Tag Archives: Tom Howell

Tracing The Roots Of My Umbrella

howell-house
The Howell House 2004
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Originally published on June 11, 1999

Peggy once held down that same night auditor's job at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel on Peachtree way back in the early Eighties, although to those of us still dangling her memory chains, it seems like yesterday's music, always with us, cotton soft protection against the white light of a permanent game of trenches. Every cuticle of horsepower in RCH management and grunt services, starting with the owner himself, shined of pride, sliced butter like the most tapered of gay blades, rolled with a sophisticated childishness she admired in herself, so Mother always referred to herself—not as the token female (having owned that role before) but rather—the token straight, always sharing a laugh with her accommodating lads, sharing their jokes as an surrogate, even honorary insider. As a woman in constant struggle and a woman of a certain breeding, she had always prided herself (there's that word again) the longsuffering supportive mother of a high-strung gay son, my youngest sibling, John. Yes, she was of tolerance and empathy, she told the world, however misguided and self-indulgent she often was in presenting this deceptive image of herself.

In fact—Mother was on the job when I took respite on her sofa at the Howell House a mere hundred steps away. This move of mine began a rather quick but import six weeks era of great reading, writing, and window gazing at the street below, little else to drag me into action, after wheeling into the great Georgia capital city from Corpus Christi, poor, thin, desperate for a sneeze and my own artistic statement to initiate my transition from stiff to standard bearer, or something worse.

Home was a sixth floor, corner, modestly appointed, mid-scale one bedroom apartment in a Midtown Atlanta eighteen floor highrise. Mother lived there rentfree in exchange for her services, straight up for acting as the senior-citizens coordinator in a building demographic just over 50% extremely geriatric.

The Ritz-Carlton towered over Peachtree directly across the street from the fabulous and famous Fox Theatre, where "Gone With the Wind" premiered back in the 40s at the height of Hollywood glamour. Tucked into the street level corner of the hotel was famed Alex Cooley's Electric Ballroom, now under new management and dubbed the Agora Ballroom. I never saw a show at either.

On the Fox side of the block only a parking lot and Third Street separated the elegantly ornate old theatre where I watched the moneyed classes pour into the streets after soaking up bands like the Stray Cats, the Go Gos and Elvis Costello (whom I had already seen in Houston five years earlier when I was a still a stakeout chief flush with cash). And me six flights up wishing and twitching I'd had the money to go, but once accepting I'd missed the show, miffed I had no camera to mark the spatial moment of my desires.

Beautiful people playing ugly, ugly people playing beautiful, each marked for the glory of the times screaming bloody murder at the winds of freedom flung out to every dick-n-jane exercising the basic American youth ritual of bringing down a rock show, a right fought for and won about the time I was busy being born in 1955. But pacing barefoot in carpet along the sixth floor corner windows, I peered out.

Blank gazing, I had nothing to do but generate assumptions, skirt ripping, roaring assumptions about these oddball and crazy people as they laughed and skipped and coughed and cursed, perched from on high pined the pointless I. Though I was young for my age, I was already 26. And yet, though I was old for my age, I was only 26.

A zetetic heritage group had recently saved the Fox from the demise of public demolition, which to Old Atlanta seemed more a personal humiliation than an urban renewal project, which gave them just enough gravitas to gird themselves for the fight they were panting for. The grand theatre, still in decent shape with a spit of glistening in her eye, yet aching for major repairs was then owned by a notorious porn mobster headed to jail who was threatening to bulldoze the landmark to spite the city as well as raise funds for his own empire quest. Rumor was Southern Bell wanted to erect another 'scraper on the spot.

One block west on Third and West Peachtree stood the 688 Club, the only only punk club in the city at the time. Punk as in cheap. Cheap tickets. Cheap beer. This was the only life I had for those six weeks rocking out on Jason and the Nashville Scorchers, as this powerful crew were originally called. The Georgia Satellites, as THEY were then known. Pylon. REM. The Swimming Pool Q's. Richard Hell. The Restraints. Punk and nasty. Ample nights bled into all night dream sessions quickening into stark frightening unfulfilling stations.

Fashionably thug ugly Chris Wood, the diabetic skinhead lead singer of the Restraints always squeezed off an insulin syringe into his bald skull at some spectacular point in a song during every show. He had a local hit single, an S&M ballad called Whacka Whacka Whacka, where he usually tried, and often successfully to pull a babe onto the stage for a whacking. When the fuss had ended, the girl in suburban clothing was scratched and torn, ass was bared. This was eyeball to eyeball punk rock Atlanta 1982-styled, pre-Genitorturers-GWAR-Mentors razorsharp breakout jones.

I heard through the Carol Jean Reed grape I guess two years later, my first year in DC, that Wood had been convicted of murder, and was in prison for a long string, and that was that. Diabetes and minor rock stardom wasn't enough for this guy. He wanted more more more whacka whacka whacka. But true to the myth he was a soft-talking nice guy when we drank a few beers together at some jukebox bar in the area which offered up the Whacka single before he pushed off into the ether of yet another fame flameout...

Pushing up skin on occasion a few more blocks up West Peachtree at the kindler, gentler, most quaint Bistro was a glitterpunk lesbian band called the Lipstick Stains. The L-Stains, along with another queer band called Weeweepole featuring a pre-drag Ru Paul jacked our jetsons once or twice a week, so the awakening had never been richer or more frivolous for me during my previously coarse life. Packing it up for the Lipstick Stains were three girlz & a boy who knew how to throw pajama parties at the Bistro, doing so with a flourish unique to the scene back in the day, and not a moment too soon as I began digging at the roots of my umbrella...

