I’m an arrogant fool. This whole blog titled in the third person. A hack cliche pseudonym. Should just obliterate it, I should, the site and pseudonym both in the bargain. Who’s my leprechaun? There’s no devil, only God when he’s drunk sings that gnarl voiced singer Tom Waits. What’s he waitsing for anyway, singing like that his throat must be graveled up like an old street.
I decided not to go to grad school this fall. Being accepted I discovered was like getting published. Validation. Validation. Valediction before the introduction? Quite. No need to pay them so I can write. They should pay me anyway. Who’s stopping me from writing the book that will change the world? Me, that’s who. Me and inkslinger, that damned old leprechaun. No need to change the world anyway, already done been changed long ago, for the worse and then the better, though the better is slow coming. And reading’s just a pleasure, like drinking or cavorting, swimming or a Sunday drive.
Decided too I didn’t want to teach. Or rather if I teach I don’t need another ploma de grad (a phrase of my own making), don’t need another feather in my cap of education.
Haberdashing, now that’s a career. I could make me some hats. I love me some hats.
We got bats fly above our house in the summer. Darting around as quick as thought up there in the lights from the car dealership behind us. They don’t make as much noise, the dealership, as they used too. I called the manager a couple of times to complain and oh he heard me. Good for them cause I’ll throw my kids’ diapers over the fence without hesitation.
I’d like to build me a writing shed. The Shed of Making. The Making Shed. Sounds like the Mekong Shed, some kind of solider slang in ‘Nam for a stop-off along the Mekong River where prostitutes were had and then forgotten and later carpet bombed.
Oh well, war is hell and good for the economy too. W says we’re not in a recession, it’s just a slow-down. Wonder if with those squinty clever eyes of hers Laura sees through her husband’s lies. Bush family vacation back in the day, W navigating the wagon with one hand, a cold one in the other, and they’re in the middle of nowhere, low on gas, the twins pulling each other’s hair in the backseat, ole squinty eyes sitting shotgun escaping into Jane Austin. Squinty looks up from Pride and P, Honey, I think you’ve gotten us lost. Heh, heh, W says raising the can to his mouth, we’re not lost, we’re just reorientated.
Who’s worse: the fool or the wise woman who props up the fool? Doesn’t Proverbs say something about that? Or B to the Delphia Franklin? Of course, it’s not like my wife isn’t smarter than me too, all wives are. But not all wives will challenge their husbands privately, like mine did me, when they declare their plan to run for president and ruin the country sixteen ways from Sunday.
What is it about Sunday anyway that the hours feel shorter than Saturday? It’s like the approaching work week is squatted there up ahead with an oil can, squirting grease all over Sunday’s hours. Saturday is flat and time is a slow grinding gear, slow enough to fit seven spans of 24 into. Saturday night’s sleep is a train taking you uphill. Sunday comes and you wake up standing there at the top of the week’s mountain, taking in the view of creation. But don’t you know, Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday have sprayed their grease to the Sabbath gears and before you know it, some damned ass fool at work is telling you Happy Monday. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that the weekend is over or that I’ve got to hear the phrase Happy Monday. At least today is Thursday.
Filed under: Current Affairs, random, writing
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