Posts Tagged ‘George Cantor’

Another Checkpoint Charlie


20 Jun

Another Checkpoint Charlie

Another Checkpoint Charlie

samplex

Date: Thu Jun 20, 1996 6:09:23 PM

Why Don't I write more often? Maybe a nice innocent game of canasta for the 4th 'o' July weekend. I can simulate retirement in a Boca Raton Condo-village.—Blum

With this weather who knows what will come next? Another Checkpoint Charlie. Just saying hi. Busy as usual, working like madness on my bad poetry pages, Blowpoets Ad Nauseum I call them. Love being busy, having purpose, even if no one else gets the punchline. After all, I never really cared for Elvis, and look how many people did and do. My life is a little like crunchy peanut butter. It tastes good even if its not in good taste at white glove affairs.

Were you serious about perhaps throwing in your two cents on an ALL-CANASTA WEEKEND? It's either too wet or too hot, but maybe one salty day soon—oh stutters, I don't know, with all due respect to secret sauces and special spices, time was when making high meld, even more so than laying in a stack of canastas, or books as Pops called them, was a stealth orgasmic move...

In my case it was six kids and an alky dad on a rare dry spell sprawled around a huge converted door now table where for hours upon days those cards were shuffled, reshuffled, dealt and played out hand after hand. So perhaps that weekend may prove fertile for a game or two. Cards are more relaxing, therefore more productive than TV because of the mild competition among flesh and blood. The brain and central nervous system allow adrenalin junkies to reassert themselves, to push back, to win and to lose, to earn exhilaration, to taste the humility of defeat, and in general, as a result, life just seems rosier. Don't smirk. Life is just killing time, after all, waiting for the greyhound messiah from Hialeah to kick the filthy door down on all our petty miseries, with no room for killjoy surveillance or biopics....

Landry is Jack's girlfriend. You met her in October at the crabfuss I reckon. I know Byron & Buck through Tom Howell, digital video artist & poet, respectively. I know you as some guy, my neighbor. The rest of this string of linear howls is too much work to exert here, and will be divulged only on a need to know basis. A few of these people would like to see you, some guy, grace the Biograph with an appearance. Previous engagements and life-threatening emergencies of course take precedence. If boredom and that low tired feeling of inertia sag your bones, then likewise, a quick, "Go away, I'm Rick," will suffice.

Had to shake Steve off eleven days ago, late Sunday night, after guest status had worn thin from too much Steve. You know me. I like aloneness and pay the piper in loneliness sometimes, but not nearly as much as others seem to fear being alone. And true to form he's vanished and except for a quickie E-mail from his dad's account when he was visiting Bloomsburg last weekend I haven't heard from him since his AOL service was disrupted after he bolted for higher ground to rethink this career thing over once more from scratch. For six months or so we wrote volumes to each other every day, now nothing.

Target 2%. Bad drugs induce female breasts. Obviously a spectacular flaw in this maam's rodeo to favor with fine lace and loose cotton. Making that list, sir. Frivolous lawsuits to follow like homeless mutts. Where spending is allowed, law is prepared. And somebody always takes a hit. There are no limits in the field. Gozloc carefully disagrees.
Yep, you predicted it Bob. I snatched up a couple of toadstools from the backyard yesterday. The almighty rains are a curious colonial girl with awfully straight hair. And still more on its way. We aren't even close to the oracular Mississippi Delta where heavy rains fall like thrones, nearly 867 miles as the Chevy flies from one ballgame to the next, scout to scout, so we, Space and I, might pitch a tent. Yet...

Quite hilarious, Bob, your ironclad Arthurian handmaiden's tale, Gallahad, the guillotine and missing tongue. I forwarded it to all the usual suspects. Sure, they'll laugh, then what? Nostrils flared, eyeballs cued, Tennessee cured hams in my two dollar pockets, hardly an Artic fox on the steal, but hell or high water I'll stand with you on your neckline meat corner any day, against those rogue troops, holding my silent "H" low, sir. It's only out in Forestville Minor that apartments continue to explode into epic flames and eventual freedom, letting the blazing cat out of the bag for outside investigators to flag, and if the Western wind is right, restore the catalogue of pet projects to its original condition, shaving points off the tail, insisting the catastrophe was meant to be, for undisclosed reasons. This is not an evolutionary outlook, so the objections are many. Trusses are weak. The chemical makeup of certain fibers woven into a little blue dress found on the scene is the likely determinant in the novel procedure invented by a Ukrainian viceroy who claims his ecological orbit has earned him enough status to make a play for a starring role in a Hollywood motion picture, his words. Gozloc's procedure is said to defy dysfunction. The residents there have poisoned themselves by intentionally swallowing room temperature detergents better suited for the cleansing powers required in rarely admitted top secret transnational scarcity matters. But some say, using Gozloc's procedure, their own awesome lineup will finally start to take a good look at the cracks in the vats of the system next February. Target 2%. Bad drugs induce female breasts. Obviously a spectacular flaw in this maam's rodeo to favor with fine lace and loose cotton. Making that list, sir. Frivolous lawsuits to follow like homeless mutts. Where spending is allowed, law is prepared. And somebody always takes a hit. There are no limits in the field. Gozloc carefully disagrees.

That damned George Cantor did a pitiful job on your back lawn. I caught him banging on your front door one morning looking for his money. I peeked out from the computer room window and gave him your message concerning your weekend trek, and payment when you returned. He swore you were home because last night the fan was not on, and this morning in question it was. I argued a couple of volleys until finally shouting, "Fine George, fine! Fine, Just fine!" and slammed my window shut. He then left.

GT is RSN

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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