Lunatic Fringe Benefits

Just an update. Of sorts. Sort of. For the moment. For the time being. Because you all miss me terribly and cannot live with out me and every single solitary moment that passes in solitude is like an empty vase now that the flowers have left home and all that is left is cruddy water and the cracked vase your aunt broke and your grandmother glued back together and gave to your mother back when none of them were any of those things, just sons and daughters of Hungarian ghosts.

I am now a collaborator, a co-conspirator, with ideas flowing out of my eye-balls like laser beams and intrepidation bursting forth like beams of bright lights from stereo speakers. I am the poet. I never filled in an application form. I was recruited. It will be interesting experiences piled up, one on top of the other, until I am teetering on a pile a million pee-stained mattresses high and a pea is keeping me from sleeping restfully. But mark 9 June 07 on your desktop Dilbert-a-day calendars and notebooks and day planners and Outlook Expressionless Calendars. Mark it down for 3 o'clock. Rachel and St. Laurent. Beer will be there. You should be too. I will be the stumpy dunce saying all sorts of embarrassing things at the tops of my lungs. It will either be the most amazing thing you have ever seen. Or the most amazing thing you have ever seen. See what becomes of a comedian, jazzist, electronician and a pink lemonade sipping "poet" when they sit around and talk about telling the audience to "go fuck themselves." Oh the suspense is killing me.

More to follow. Follow more. Borrow more. Borrow a wheel barrow and go to the market and buy some carrots for your mother and then shove off and sail to Tahiti to escape the law and find the treats you lost in childhood. Surely they exist there. Surely.

Apart from those things and these things and the other things sitting over there to keep out of the rain, Sunset Rubdown make my head hurt and my heart go pitter-patter and Spencer Krug's fingers are made of soft, pliable, agile and mailable golden nuggets panned out of the Yukon River in the Klondike after the gold rush when the 49ers began their slow decent to Elvis Grbac and Sam McGee had long since died and was cremated a second time, this time I saw to it myself so there were no mistakes. Make no mistake. This time stuff sticks. This time Robert Service wasn't there. He was out to lunch. Or brunch. Or in Butte, Montana. Or whatever-in-the-fuck.

Elliott Smith isn't dead. He was just tired and frozen from the cold.


Karen said...

Where I come from fringes are the part of your hair that is shorter than the rest on the front side of your head. Unless you have a Chelsea (reverse-mullet)then they are on the back I suppose. Golly Gee you use a lot of cuss words in your blog. You're some kind of tough guy aren't you? Next thing you know YOU will be the one with the dreadlocks and leather pants. (C'mon I know you have the leather vest and army boots already, why not splurge for the pants?)I just realized why the shirt I bought yesterday looks so familiar. As it turns out it is the same pattern as the background of your blog.

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