But that was then, this is now, so pray tell, what on God's black and blue is going on between Matthew Manus the night auditor and Kubhlai the life counselor, father of eight, and moral consciousness of our group? Does it concern me, GT, the SWORG, the changing of the guard, the seasons, the starch I've never had spray my underwear, what?

Oh yes, I almost forgot, after a number of months, three, four maybe, the gay brigade eventually ran my mother off the job to replace her with another of an endless parade of fey boys. She was notably upset at the time, really digging the convenience and prestigious atmosphere of the office, but she shoved on, kept her senior-citizens duties at the Howell Howell for another couple of years or so, and was still kicking up the dust of all her detractors...

The gay mafia clandestine machine, like all special interest power machines, lives on to stroke its unrelenting agenda ...

[My mother does not.]
GT

Been Too Long A Time

bob-dylan
Bob Dylan
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Date: Thu Jan 1, 1998 8:14:17 AM America/New_York

Oh, fatter than ever, but the only time I hear that old handle is from the Nuthouse gang, and in particular, from you. That's cool though. Too bad "Space" was long taken before you got to AOL. Man, I had written you off for good after two phone calls (I think) were not returned and you blew me off a mere week before I thought I was traveling to Philly for a ballgame or hosting you here in DC. Whew! Glad to see you made it back into the scene. We'll certainly have to catch up.

Life is pretty much the same ole shake for us. I'm been doing freelance web design for some time now in addition to working on my own stuff when I can pull something together. What's your computer fix look like these days? Oh yeah, that reminds me, we were gonna lend you this old Mac Classic. Reckon now that you've resurfaced on AOL, you must have finally snagged a modern machine somehow somewhere.

We kept a rather low profile this holiday season, and for most of this year actually. We're definitely feeling our ages, even Sue, a wonderhorse for years of party thirst for rowdy times far beyond the call of duty. She still keeps close to her wine bottle on a nightly basis, but I have cut back my drinking to almost a monthly rather than the thrice weekly routine of the past decade or so. Of course food, bad greasy, chunk exploding food has a way of finding itself into my mouth, and it's not a pretty sight or a healthy feeling. I've really got to get myself on a healthier track. My pains are too mind-numbing to detail, and all these bloated beastly Hollywoodites are dropping like candied farley flies. Scary man. In this age of processed instant gratification, we have processed on an accelerated scale. The fork in the road has a greater fraction of us living longer well past what our grandparents expected and another greater fraction are dropping even earlier than diagnosed due to all the crap we pump through our eager holes and soft machine cylinders. No doubt I fall into the latter category. A complete mess, a distant cry from that young sprout glistening with undeniable untapped potential oh once upon a time.

See there, see here. Sob stories abound. You know you're gonna have to cough up some tales of the torrid past eventually, but yes, you have found me. It's good to have you back on the E-train. The phonecalls were fun but I'm usually far too self-conscious and enfeebled in telephone conversation unless I'm drunk (with its own accompanying pitfalls) but writing just flows like blood on the money most of the time. Besides I can get away with pretentious floods of irregular phrasings the oral traditions just don't usually allow, eh.

Yes indeed. Seattle's back on the map. Atlanta's a dying breed. The front office has lost its mind, and the bats grow cold in the clutch. Geez, Louise, what's there to say. You'll have to check out my web sites one of these days, if'n you've got enough machinepop. Since I don't know your condition I'll save the details of that stuff for later. Happy New Year and all that jazz. The neighborhood was crackling last night for about a half hour after the calendar flipped pages. I was suprised Sue didn't even roll over in bed because she was insisting that she wanted to watch the silver ball drop on TV, but I knew she wasn't going to make it since she was already nodding out at eleven.

Meanwhile I was standing in line debating whether I should sell my ticket for a profit and leave the lonesome scene with Sue & Ken instead. They insisted I stay to see the man who was nominated last year for a Nobel in Literature (believe it, it's true. He lost to a Italian septegenarian novelist whom I'd never heard of . . .)
Saw Bob Dylan in an up-close and personal venue a few weeks ago, early December, when he was in town to receive a lifetime achievement award at the Kennedy Center. I wasn't there THAT night, but we caught him at the 9:30 Club the night prior to the Kennedy. We'd stood in line for several hours in the cold gnarly AM when tickets went on sale earlier that month only to be among about three hundred turned away. On the second night of the show (he played two nights there to a thousand bobbing heads each), Sue, Ken Borden (an old friend of Bob Blumstein), and I stood again outside hoping to score three tix. Borden had successfully found entry the night before, benefactor of a simple twist of fate. An old friend of his carried an extra after his girlfriend bailed with sickness. Instead of drawing lots, we rationalized in which order each of us would be entitled to tickets as they surfaced. Three hours later the line hadn't moved and no tickets were within shouting distance. Finally I saw an old friend. Lo and behold, he had a friend trying to dump one. That was mine. Bought it for fifty bucks, fifteen over advance price. Borden and another chick we chatted up that night had paid eighty the night before. I owned the first ticket since Borden had seen Dylan the previous night, and Sue had gone to the Stones at the Air Arena (basketball/hockey) a few week prior, a gig I passed on even though the tickets were free. Sue, at my suggestion, then invited and was escorted by old pal Tom Howell who enjoyed himself much more than I possibly could have sitting in the stars and seeing nothing but smoke and hearing little but poorly packaged noise. Meanwhile I was standing in line debating whether I should sell my ticket for a profit and leave the lonesome scene with Sue & Ken instead. They insisted I stay to see the man who was nominated last year for a Nobel in Literature (believe it, it's true. He lost to a Italian septegenarian novelist whom I'd never heard of . . .)

