? I know it's too long. So edit it.

Last night I saw some paintings on the tube by a favorite artist: Thomas Cole. There was some grand music playing: Virgil Thomson's Symphony on a Hymn Tune… the fantastic bass viol ground figure that builds so powerfully under meandering woodwinds and brass fanfares. As it played they showed Cole's glorious landscapes. God, there are still some beautiful things in this world. And I thought how nice it'd be if I can teach that kind of thing to our kids. Something to inspire them as they deal with a world daddy hates. I hope the world doesn't fuck them up as fully as it has fucked me. I aim to try really hard to become something more noble than the squirming ouch you see represented in these blog entries. So pardon me if I bleed all over your monitor so the toxicity is expunged in time for the raising of thes kids.

Things are not so bad these last few. Got a Sears all-purpose power cutting tool. Not a Dremel, but cool anyway.
With it, I'll make things you'll never see.
There - I wrote in the blog.
Eh.

Posted 12:42 AM by sport

(Opening narration "A Stop at Willoughby" by Rod Serling:)

This is Gart Williams, age thirty-eight, a man protected by a suit of armor all held together by one bolt. Just a moment ago, someone removed the bolt, and Mr. Williams's protection fell away from him and left him a naked target. He's been cannonaded this afternoon by all the enemies of his life. His insecurity has shelled him, his sensitivity has straddled him with humiliation, his deep-rooted disquiet about his own worth has zeroed in on him, landed on target, and blown him apart. Mr. Gart Williams, ad agency exec, who in just a moment will move into the Twilight Zone, in a desperate search for survival.

(Closing narration:)

Willoughby? Maybe it's wishful thinking nestled in a hidden part of a man's mind, or maybe it's the last stop in the vast design of things, or perhaps, for a man like Mr. Gart Williams, who climbed on a world that went by too fast, it's a place around the bend where he could jump off. Willoughby? Whatever it is, it comes with sunlight and serenity, and is a part of the Twilight Zone.

http://www.thetzsite.com/pages/episodes/030.html

Posted 8:10 PM by sport

for the benefit of a few friends who've written me lately... sorry i haven't replied, but be grateful i haven't. things are very, very bad. i'll contact some of you when i can, but recent attempts to write have sputtered out. i don't want to say anything else now.