...fame and fortune and everything that goes with it/ I thank you all/ but it's been no bed of roses/ no pleasure cruise....
Sky that melted into water with no seam
Unreasonably sized video screens
A bar that was empty when I walked into it
A near miss while driving
The inside of an automobile elevator
Dramatic streaks of lightning
A near miss as a passenger
Fabulous fog
An asshole on a riceburner, popping a wheelie
Half of Frost/Nixon
Attractive people
Cookie Monster walking down the street
A studly and polite police officer
Bridges
Shoes that I did not covet
Vincent Price playing a prettyboy
A doodle of a villain on a paper tablecloth
A near miss as a pedestrian
(We Are the Champions; Queen)
It's Tuesday. I know. Shaddap.
31 July, 2007
24 July, 2007
Conversational Post
...You can talk to me/ You can talk to me/ If you're lonely, you can talk to me...
Mama’s beer is empty.
He goes to the cooler, brings a Natty Boh. I pull my best pout.
"What’s wrong now?"
It’s not open.
He rolls his eyes.
"Can you say ‘high maintenance’?"
Can you?
*
I look around. I recognize exactly no one.
"Where should we sit?"
With the fun people.
"Where are they?"
I sigh. The table by the curtain has only two guests. I approach at high speed, fueled by half a glass of cranberry and vodka.
Hi. We’re looking for the fun people and we think you’re it.
He looks up and grins.
"Yeah? You can tell I’m fun just by looking at me?
We’ve got the right table, honey.
Hawk sits. I’ve already sat. I look at my new friend’s fresh-faced companion.
And you, you didn’t graduate with us. What are you, a sophmore here?
"Her? This’s my daughter."
Her jaw drops in outraged amusement.
Now I KNOW we’ve got the right table.
*
"Did you have fun at the reunion?" he calls from his topless gold Sebring.
Yes!! Did you? I answer from my topless red one.
"Yeah!"
This is the best, though, right now, in my car.
"You got THAT right!"
People in Jaguars, do you think they’re having...
"...twenty thousand dollars’ worth more fun..."
...than we are right now, are they?
"Not possible!"
We part company when the light changes.
*
Fuzzy eyes me critically.
"What is that?"
New bikini top. Like it?
"No, I mean, what IS it? Bra or swimsuit?"
Swimsuit. I’ve wanted a white bikini for awhile, makes me feel all Barbarella.
"What?"
Never mind.
"What is THAT?"
Oh, this? Removable push-up pad. It looks horrible, doesn’t it?
"YEA-uh."
Good thing it’s removable.
*
It's about halfway when he joins me.
"So, how is it?"
I’m not sure what the fuss was about.
"It’s not good?"
The story’s great, and she’s fantastic, but I hate the lighting- it’s shadowy and contrived, and they keep having these extended close-ups of his face, which never does anything.
"Dammit, gurrl!"
Well, it doesn’t. And it’s not like this is a Dirty Harry flick. How many Academy Awards did this win?
He shrugs.
And look at that- who’s that woman, the mother, she was in Edward Scissorhands, she’s fabulous, that scene was wonderful, he got a great performance out of them in that sequence- and now, now we go to a long shot, of him, doing what? Nothing! Won’t someone please tell him that he’s a great director, but he needs to just quit acting, because he’s dreadful.
"Day-umm!"
What? Somebody should tell him, that's all.
*
"I am not going to fool around with you in your mother’s house."
She’s not home; why not?
"We’re just not, got it?"
But at our house, there are kids, which you claim are a major flaccid-inducer.
"They are, but we’re still not going to."
Pouting ensues.
"You got laid once this weekend. Isn’t that enough?"
Well, no.
*
I snap a shot of Fuzzy getting caught, and one of Fluff flying in the air.
The White Diamond asks me, "Oh, will you take pictures of my son? Once more, I forgot to bring my camera."
Will I! How old is he, again?
“Oh, he’s legal."
Yes, but how long has he been that way?
She laughs. "He’s twenty-four."
I could do twenty-four.