Finally the line was moving. We hung together until I was frisked at the door. I waved goodbye. No more tickets. Sue was to get the next available entry, since she hadn't seen Bob, but now even that seemed a moot point. I had barely pushed my way into the place, among the last dozen in line, up cozy to the closest bar, when I hear Borden wailing and Sue jibberishly in joy waving arms akimbo. They'd made it. Two more tickets at fifty bucks a pop. We were all there snuggling among other Dylanistas, an older crowd speckled with the occasional fresh bunny or hardly harried hipster comfortably awed. Downside. Beers cost $4.50 apiece, and we all wanted at least three.

GT

P.S. Bob lived up to expectations again, spending most of the night banging out notes on a twelve string. This was my fourth time seeing Dylan. Worth every dime. Most money I've every spent on a ticket.

Dollhouse Jitters v4.2

gabriel_thy
Gabriel Thy
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Having long realized the repeated pleas I kept making to the same proven players to tighten up their respectful games so to stretch the sails of success still possibly available to this wretched ship of business on the one hand, while amply compromised by the sharp tendon-seeking harpoon of irksome friendship on the other, were becoming nothing more than the tools of my own self-torture, brief sightings of my own anecdotal white whale, I had arrived at the place where I knew I must finally best my faux Epicurean foes or finally sink into the straits of oblivion, that deep oscillating blue gray brine, that contemporary patch of something that nothingness claims as its home base from which nothingness is accorded a rightful position as a literary device only because nothingness itself probably will be soon facing its own purloined Waterloo burdened by an unspecified difficulty factor of zero minus one where not even floating point negativity can pull you through when faced alone with the white sheet of one's own periscopic blind. Like I insisted to Tom Howell a few years earlier as we both sat in opposing chairs in the Dollhouse living room not long after tacking my own 95 theses to the front door back when he was renting our sofa bed a couple of years ago, "Life is a submarine." What I never did quite understand was what Tom that early smokey morning had to gain by emphatically resisting my characterization, telling me I just could not make up words and phrases that made no sense. We battled over it, but I stopped cold when after I counterpunched, "And life is a bowl of cherries makes sense?"

Most recently a young catcher on the New York Mets named Mackey Hatcher suddenly could not return the ball to the pitcher without doublepumping his arm. His throws to the bases, say to second on a steal attempt was not affected, but over a several year period this phenomenon continued to plague Hatcher’s game. Sometimes it goes away as quickly and mysteriously as it appeared. Hatcher eventually lost his starting job to another catcher, and unfortunately I don’t know what happened to his career since Hundley replaced him.
Yes, it does, he said. It was famous, he said. "And we all live in a yellow submarine makes sense?" Knowing this was a lyric from the Beatles that summed Tom up neatly in what some might call "spiritual" terms better than anything I could ever muster, I was not surprised when he answered, "Of course." It was then everything crystalized and I fathomed that this master of snark was just arguing for the sake of telling me I was no writer, and to just get over it." And yes, these were the créme de la créme of punks and hippies and addicts and phreaks who wobbled around my words and works to find their way into my 95 theses. I would probably post those here, but that document appears to be lost or at least carefully preserved in some cardboard box stacked like a sailor's bunk in the basement keel losing zeal with each half-life of a uranium smile.

"I too am resolved to take better care of myself, starting RIGHT now," I continued to type heart and soul, fingers and toes, mind and matters of high and low estate out to my fellow genius friend and foe, Little Stevie. "Hence all these doctor's appointments to see the neurologist. Hosting the Steve Taylor Straight Past Sunday Show at the Dollhouse DOES NOT improve my chances for achieving this goal. Sorry my take on world events differs so much from your own; the harsh dovetones of this flying email of fuck thee my friend are not easy for me, because you are quite dear and karma-seutical to me, but present fact is stronger than distant fiction, and distant fiction is what we seemingly feast upon to help ourselves get through another speeding mist of snit and snotty mindswirl. So please, do me this favor, leave me alone. Let ME play it by ear, hearing nothing and all things simultaneously in damned well my own due time to prove whether or not I can survive your toying serpentlike silences. Bracken will soon be gone, as well may Shipman in the beckoning future of Dollhouse fates. Needless to say, there are plots and counterplots already in the works. Meanwhile I will light a candle to wedge into my sass for all eternity for each of my adversarial friends, each who believe in their deepest of competitive souls that they possess something of vigorously vital interest to me. That's just not so. I cannot sustain the conflicting desires of conflicted minds without losing my own endowments to the howling winds of inconstancy. I might even boast that I have history on my side in these abrupt appraisals, my friend. You play it by ear, so now hear this: STAY AWAY STEVE TAYLOR BECAUSE GT IS SICK AND STEVE TIRED! Is that enough SAST for you? Maybe these are my fevers making themselves known in words today. Test them as I know you shall, but beware, not a line on this page is as bogus as the hopping genius you bar none but spare all."

And that ended another email that would be forgiven or ignored, whichever would come upon a midnight clear ever so lastingly.

