...it's valid to suggest that creativity can sometimes be a self induced reaction to disfunction.... -Martin Ewen
Back from Spain, a certain substance-abusive panto friend has something to say about alcoholic clowns. Martin, my gods, what a tortured soul- in print. In reality, he's...well, everyone knows how I feel about Martin by now. Embarrassing, really.
My sister asks if I'm still planning to see my favorite Big Hair band this weekend at the Recher Theatre. Why? "I was reconsidering going with you," she says. "Not that I like Crack The Sky, but it would be a good chance to hang out with you." A pity date, from my sister? Thanks. No.
The Political Animal has something interesting to say yet again. Did dinosaurs torture one another, or go to trial? I bet not. (He skims over what I've written, makes approving noises about "the poem". Did I write a poem? Look again: so I did. Accidental Poetry, a new genre.)
The new Lulu Eightball is uncomfortably familiar to me.
There may not be a new comic at The Pain- When Will It End?, since the artist is on Book Tour. Look for him in small indie book or record stores Somewhere In The World, or wherever weird comics are sold.
(I follow signs to "Mardi Gras World," where I am encouraged to "Let Us Take You Behind The Scenes And Explain The Phenomenon That Is Mardi Gras!" At $13.95 per ticket, I decline a tour, and visit instead the gift shop. Stepping between resin statues of Bacchus and Brer Rabbit, I am greeted by the prominent head of a recently dead ex-president, atop a table that holds overpriced bottles of wine. It wears an expression identical to the one in this picture. Creepy. I exit quickly, purchasing nothing.)
The rest of CityPaper is here, though I urge you to avoid Dan Savage's column. I'm not kidding.
Well, you've been warned.
You can do it alone, in private, with media, or with imagination.
Doing it in public places is also fine. People will envy you and want to join in.
You can do it with a dog, if you have a dog. Or with a borrowed dog, or one just passing.
It's perfectly acceptable to do it at the dining room table.
You can do it with your spouse, someone of the same gender, or several people at once.
It's all right to do with someone else's spouse, too.
There are some who are paid to do it with large groups of people.
It can be done several times in the space of a minute, for hours on end.
You can do it with your grandmother, your father, your sister, even your cousins. All of them. All at once.
Done with strangers whom you expect to never see again, there is a dimension of extra surprise.
When it's done with children, there is much joy and no censure.
If you can manage to do it with an enemy, everything changes. Everything.
It brings joy to you and everyone in earshot. It feeds upon itself and grows bigger and brighter as long as it continues.
Do it many times a day, share it often. Do it until tears run down your face, catch your breath, wipe your eyes, and begin again. Do it until your whole body aches with it and your face feels as though it will split. Do it to the point of delicious exhaustion, and lean weakly against the friend or stranger close to you. Do it everywhere, with everyone, let your voice ring with it in every moment.
Laughter. It is better than sex.