"Mmm, so could I."
Ewwww.
"Not HIM! Some other twenty-four."
I snap a shot.
"Didja get it?"
I got something. I may have been too late to catch his layout. My finger forgot to move fast because my mouth was hanging open. I think I drooled on my foot.
He rolls out of the net, biceps bulging, thighs rippling.
"I’m pimpin’ you, buddy. Cybele’s checking you out."
"Oh yeah? How much?" He lifts a water bottle carelessly. A drop rolls down his cheek, throat. Ahem.
She turns to me. "Whaddaya offering?"
Head tilted, I consider.
I’m not sure. Don’t I get a free sample?
The world shimmers with sunlit laughter.
(Hey, Bulldog; The Beatles)
Mama’s beer is empty.
He goes to the cooler, brings a Natty Boh. I pull my best pout.
"What’s wrong now?"
It’s not open.
He rolls his eyes.
"Can you say ‘high maintenance’?"
Can you?
*
I look around. I recognize exactly no one.
"Where should we sit?"
With the fun people.
"Where are they?"
I sigh. The table by the curtain has only two guests. I approach at high speed, fueled by half a glass of cranberry and vodka.
Hi. We’re looking for the fun people and we think you’re it.
He looks up and grins.
"Yeah? You can tell I’m fun just by looking at me?
We’ve got the right table, honey.
Hawk sits. I’ve already sat. I look at my new friend’s fresh-faced companion.
And you, you didn’t graduate with us. What are you, a sophmore here?
"Her? This’s my daughter."
Her jaw drops in outraged amusement.
Now I KNOW we’ve got the right table.
*
"Did you have fun at the reunion?" he calls from his topless gold Sebring.
Yes!! Did you? I answer from my topless red one.
"Yeah!"
This is the best, though, right now, in my car.
"You got THAT right!"
People in Jaguars, do you think they’re having...
"...twenty thousand dollars’ worth more fun..."
...than we are right now, are they?
"Not possible!"
We part company when the light changes.
*
Fuzzy eyes me critically.
"What is that?"
New bikini top. Like it?
"No, I mean, what IS it? Bra or swimsuit?"
Swimsuit. I’ve wanted a white bikini for awhile, makes me feel all Barbarella.
"What?"
Never mind.
"What is THAT?"
Oh, this? Removable push-up pad. It looks horrible, doesn’t it?
"YEA-uh."
Good thing it’s removable.
*
It's about halfway when he joins me.
"So, how is it?"
I’m not sure what the fuss was about.
"It’s not good?"
The story’s great, and she’s fantastic, but I hate the lighting- it’s shadowy and contrived, and they keep having these extended close-ups of his face, which never does anything.
"Dammit, gurrl!"
Well, it doesn’t. And it’s not like this is a Dirty Harry flick. How many Academy Awards did this win?
He shrugs.
And look at that- who’s that woman, the mother, she was in Edward Scissorhands, she’s fabulous, that scene was wonderful, he got a great performance out of them in that sequence- and now, now we go to a long shot, of him, doing what? Nothing! Won’t someone please tell him that he’s a great director, but he needs to just quit acting, because he’s dreadful.
"Day-umm!"
What? Somebody should tell him, that's all.
*
"I am not going to fool around with you in your mother’s house."
She’s not home; why not?
"We’re just not, got it?"
But at our house, there are kids, which you claim are a major flaccid-inducer.
"They are, but we’re still not going to."
Pouting ensues.
"You got laid once this weekend. Isn’t that enough?"
Well, no.
*
I snap a shot of Fuzzy getting caught, and one of Fluff flying in the air.
The White Diamond asks me, "Oh, will you take pictures of my son? Once more, I forgot to bring my camera."
Will I! How old is he, again?
“Oh, he’s legal."
Yes, but how long has he been that way?
She laughs. "He’s twenty-four."
I could do twenty-four.
"Mmm, so could I."
Ewwww.
"Not HIM! Some other twenty-four."
I snap a shot.
"Didja get it?"