And so here again in another life, I was experiencing this very strange onset of a similar type of failure. Why I suddenly could not look at Steve and call his name was baffling. I had known him for a couple of years, and Tim a decade, Tom even longer, but the phenomenon never failed to appear during this period of mixing their names. Some deeply disturbing psychological mist-feeding bots have been picking and probing the hardwired Gabriel much the same way search engine robots work the Internet, upsetting my throughput.
A quick sidebar to newcomers. Steve and I work this ruthless game of acronymics which simultaneously insults and delights us as we plug in words to match or extend our given initials. Another variation on this passionate and rich wordplay is the psychology-based or habit-driven puns we derive from a combination of two people's names who share a discernable time-revealed psychological or sociological habit. For instance, to pull a STIM (a combination Steve and Tim habit) might be spilling a beer in a no no situation, or since Gabriel is not so free from this ghastly flaw himself, we might call that "pulling a GAST!" There is the STOO (Steve, Tim, and Sue), say anything do nothing approach to sliding past a particularly debilitating lethargy. Or in Sue and Tim's case, the SIM, responding to a question with a self-evident answer while missing the point of the question entirely. A GOO (Gabriel & Sue) work til we drop modis operandi fat ass config. If Tim were ever to develope this habit around the Dollhouse we might redub this event a GOOTS. A STAG (Steve & Gabriel) qualifies as fast as lightening, smartest in the room, analysis a million ways to Mars approach to daily murmuring. A JENSET (completely in love with themselves, immenselyand publically proud of their own physical prowess, beauty, and sense of fashion). We can extend this into a STACK (Steve, Tim, and Jack), a tendancy to usurp, and add Gabriel with his barroom boorishness to that mix, and you've got simply a GASTACK, or a SETSTACK might indicate a fast-talking never say die 'tude. A JOO (Jack & Sue) can be summed up as the cult of the secret fucksters. And on and on. Of course we can all say "we pulled a PETER..." once or twice in our lives.

This game originally evolved to its brutally hybrid level one afternoon down in the basement as I was chatting with Steve and Sue. Tim was elsewhere, but I had fallen into a strange habit of late in saying Tim when I meant Steve, saying Tom when I meant Tim. It was wild, creepy, a megahaunting thing, and explainable perhaps only with an example taken from baseball history.

Occasionally, and it's happened enough times in history to not beg disbelief, including to this writer in his own youthful baseball days, that a player suddenly can't throw the ball in the particular fundamental routine he had long ago mastered. Most recently a young catcher on the New York Mets named Mackey Hatcher suddenly could not return the ball to the pitcher without doublepumping his arm. His throws to the bases, say to second on a steal attempt was not affected, but over a several year period this phenomenon continued to plague Hatcher's game. Sometimes it goes away as quickly and mysteriously as it appeared. Hatcher eventually lost his starting job to another catcher, and unfortunately I don't know what happened to his career since Hundley replaced him.

To have rocked out with fringe establishment junkies for a over decade with little to show for it but several thousand fotographs hardly interesting in themselves stuffed into boxes of unfinished business to prove that it indeed did happen, a neurosis that is killing me, and a final ending to a dream that never happened, I can thank the participants in my long fall from self-grace to the miserable lech I’ve become for their best intentions, but I am certainly glad for the freedom to carry on more quietly without having to maim myself for a friendship that is as suburban in some respects and as dead end in others as any tract housing of the mind I’ve ever heard condemned in some ranting pop anthology cursing the hackneyed norms of the strait and narrow.
However, I developed a similar affliction when trying out for second base on a new team after our family moved to a new town in a different county where nobody knew my name or past stardom. I threw the ball fifteen, no exaggeration, feet over the first basemen's head every damned time I fielded a ground ball. It was preposterous, daunting, downright wicked and demonic to this hopeful infield candidate. I knew at fourteen that I had somehow, for some mystical reason beyond my grasp, succumbed to this strange affliction I had read about somewhere as I voraciously consumed all sports data I could plow my eyes through. But I really wanted to win that second base job. I did not want to get stuck in the outfield, which is where I ended up, so this was no pretend thing. I was a star athlete the previous year, and would do okay this summer, but during this spring tryout this mysterious baseball fluster swooped in and blew any opportunity for infielder status I had in front of these strangers in the new town. Needless to say, none of these kids or the adult coach were hip to this odd baseball phenomenon, and I knew there was no need to explain it. A second baseman was worthless if he couldn't thud the first baseman on a groundball, even if it wasn't his own fault.

And so here again in another life, I was experiencing this very strange onset of a similar type of failure. Why I suddenly could not look at Steve and call his name was baffling. I had known him for a couple of years, and Tim a decade, Tom even longer, but the phenomenon never failed to appear during this period of mixing their names. Some deeply disturbing psychological mist-feeding bots have been picking and probing the hardwired Gabriel much the same way search engine robots work the Internet, upsetting my throughput. This game of ours was destined to be willed into existence. For on this particular afternoon as I was looking right at Steve and Sue and referring to in a quite obvious way to Tim, I stumbled over S-T, stuh, catching myself, switched gears, finished with I-M, and STIM was born because at that very instant Gabriel and Steve both realized the genius of the tongue slip, and Sue followed in a little slower, but we all shared a great meglomaniacal guffaw since the reference I now forget could have just as easily been describing Steve. Well, we spent the next few hours racing up and down the possibilities like a rabid dog trapped in a narrow dog run. Once again, genius had won out over routine expectations.

So where were we?

