Thursday, April 30, 2020
Wednesday, April 29, 2020
Tuesday, April 28, 2020
Sunday, April 26, 2020
Saturday, April 25, 2020
The Not Too Social Hour: I'm better than Harvey Weinstein. 4 25 2020
Wiffen to my podcaft. Wiffen, wiffen. Wiff your full attention. Wiffen.
Friday, April 24, 2020
Saturday, April 18, 2020
Thursday, April 16, 2020
New fiction, with video prose reading in the post underneath.
Bistro Bounce Coffee is a peg-in-the-hole product. Ideal. One Stanley Cup sized mug of it took Noodles Glenwood to a much better place. Triple caffeine for the hat trick. Treats fatigue like a fresh coat of shellac. It's infallible. Took the willies right out of Noodles Glenwood.
He'd had dreams that don't matter in any therapeutic way, also, his diet was deficient, and he had been dealing with his new friends. On the peg board, that is many inflamed wooden holes.
Nightmares in which new people in the sleeper's life have greater than reasonable fore-knowledge, and thus authority, happen all the time. One could bust a nut analyzing the panic impetus, but one is still shitting lizards. On a behavioral level, Noodles would have to bargain with the people he met where he worked. Waiters meet a lot of people. You can fill a silo with the amount of information that many people beep and chatter to the free and frittering outside world. Variables and unknowns were abundant on Carson Street in 1993. There are celestial forces that draw twisted DNA like a tractor dragging barbed wire. It takes coffee as brisk as Bistro Bounce to get people back to normal after having a horrible night.
In Sleepy Land people he filled coffee cups for had been looking into Noodles Glenwood's background and finding that he had a great chance at becoming a real estate mogul had he not disappointed a coach. He had been on a team he couldn't remember, and had failed to steer his future. This is why the meaning of the dream is a load of shit in terms of resolving social problems people face everywhere. Noodles would have to form some sort of plan with which to organize his relationships.
Some deviant personalities, in real life, visually respectable regulars at That Bistro, where Noodle's worked, were taking interest, for real, in the new monkey boy in town. Our Noodles was nicely put together. Nice legs for a young man. Good butt. A thick flowing natural wave shag hair do. He looked like disco fluff. Men were inquiring about him both directly, and through switchboard-like channels through which a vast collective polymorphous libido loads up on filthy information. His nightmare had to have come from his situation, but that still isn't jack for a way to achieve psycho-social satori.
Everyone could buy Bistro Bounce Coffee because it was available at lucky stores, and all the bistros on the street served it, no point pouring anything else, it's like using synthetic motor oil when you have a case of name brand 30 weight. No one risks carburator gunk like that. Bistro Bounce is ideal. It made Noodles feel like he belonged to something important when he served it to people like his new friend, Bo La Doga.
The freelance scientist was a welcome source of challenging discussion for the energetic young waiter. Bo was reeling in his fifth master's degree in his eighth graduate fellowship program while creating a computer program designed to cure people of what is wrong with them. It was a hot idea, with everyone eager to get into a therapy session with a cool hip therapist. La Doga wanted to create a program that converted a shrinks pencil notations into a road map to bliss and prosperity. Universities love it when one of theirs boinks a product from their laboratories to your evening news on television. They were betting a few sheckels on La Doga.
For all the stress that had been mounting on Noodles, it was a relief to be taken into La Doga's confidence, like a Vaudevillian Good Neighbor Sam. People with complex personalities often choose a confidante like exotic fruit in an Asian wet market. How good it made the young waiter feel to be given that honor!
He'd had dreams that don't matter in any therapeutic way, also, his diet was deficient, and he had been dealing with his new friends. On the peg board, that is many inflamed wooden holes.
Nightmares in which new people in the sleeper's life have greater than reasonable fore-knowledge, and thus authority, happen all the time. One could bust a nut analyzing the panic impetus, but one is still shitting lizards. On a behavioral level, Noodles would have to bargain with the people he met where he worked. Waiters meet a lot of people. You can fill a silo with the amount of information that many people beep and chatter to the free and frittering outside world. Variables and unknowns were abundant on Carson Street in 1993. There are celestial forces that draw twisted DNA like a tractor dragging barbed wire. It takes coffee as brisk as Bistro Bounce to get people back to normal after having a horrible night.