I got something. I may have been too late to catch his layout. My finger forgot to move fast because my mouth was hanging open. I think I drooled on my foot.
He rolls out of the net, biceps bulging, thighs rippling.
"I’m pimpin’ you, buddy. Cybele’s checking you out."
"Oh yeah? How much?" He lifts a water bottle carelessly. A drop rolls down his cheek, throat. Ahem.
She turns to me. "Whaddaya offering?"
Head tilted, I consider.
I’m not sure. Don’t I get a free sample?
The world shimmers with sunlit laughter.
(Hey, Bulldog; The Beatles)
18 July, 2007
Fresh Memory
...still a little bit of your taste in my mouth...
Blackberry, in your hand, pulled from the bush so tenderly as to neither bruise nor break it, avoiding stains on flesh and clothing. From the bush, in the sunshine, dark and shiny where you've rubbed it carefully on your shirt. In your mouth, smooth and warm, slightly gritty where dust from the gravel road collected in its crevices, squirting heavy juice behind your teeth. In your throat, a little lumpy, the flesh inadequately chewed to defend against molar-grabbing seeds, slippery and sweet sliding down down to join the previous one, to be followed quickly with another. Blackberry bush, found beside the sunny dusty road, next to the field of fragrant young corn, bearing fruit so rare and precious you hate to leave any for the birds, and fill the hem of your shirt with the rest of the berries, knowing the shirt will be ruined, not caring. Holding the hem of your shirt in one hand, with the other reach for the last bright jewel on the bush, holding it delicately in your fingers before popping it in your mouth to crush, gently, bit by bit, between soft palate and tongue, dark juice filling your mouth with whispers of wine and moonlight and music, blackberry, freshly plucked.
(Cannonball; Damien Rice)
Blackberry, in your hand, pulled from the bush so tenderly as to neither bruise nor break it, avoiding stains on flesh and clothing. From the bush, in the sunshine, dark and shiny where you've rubbed it carefully on your shirt. In your mouth, smooth and warm, slightly gritty where dust from the gravel road collected in its crevices, squirting heavy juice behind your teeth. In your throat, a little lumpy, the flesh inadequately chewed to defend against molar-grabbing seeds, slippery and sweet sliding down down to join the previous one, to be followed quickly with another. Blackberry bush, found beside the sunny dusty road, next to the field of fragrant young corn, bearing fruit so rare and precious you hate to leave any for the birds, and fill the hem of your shirt with the rest of the berries, knowing the shirt will be ruined, not caring. Holding the hem of your shirt in one hand, with the other reach for the last bright jewel on the bush, holding it delicately in your fingers before popping it in your mouth to crush, gently, bit by bit, between soft palate and tongue, dark juice filling your mouth with whispers of wine and moonlight and music, blackberry, freshly plucked.
(Cannonball; Damien Rice)
05 July, 2007
Showtime Again
....She's so mean but I don't care/ I love her eyes and her wild wild hair ...
Update from the Dead Zone: We will be performing Murder At The Oh No! Corral on Friday night and Saturday night at Spotlighters in Baltimore.
I will not wear a carnation, but you may, if you like.
(Wild, Wild West; The Escape Club)
Update from the Dead Zone: We will be performing Murder At The Oh No! Corral on Friday night and Saturday night at Spotlighters in Baltimore.
I will not wear a carnation, but you may, if you like.
(Wild, Wild West; The Escape Club)
04 July, 2007
Independence Day*
...in her own good land here she’s been abused/ she's been burned, dishonored, denied an' refused/ and the government for which she stands/ has been scandalized throughout out the land/ and she’s getting threadbare, and she’s wearin' thin/ but she’s in good shape, for the shape she’s in/ cause she’s been through the fire before/ and I believe she can take a whole lot more....
I have a special fondness for this holiday, being as it is the first one I ever celebrated. Not that I remember much about that first celebration, and no, not because I was drunk.