Addendum Of The First Kind
... because of the several requests for the next installment of the Dollhouse Fevers, I finally buckled down to publish this much today. I do not compose these things over days or weeks, but try to get as much down in one or at most two sittings before I am so cramped up by the sheer horror of what has happened, what was said, what was left out, and what I am now feeling as a result of what most readers of this already know as the dismissal of one, maybe two of my longest running if not deepest cryptically-maintained friendships I've boasted in DC, or anywhere else for that matter. Combine these with the alienation of Jack Johnson in an affair which Tim was also slightly involved but of little relevance to the underlying issues of my Jackpast, this past year of 1996 has really cleaned house. For that I am honestly grateful. The DHF narrator's sentiments are real, rather unrefined, and by nature self-centered, but as close to the oil in my veins as they get to reality hype for me. To have rocked out with fringe establishment junkies for a over decade with little to show for it but several thousand fotographs hardly interesting in themselves stuffed into boxes of unfinished business to prove that it indeed did happen, a neurosis that is killing me, and a final ending to a dream that never happened, I can thank the participants in my long fall from self-grace to the miserable lech I've become for their best intentions, but I am certainly glad for the freedom to carry on more quietly without having to maim myself for a friendship that is as suburban in some respects and as dead end in others as any tract housing of the mind I've ever heard condemned in some ranting pop anthology cursing the hackneyed norms of the strait and narrow. True, we are all more than and simultaneously less than any song, any label, any criticism spewed against us in whatever forms vengence and circumspection take, but in the end, it's all about respect. We will all pay this price in some coin or another. I do intend on finishing this raw version of what happened to me last New Year's. This Day 4 installment will probably be published in three segments. This ends the first. Day 5 and Day 6 will be rather short. Extremely short.

But I, like a pit bull gripping an only child's leg, will not let go of the memory that separates a responsible idealogue from the reeling irresponsibility of those who have been given a mouth but have never learned to use it in a way that benefits others as much as they think it benefits themselves in having no ties to its effects.
The Epilogue may spill rather long as I attempt to resolve all the loose threads and restitching of this cloth several months after the original sequence of events. Even as I look at the clock on the wall a few feet away from my Macintosh, knowing I have spent all of this and last Saturday mornings composing this insult to people I still love like a parapalegic loves his wheelchair, my neck is all crinkled and noisy, popping stiffly, as my back is twisting in agony of sharp pain, and I realize with a grashing of teeth that grace is as often found in forgetting as in remembering. But I, like a pit bull gripping an only child's leg, will not let go of the memory that separates a responsible idealogue from the reeling irresponsibility of those who have been given a mouth but have never learned to use it in a way that benefits others as much as they think it benefits themselves in having no ties to its effects. The only way out of the abyss is to invent the perfect game. A game where one answers a question with a question. A game where that question is constructed in the form of a surrealistic entendre which must somehow logically and I emphasize, logically (yeah, what a gas...), commit the next question also constructed in the same surrealistic form to match and then succeed it, the forerunner. This game has been invented. It is the 21st century.

GT

Working Towards Collapse: A Chinese Finger Puzzle

Working Towards Collapse
Working Towards Collapse
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Date: Thurs Oct 03 04:54:43 1996

As I think so I do. What is THAT all about? Thinking I know or can control the hour of my demise provides me no extra power or strength or talent or conspiratorial edge to pull it off. Believing I never consciously tell a lie to a person, corporation, or government agency hardly makes it so. Believing the government can solve the plethora of social problems generated by poor or intolerable parenting at home better than the private sector is just as false if I sign a piece of paper confirming I am a Democrat or a Republican or a member of the Communist or Nazi Parties...liberty is the oxygen of productive citizenship among the mundane as well as the splendid splinters who own the bases, the fences too. And Biggie, well he's no pugilist, just a sweet fluffy lumpkin, and shows no sign of a streak of meanness or any other feral tendencies we observe in the high-stepping Truman. It's all in the latter's muscular shoulders. Effingham, I can smell your excitement from over 'ere. From your massive feudalistic top down plan you no doubt think you have me pinched up against the equatorial wall with the absentee parents problem, don't you? It's in our nature to think well of ourselves and our plans. Well, I'm going to just let you enjoy that measure of satisfaction for a moment while I take another tact in laying out the fuller issue at hand for you. It's really not that complex. So Eff, you and your boys had better relax while you can. Tell Forsyth to loosen a button. With his fingers, not with that Bavarian smile he brings to the chart table. And bring Corporal Longbolder in from the mud docks. That's no way to break Lent. Call his wife to bring her usual weights to meet him at the gate as he re-enters the state. Just make sure this time he's properly decontaminated.

Tuesday, 0600 Romeo. Gripping the thick set of notes his immediate superior had tossed onto Eff's regulation neat desktop as he departed, Captain Charles Earl Effingham is puzzled why it is that the operational things we think only take us so far, while the rest is up to the fist or who you can impress through sex appeal or physical toughness? He had long dismissed crazy half-baked theology for the smooth operations of his military post, but times were changing faster than he could keep up. The military as he knew it was changing, and he didn't like it, not one bit. Should an idea take root in infertile soil, is this a miracle or hard work with emphasis on the probabilities? What about you, Private Ware? Anything to add to this discussion? For instance, is any soil truly infertile, even the contaminated and inert stuff? Dirts and soils, unlike men and women, evolve optimum relationships to nature. Maybeeeee I am wrong about men. Define irony at the atomic level. If when tired I am still inspired, is this a good, bad, or ugly thing? Is any soil truly infertile to its inverse proportion that it is a soil horizon and not something closer to another idea or thing (to peel back the Bill Williams onion), running its game under another name: sand, silt, clay, peat? Rock, stone, oil. Dirt unlike salty men evolve optimum existential relationships to nature. Men flounder, lose trust, betray, play the numbers poorly. Perhaps, I am wrong about soil. Real estate law insists that land never loses face value, only improvements do. In my lifetime, I will see this proven false, I just know it. Define irony without an appeal to some measure of accumulative error and I will show you a field without dreams. Man returns to the soil from whence he arrived, and yet, perhaps we should ask if man is an improvement, an impertinence, or a mere integer without intrinsic value except in terms of accumulative error divided by the sums of its parts. Men fight over soil, and while soil can and will fight men, quaking and rolling, it almost always fights beneath the feet of men, but just as dangerous once it sneaks into the bloodstream. Only one thing is certain, value shifts between soil and men are temporary claims which makes the game so risky to man, and of little value to soil which is always shifting, and statistics on both are just dots on the matrix of time. Fuels rustling in the dead heats of ancient fire. If uninspired when completely comfortable, what is THIS all about? There are some things a poet puts in his own back pocket. There are others he puts in hers, and with a vertical laugh, he whispers to her but it turns out like a grunt as he's sliding it in as if punching a time clock, he's working towards collapse. As time would have it, he means one thing. She senses something else entirely.