In Sleepy Land people he filled coffee cups for had been looking into Noodles Glenwood's background and finding that he had a great chance at becoming a real estate mogul had he not disappointed a coach. He had been on a team he couldn't remember, and had failed to steer his future. This is why the meaning of the dream is a load of shit in terms of resolving social problems people face everywhere. Noodles would have to form some sort of plan with which to organize his relationships.
Some deviant personalities, in real life, visually respectable regulars at That Bistro, where Noodle's worked, were taking interest, for real, in the new monkey boy in town. Our Noodles was nicely put together. Nice legs for a young man. Good butt. A thick flowing natural wave shag hair do. He looked like disco fluff. Men were inquiring about him both directly, and through switchboard-like channels through which a vast collective polymorphous libido loads up on filthy information. His nightmare had to have come from his situation, but that still isn't jack for a way to achieve psycho-social satori.
Everyone could buy Bistro Bounce Coffee because it was available at lucky stores, and all the bistros on the street served it, no point pouring anything else, it's like using synthetic motor oil when you have a case of name brand 30 weight. No one risks carburator gunk like that. Bistro Bounce is ideal. It made Noodles feel like he belonged to something important when he served it to people like his new friend, Bo La Doga.
The freelance scientist was a welcome source of challenging discussion for the energetic young waiter. Bo was reeling in his fifth master's degree in his eighth graduate fellowship program while creating a computer program designed to cure people of what is wrong with them. It was a hot idea, with everyone eager to get into a therapy session with a cool hip therapist. La Doga wanted to create a program that converted a shrinks pencil notations into a road map to bliss and prosperity. Universities love it when one of theirs boinks a product from their laboratories to your evening news on television. They were betting a few sheckels on La Doga.
For all the stress that had been mounting on Noodles, it was a relief to be taken into La Doga's confidence, like a Vaudevillian Good Neighbor Sam. People with complex personalities often choose a confidante like exotic fruit in an Asian wet market. How good it made the young waiter feel to be given that honor!
Wednesday, April 15, 2020
Tuesday, April 14, 2020
McKees Rocks, 1990s
I am a willowy cuss. Calories have no effect on me. Naturally immune. Maybe the tons of Crisco ingested row out of my canal unchallenged.
There used to be a regular salad bar at an unnamed wholesome blase' family restaurant in McKees Rocks. Not badly attended. Holes like McKees Rocks can reveal that stations in life are analogous. Everyone was used to a town in long standing decline. I went to indulge a fried chicken thing.
I need to eat huge amounts of it to be alright, and I don't care why. The joint ran a Sunday brunch golconda that included fantastic fried chicken, en mass, and it's partner in coronaries, mashed potatoes and gravy. The gravy puts tons on some people merely thinking of it. I'm immune to ill effects of that leading cause of terminal disease. Here is why the atmosphere got thick there, one Sunday.
Me, there, getting a table and dashing like a reindeer to the chicken. I was hungry as nine roving wolverines. Too hungry to notice my very short term dining peer assembly. Not many there, lottsa' emty booths and tables, thanks, greeter, for giving me a horrible table under these circumstances, doesn't matter, there was chicken to get at. The plate loading process went fine, no competition, round one of my procedure was to go with chicken, straight up, second round with mashed potatoes and hazardous gravy, and it was on the hike back to my inhospitable table that I noticed morbidly obese men staring both at me, and the mile high stack of chicken I was carrying. One guy looked like he was dying of envy. Most stared at me like I was from planet Mars. All had the recent quadruple bypass look. With O2 tanks and binders like lawn furniture. I'd been riding my bicycle about a hundred fifty miles a week, and was in the condition of a low ranked marathon runner.
By the time I got back to terra Formica and tore into the fried chicken, I grasped that everyone in the room was on a medically urgent restricted diet, and I was probably the only person per square mile that wasn't. I've been eating tons of fried chicken for years, and have perfect blood pressure. The visually ugly aspect of the dining experience was easily covered with the most vital components of my being, the stuff I eat. But emotion would charge out of the flabby underbrush. There was an extremely overweight family of four, crammed in a booth, eight feet from the offending yours truly. I was upsetting a morbidly obese man. Mia culpa.
I was busy as a one armed paper hanger eating, there had been a few bad food days on a lean week, the chicken was needed like air. On lean weeks I have to go to mediocre food sources I call the LDF, or 'least disgusting food.'
Go figure, first option is eggs, seems callous towards chickens, cheap protein, needed, canned garbage, and cheap ass fruit. Keeps your ass from shutting down. That's most of a bad week. Poison snack foods come into the breadth of LDF. Yonder comes this compelling hunger, and it is why I was there.