Plus, it's got excellent historical value, that whole giving the finger to The Man deal, and the writing of the Declaration, and Thomas Jefferson, recently coolified with interracial scandal. By the way, the Star Spangled Banner was not written during the Revolutionary War, but during the War of 1812, some years later. (Shaddap. YOU do the math.)
Also, Independence Day has significant peeve value as well, since many many many people identify it by its date rather than its title. Seriously, how often have you seen
or
(which is not much of an improvement)?
Since when does a holiday identify by its date? Do we say, Happy 1st of January or Happy 25th of December? Do we say Happy Third Thursday In November, or Happy Six Weeks Past Ash Wednesday (or whatever that works out to be)?
We do not.
It would be stupid.
Also stupid: Redwhiteandblue themed food, clothing and beer. Especially the beer. Okay, green on St.Patrick's, if you're Irish, or if you're a poseur. Hallowe'en vests? Gah. Christmas sweaters? Only if you're in the Ugly Christmas Sweater Pub Crawl. But flag shirts hats trousers jewelry (especially jewelry) socks tights (Unless you're Captain America) neckerchiefs armbands leis bustiers (unless you're Wonder Woman) or boxer shorts, let me say this: Please. Our flag as outer or underwear? Please.
[Aside: flag-themed boxer shorts have business only in the striptease number performed by G. Gordon Liddy to the song "Goodbye, Mrs. Liddy" from Watergate! the Musical, and nowhere else, please, thankyouverymuch.]
So, sensibly clad in my usual black, I implore you, greet each other correctly on this the celebration of our nation's cussedness, and dress in a way that will cause embarrassment to neither your children nor your parents, or inspire snickering among natives of other, better dressed, countries.
From the bottoms of her white kitten-heeled sandals to the thong of her lacy blue panties to the demi-cups of her red satin bra, Primarily Decorative wishes you a Happy Independence Day.
(Ragged Old Flag; Johnny Cash)
*This post dedicated to my friend Tim Kreider.
I have a special fondness for this holiday, being as it is the first one I ever celebrated. Not that I remember much about that first celebration, and no, not because I was drunk.
Plus, it's got excellent historical value, that whole giving the finger to The Man deal, and the writing of the Declaration, and Thomas Jefferson, recently coolified with interracial scandal. By the way, the Star Spangled Banner was not written during the Revolutionary War, but during the War of 1812, some years later. (Shaddap. YOU do the math.)
Also, Independence Day has significant peeve value as well, since many many many people identify it by its date rather than its title. Seriously, how often have you seen
Happy 4th Of July!
or
Happy Fourth Of July!
(which is not much of an improvement)?
Since when does a holiday identify by its date? Do we say, Happy 1st of January or Happy 25th of December? Do we say Happy Third Thursday In November, or Happy Six Weeks Past Ash Wednesday (or whatever that works out to be)?
We do not.
It would be stupid.
Also stupid: Redwhiteandblue themed food, clothing and beer. Especially the beer. Okay, green on St.Patrick's, if you're Irish, or if you're a poseur. Hallowe'en vests? Gah. Christmas sweaters? Only if you're in the Ugly Christmas Sweater Pub Crawl. But flag shirts hats trousers jewelry (especially jewelry) socks tights (Unless you're Captain America) neckerchiefs armbands leis bustiers (unless you're Wonder Woman) or boxer shorts, let me say this: Please. Our flag as outer or underwear? Please.
[Aside: flag-themed boxer shorts have business only in the striptease number performed by G. Gordon Liddy to the song "Goodbye, Mrs. Liddy" from Watergate! the Musical, and nowhere else, please, thankyouverymuch.]
So, sensibly clad in my usual black, I implore you, greet each other correctly on this the celebration of our nation's cussedness, and dress in a way that will cause embarrassment to neither your children nor your parents, or inspire snickering among natives of other, better dressed, countries.
From the bottoms of her white kitten-heeled sandals to the thong of her lacy blue panties to the demi-cups of her red satin bra, Primarily Decorative wishes you a Happy Independence Day.
(Ragged Old Flag; Johnny Cash)
*This post dedicated to my friend Tim Kreider.