Understanding that one plus one equals two, why does one more make three? One times itself is nothing more than itself, but adding one to itself, we come closer to the relationship of the bumble and the bee in this man's army. Apologies, ma'ams. We won't mention birds in this context of seeking justice, and punishment for the guilty to avenge the innocent and the weary. EDgar case predicted ow te world would turm upside dowm, fippimg om its axis.Think of all the involuntary movements that enter numbers for duty in this calculation. More fun to run in an endless traceless race against the dead heats of ancient fire, but I think I just lost that argument to a hot-aired leftist with a balloon full of bubbles kept secret from the bean counters. Besides identity can never be added to or multiplied by itself without unfurling a conundrum, but I think this is why America is so very confused right now. I lied on my contract with myself, so dub me an epicurean who works outside the box regarding personal issues. Like the good admiral John Paul Jones. I choose to know only simple things like who am I and why am I here? Are not these the basics building blocks of a life's work on this white continent? The basics we find simple, even fundamental to help sweep our minds clean of certain residue leftover from the purple grains of racial contentment. Siblings or cousins, they put to us, as if offering us the choice between a slice of pecan pie or lemon meringue. First things being first, if I multiply myself do I remain the same as if multiplying permits a clone? If I multiply 6 times 3, eighteen is neither a clone of six or three, but one. Silly I know, but have you ever read the instruction manual of a programmable calculator? Back to the puzzle. Should I add myself to myself, do I become of two minds, nine or eighteen? Is it Wittgensteinian to question the mark at the end of this sentence, which for obvious reasons must remain gutless...

She made these self-deluded statements on the Derek McGinnety (sp?) Show on WAMU radio a couple of weeks ago. I was in the unfortunate audience. My longstanding pleasure rejecting federal grant monies was rocked by her arguments about art subsidies. It's a discipline thing that keeps on giving, she says, as I distill. Damn, I was indeed moved by her logic. Yet her gall still floors me as she added, and of course the quote marks are bogus as I again paraphrase but only somewhat, "Cutting art funding is racist. The arguments about not enough money are bogus. There is always money for this or that. Computers? What is THAT about?"
From the Guy Kawasaki file. True or false, he taunts: Managers would rather delegate problems that cannot be solved than empower subordinates to implement solutions that cannot be understood. He continues: "Pity the poor echidna. Captain William Bligh documented this animal's existence on a voyage to Australia in 1793. (This was a trip Bligh and a small number of loyal crewmen had taken after having been "right-sized" from the BOUNTY.) The echidna is an egg-laying anteater that combines reptilian and mammalian characteristics likes its relative the duck-billed platypus. "Because it exibited reptilian characteristics such as laying eggs, biologists in the early 1880s typecast the echida as primitive—not quite up to the standards of us mammals. These bilogits ignored one minor detail: the echidna has a very large brain for its body size.

"We can surmise that these biologists cherished their precious theory: reptilian equals primitiveness. This theory was so powerful that it prevented them from seeing an obvious and myth-shattering fact: the echidna's big head. Retrofitting a popular riddle, we might ask, 'Which came first—the brain or the egg?' The answer for biologists in the 1800s was clearly the egg. Like these biologists, business people can become prisoners of conventional wisdom, traditional methods, and the holiest of mismanagement litanies: 'This is the way things have always been done." My message: Resist the known and defend the unknown. Switching from biology to..."

Trumpets. Gold. Now does gold trumpet its appearance like so many fameseekers man has produced, or does it just exist, sprawled across the bed, inert? Gold is like a boring lay since Pliny the Elder. Laid within a manger, the ultimate manager of fools, Jesus changed his name from Emmanuel, and the world forgot. The early Macintosh was spelled McIntosh, but Apple was forced to change it, but before that grand illusion, there was a configuration originally called Lisa. Poor Lisa. Lost her whammy to the Mac. Forgetting that time is just another number, age becomes the deciding decoding factor in the youth culture which promises itself the same promises at least a dozen generations before them promised in spades. Has someone sued for lack of original thought yet? Language as redemption. I only WISH I could talk like a kitten. Money buys its own safety, but safety buys nothing money can own. Sometimes, I feel like Ben Franklin, but gawd what a fat twisted turnkey he was, no wonder is son William was such a frothing benchwarmer...somebody needs to confront Felicia Rashad on her comments about the computer industry. She made these self-deluded statements on the Derek McGinnety (sp?) Show on WAMU radio a couple of weeks ago. I was in the unfortunate audience. My longstanding pleasure rejecting federal grant monies was rocked by her arguments about art subsidies. It's a discipline thing that keeps on giving, she says, as I distill. Damn, I was indeed moved by her logic. Yet her gall still floors me as she added, and of course the quote marks are bogus as I again paraphrase but only somewhat, "Cutting art funding is racist. The arguments about not enough money are bogus. There is always money for this or that. Computers? What is THAT about?"