The entire family of four was busy managing their strict dietary needs. All were restricted to foods eighty miles lower down the trench than fried chicken and it's high calorie friends. The mrs was busy explaining to the two kids, wide as retaining walls, why they were not allowed to have what they wanted, and would have to get used to eating things they hate. The mrs is to be complimented for dealing with it fine, good work, good caring, good show of maturity, she conveyed authority in the least harmful way, she's a saint. She outlined consequences for non-compliance, like no best loved cartoon video later. No exotic tortures were threatened by either parent. Bravo, modern family health care. The kids were horrible. But I might not have noticed as much, though they were audible like a large home entertainment center, the mr, wide as an industrial freezer, kept staring at me, turning his huge truculent square compressed head, with a homicidal rage. I could read the hatred like a Dick Tracy cartoon. Built in cubes, the gent looked like the squad leader of a Bosnian hired army. Deposed aristocrats come to the US, and forty years later their grand kids are assistant managers at the auto parts store. This could also explain the guy, not that it needed clarification. Looked like a pugnacious cuss who was trying to be a modern good parent.
It was a bountiful and lethal-to-some all you can eat buffet, requiring several trips hither/tither, food runs. Not my fault again I had to pass their booth, both directions to and fro the trough. Each time I went by with a load of mashed potatoes and gravy, the two kids, he and she, stared at it and begged mom and pop to let them have them. The kids looked at me like they'd kill me to get at fried chicken and the side key to bliss. Quite a hassle for both over taxed parents. Since it was a repeat performance each time I went back to the feast spread, the kids would start crying and begging again, and the mr would give me the look, it's my fault he has to manage his homicidal rage. The mrs was too well focused to notice outsiders. I really admire her for her good character. Mr, on the other hand, was distracted by limpid bike riding nimrods.
He hated my scrawny, chicken eating guts, and I was half empathetic. When he wasn't staring at me like I'd stolen his native country's equivalent of the holy grail, he was supporting his spouse's efforts to calm the kids and direct their attention to positive health care goals, like losing weight and getting healthier. I was empathetic on that one, too. That's a chickenshit incentive to tolerate boredom and blandness. Restricted diets are all LDFs, and those with morbid obesity are under doctor's orders to chow down small portions of nothing but LDFs. Not my fault. The man has no right to hurt me for pigging out like a razorback hog, and for providing him the reflection of things obesity and family life took from him, like a mile high stack of fried processed farm bird. He wanted to kill the image of freedom, like killing the bearer of bad news, and inside an hour I was done eating and out of there. Sated.
Empathy is radiant, even in minor dessert portions and reduced calorie condiments. I needed fried chicken more than enough to blow off the animosity I sensed in that blase' formica dining area. I wasn't worse off, the dining experience wasn't my worst, the expense, aside from the extra-ordinary peer opprobrium, was reasonable. I was reminded I had it easier than many for not having any kids, and for having real good general health, minus a spoke in the money making part of the brain. No one pays me to excel at the triple jump. I don't earn much, ever, but I've got my weasily health. I'm a little smug. They got problems. And have to eat LDFs. I understand how they felt.
All kinds of religion in McKees Rocks. Unusual Baltic clans. Many of them look like the mr, like the under paid manager at an outlet store, dressed in his super-large Sunday suit and dark rep tie. All kinds of cutting crumby people some slack for being imperfect. One needn't believe anything to cut other people some slack. One can believe anything, and go easy on everyone. We're modern.
Monday, April 13, 2020
I'm starting to write a series of filthy, dirty rhyming poems about the Mastercrud
Alone and Dirty
Smashing bottles with a rock
whipping out my great big cock
audience winding around the block
wearing only Disney socks
30 days in the germy stockade
piss and bile lemon aide
and my inflatable dairy maid
alone here fucked and staid
Rough Decisions
under a bridge with Corona survivors
a counter invented by Mr. Geiger
clicks plutonium roaring mean as a tiger
do I dare to hang out beside her?
Also with us are the dead
back-floating at the river's edge
I'd rather risk another swedge
with a live one, not the dead
Passing Time
why do people act their age
shitting on a randy sage
who works the crank many times per day
in induced and lurid haze
you can't get sick from beating off
with heavy cream in one's luxury loft
cream the walls before it goes soft
once it sets it's safe to cough
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