When we all had blogs, and posted on them, and bDr was not the only one among us to have the discipline to post every day, even when he's utter shite (I'm warning you not to click) or spastically depressive (Yes! wayback before he started sucking Greg Vanney's dick while taking electified pliers to The Dreamy One's), not to mention his annoying habits of being coherently organized and consistently thematic and usually spot-on and uncommonly incisive and way the fuck smarter, wittier, and better-looking than me. Bastard.
What the fuck was I talking about? Right. Blog posts. The kind I don't do, and my other friends now seem to do mostly as a mechanism for showing each other a little leg in public. Good on 'em.
Here is what I have to say:
1. Suck it, Ilse's ex.
2. Suck it, Gore-haters.
3. Suck it, SCHIP-haters.
4. Suck it, Trojans.
5. Suck it, Diplomacy.
6. Suck it, Doctor Ear-Nose-Throat Medical Surgery Person.
I think that about covers it. More expansively:
1. No. Not more expansively. Just trust me on this one.
2. No, I don't see how averting nationalistic or otherwise jingoistic competition over scarce resources could possibly relate the environment to peace, and anyone who does is a terrsymp.
3. Really, people. 12 years old. Injured in accident. Family that does what Republicans tell them to--i.e., stay married, parent their children, own a small business. How cannibalistic do you have to be?
4. High school, reunions, homecomings. Never mind. I'm already home.
5. Fini. Let us say simply that sometimes, doing favors for friends is not brilliant.
6. "The pain should go away in a couple of days. You can manage it with Tylenol." Uhm...no. It got worse, after two days of extreme discomfort and two days of apparent slight improvement, preceded by a very pleasant little procedure in which Doctor ENT Medical Person essentially burned some shit out of my throat that wasn't supposed to be there (the stuff was benign but not stuff that should be left alone). Today's forecast is that extreme discomfort is likely for five more days. I want heroin, and the guy would've given it to me, cheerfully, but I'm a little smarter than that.
But not smarter than bDr. See? Homecoming without the assholes. Fooking brilliant.
7 comments:
And I'd just like to note that I'm too lazy to edit the post, but it appears that bDr is also a better speller than I am.
Dial H for “Hero”
Once Picasso told me—on an afternoon of bitter, busy snow
in light so confident, so boastful of its home
in the sun, you’d think we would be sweltering,
and so his observation made sense—that everything
and everyone is as faceted as a cubist day at the beach.
That was the same light Einstein lifted for me
is a lesbian bar—we weren’t lesbian, neither of us,
but, after all, we were faceted—and in his hand it appeared
as compact as an apple: indeed, he pared it
using his teeth alone, in a single sinuous spiral
of golden rind, and everybody applauded
as if we were the stage show. “No, that’s wrong, it’s points,
not facets,” said Seurat, “it’s all confetti of light” (the trouble
with friends of genius—those advance scouts
of the mind [is there a “mind”?] and the spirit [the same]
is vision, like these two, in collision) and then, by way
of exemplification, he dipped his right forefinger daintily
into the ocean—we were at the beach, at dusk—and
when he removed it and lifted it up to my inspection, there
in the center of his fingerprint, like some mythic creature
waiting at the center of the maze, was a single
aglow confetto, acting as a nexus for the swift
oncoming night...and when I mentioned this confusion
of at-variance cosmologies to Marie Curie—we were in bed
together (not sexually, I’d like to lay that rumor
to rest), and reading our individual books
by the cool, blue radiation her body cast forth—
she rolled her eyes and said “yes” without listening really,
she was lost in a new collection of poetry by my old friend
David, mesmerized, as if he were the hero (and why not?
isn’t he raising Ben? and didn’t he help Patricia ease
her mother through the final gates? and aren’t these poems
the result of his dangerous visit to the quicksand
of American conspiracy paranoia?), she was wandering
in the thick of his words, their heft and weft (the way
that certain photographs invite our loopy dawdling
in the up-close, weathered texture of a silo’s side),
and so I couldn’t count on her adjudicating anything,
now how will I decide between the test of faith
and the structures of reason, how will I determine insularity
or empire, yes or arbitrate between a quantum-mechanical state
and the “actual,” with my guiding lights themselves
so cattywampus to each other? “And anyway, mostly
it’s all lies,” said the Baron Munchausen, “what the Buddhists
say is maya: illusion. Trust me, I know.”
He was sitting across the room from us—I was there,
a local watering hole, with Galileo and Georgia O’Keeffe.
“You’re listening to him?” and Galileo rose up like a promontory
—in his exacerbation, sloshing the foam
of his Oktoberfest special over our table—and pointed,
apoplectic, at Munchausen with the same finger that once
had pointed through the chill air to the cankered face
of the moon in a time when nobody else would admit
the truth of the sky, “That man is a fiction!”
See, put that way, it's just annoying prose.
Sorry about your froat.
xo
Um, I thought #4 was about... condoms. I mean, we Western Men are SO free with our seed. As for the inimitable bdr, I was waiting (alas, in vain!) for you to defend Terpitude as you have so nobly done in the past. *sniff*
And here I was just going to say that smoking is good for your blog -- it puts stuff in your throat to write about!
But I am more sympathetic than that.
The password is: gbcffpm!
The thought of having stuff (benign or otherwise) being burned out one's throat is making mine involuntarily seize up. Eek.
Hope you're feeling better, dood.
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