I'd bet Dave could have used the same information. But somehow, I forget now, I knew Dave was not privy to this roving free range nymphomaniac card Shirley that afternoon bragged about passing to complete strangers, albeit mostly sailors and air corpsmen she and her husband knew and vetted through his E-5 PO2 desk rank. Dobbins AFB was a big place but Shirley'd found what she thought was the perfect way to make it feel even bigger. At least, we were G building stack neighbors—Harban on top, Nix on bottom, just like this fuck. Given the annual Thunderbirds Air Show was scheduled for that weekend I admit yours was one fine feathered sack I fell into that afternoon. I'd seen a Blue Angels air show once when I was a youngster in the Boys Scouts Troop 219 down at Glynco back when it was still a naval air station. Got to crawl inside one of the stationary jets afterwards. As a salute to perfect timing I never saw you again.
Girlfriend, GET a clue. Computers are about the end of time as we know it. What exactly causes a series of word links to race across the finish line of a completed thought? Armageddon of the Almighty brings us closer to both God and the devil. I love Jack and Jack loves me, but I think this analogy frightens us both to the point of a designated conversational nix. Well, a one-sided event multiplied by itself is still one-sided. Added to itself it an event, a single, seemingly detached event becomes a clue doubled over, much more powerful than a mere echo of eggs still in the basket. Easter is a lovely depravity. Who am I when on first, the egg, or the sperm? Both. Dual nature. Gabriel coagulated on Christmas Day, 1954, squeezed out on September 26, 1955, nine months and a day later, as a sign of the ushering in of the age of rock and roll. Not everybody can say this, and mean the same thing I mean, and it follows that Jesus was a Libra, not a Capricorn. Yom Kippur. Yessir, we brake for atonement, children, dogs, falling kites, bridge trolls, indigenous snakes, religious dissidents, foreign nationals. Interrogating the flocks in the asylum fields, the men were kind as they removed our bandages. Ninety-nine versus the one. The still white heat of the perfect messiah, the questioning messiah. The salt marsh imperfect. And we toss the junket to that jerk who invented common numbers in common with uncommon numbers, only to mistreat millions who sought a taste, the banana cartel mechanic wrote into his Nissan pocket notebook. Carrion Funds and its first rung media sources made much of Aloysius Alzheimer's later work on brain pathology in the implementation of Nissl's method of silver staining, in a playful scoop not dissimilar to a George Carlin routine, but many were not convinced of anything much beyond their next line of code. Do the language dude. Fear of flying? Does this mean I am predestined to NOT make the cut on rapture day? And are we sure it won't happen over the six o'clock news, with a LIVE FEED? These two times are congruent only in their outcome, but not at the starting gate. Do the math, screamed the soiled mechanic from Stumptown, VA, who had been recently identified as drunk on upmanship while on duty, which, given his big head and long record at the shop, was deemed a multiplier not a sum, a relief to the tiny community nestled at the foot of the Butterfly Mountains. Not to be outdone, I simply replied, "A hops man, myself." Why haven't the feminasties and their therapeutic hordes abandoned the word: w-o-m-a-n?* Can we not agree that swapping a "Y" for an "A" is hardly a clarifying solution to what ails these daring harbingers? To change the subject, let us suggest that facts are like fantasies. The more rare they are, less one tends to share them with others. So maybe it will be rapture night, or as is frequent with biblical a day is equal to a year or an age...

Shirley knew, after spreading her warm but nasty harbinger around the entire commissary, then to the rest of the base, all behind Dave's back, she was born to seduce me, although speculative math proves nothing as long as free will remains a constant, except that men are easy pickings, and we know this is mathematics enough for rock and roll. Said she'd wanted to fuck me ever since the first time she saw me as I moved from the top floor unit seventy-five yards across the parking lot from the backside of J Building to the frontside ground floor apartment in Bldg. G two Decembers before, though years later I'm more convinced my fifteen minutes of game (more like ten) under tiny thin-lipped chain-smoking Shirley had to have been a called audible that convinced her bellwether cunt she was only interested in herself. At least she were bold enough to put it into words, gasping to my 23-year old face that she were done and that was all that mattered to her as she fell off my still throbbing and not yet ejaculated cock, rushing to throw on her usual jeans and tee with the excuse she had to pick up her kid from day care now because Dave was coming home early that afternoon. I'd bet Dave could have used the same information. But somehow, I forget now, I knew Dave was not privy to this roving free range nymphomaniac card Shirley that afternoon bragged about passing to complete strangers, albeit mostly sailors and air corpsmen she and her husband knew and vetted through his E-5 PO2 desk rank. Dobbins AFB was a big place but Shirley'd found what she thought was the perfect way to make it feel even bigger. At least, we were G building stack neighbors—Harban on top, Nix on bottom, just like this fuck. Given the annual Thunderbirds Air Show was scheduled for that weekend I admit yours was one fine feathered sack I fell into that afternoon. I'd seen a Blue Angels air show once when I was a youngster in the Boys Scouts Troop 219 down at Glynco back when it was still a naval air station. Got to crawl inside one of the stationary jets afterwards. As a salute to perfect timing I never saw you again. Within two weeks I was packing off to Big Texas to start making the biggest money of my life to date. Such was my changing luck in February, 1978. Smyrna was in the past now. That apartment would become the home of siblings; no word from Shirley arban again. My path had been set before me.

Taking a bullet and taking a cold for you are two different energies, ma'am. But I also know the only way to get the point across a circle is to throw it like a heavyweight title fight. It doesn't take much insight to realize the iron horse is more than a sum of its rail drinks. That much is cold science. The spice elephant and his pachyderm sister deserve better treatment than they have received at the hands of bitter swarthy men in these latter periods where once the proud beast was celebrated with great cultural awe and tradition. Today, that tradition is rote, and any awe is delinquent, and more apt to be pulled from a bucket of itching powder. Men are slow to change unless it's to die for, while women change every day.
This certainly applies to writing, interrupted Tom. When questioning Darwin, Tom insists I don't understand the enormity of time. I suppose he does, given he's a vocal member of the Russ Braen wing of the Dupont Circle-Mt. Pleasant considerati (formerly, the DCMP Freethinkers Society of 1967), and the number of legacy donations he's bestowed upon it. Tit for tat. It's long been rumored that when Tom Howell speaks it's all hands on deck, or get zapped back to the Mother Ship. Mother, if Mom suffices, why do you bother with the other? There are times I think on purpose and there are times I cannot stop. My question, sir. Are those two points in time initiated from the same congruency? Do the math, screamed the aeolist drunk on uppers and oneupmanship. Why haven't the feminasties abandoned the word: w-o-m-a-n and replaced it with willpower? Tit for tat. If one figgers a wigger is not a ni**er on the trigger why scramble for a bigger chigger in the woodpile? Rather we'd rig her routing gears for each rocker along the first set of stones timed to sinners as blood is to beer.

Facts are like fantasies. It takes one to know one. After a naked lunch break along the tabby walls of Dungeoness, there's one less goose egg to fry. Tit for tat. In all honesty, I can't believe I am delivering this to you, Frau Viperschaden, but my disbelief is as illogical as your own I'm sure you'd agree. The sun sets around 'ere on a fisherman's wink. Our island is groom to a cascade of astonishing celestial lights from the intracoastal banks out into the sounds at both the northern and southern tips. The unsettled sun fumes and cackles, heats the system for breakfast, and sums the days of our scientific year, giving up on voluptuous blonde virgins and rare pop-eyed mice long ago. Tit for tat. No wonder the subsets and parrot squads are rioting in the streets. Bright students of the calling fell out when the signal was clear. A freaking star leads to a mangled Chinese finger puzzle dangling on the wood beam in the grand room. Put some newspaper under it. It'll drip more than you think. Taking a bullet and taking a cold for you are two different energies, ma'am. But I also know the only way to get the point across a circle is to throw it like a heavyweight title fight. It doesn't take much insight to realize the iron horse is more than a sum of its car parts. That much is cold science. Remember that afternoon at the National Zoo? The spice elephant and his pachyderm sister deserve better treatment than they have received at the hands of bitter swarthy men in these latter periods where once the proud beast was celebrated with great cultural awe and tradition. Today, that tradition is rote, and any awe is delinquent, and more apt to be pulled from a bucket of itching powder. Men are slow to change unless it's to die for, while women change every day. Somewhere a fisherman winks. Tit for tat. So, can we count on your signature, Frau Viperscaden? This is a very important project, ma'am.

GT

Plucking The Wings Off An Adverb In the Gardens Of Soho

case
Once The Case Is Stated
samplex

Date: Wed Jul 17, 1996 6:52:41 PM

Hey there,

Predicted to myself yesterday's barrage would have you to scurrying back to the sanctity of a cold blessed silence. Status quo beats quid pro quo to the punchline every time, especially when I lean out my dirty window to gaze beyond the boredom of my own uselessness, activities which interest no one. Am I so obviously sick with hard-boiled narcissism in this insistence that a recounting of my own work not go unnoticed, or am I simply a brooding artist whose time will or will not come, but as we have heard said, "Yes, Socrates, but cannot you hold your tongue, and then you may go into a foreign city, and no one will interfere with you?"

Would not Socrates reply, "Now I have great difficulty in making you understand my answer to this. For if I tell you that this would be a disobedience to a divine command, and therefore if I cannot hold my tongue, you will not believe that I am serious; and if I say that the greatest good of a man is daily to converse about virtue, and all that of which you hear me examining myself and others, and that the life which is unexamined is not worth living—that you are still less likely to believe."

A dozen small birds feeding off crumbs on the courtyard steps scattered. Three or four flew away into the trees. Tom Howell stepped out from the shadows of the Arts & Craps Building, saying, "Gabriel, you're not him." Then my mother stepped away from the carriage against which she'd been leaning, saying, "Howellnyms, you can't say that about my son. That's my phrase. I've said that to him all my life. You sir, are a plagiarist!" I was left to wonder how many birds were Greek, how many of them were Roman, and how many were in the public domain. Soon, even I, knew context was lost, and only Tom Howell and probably Ludwig Wittgenstein as a young man at Trinity knew for certain who Tom was not.

When I test her limits I must make sure I count the costs and identify the potential gains. Yes dear, I am ruthless in my 41st year. That said, you just whisper the magic words, and I am soon the highway star…
No sweat, Jennifer. I too, am always quite busy, so your hesitation to commit to my discussions of sexual power perhaps never to meet the criteria I have set for an upstate tour of beauty and synthetic protocol (my choice of game, just to keep us both emphatically engaged) speaks its own name, and as such is proper and necessary for us to remain honest to the ideals of friendship and fate we have thus far delivered to each other without frank discussion but automatically over the years. Still love you, no matter what you don't do or don't say, but a love declared in this sort of absence once we have arrived there is a sterile one, a state of ill repair with which I am quite familiar.

Also, as you are aware I am in perpetual financial ruin, just as yourself at this time in your life. But my own poverty seems to be some kind of unspoken holy vow perhaps driven by a secret choice to remain free of the shackles others willingly impose on themselves so that they control those matters of purse. Yet in possessing fewer cares of the purse results in a substantially improved station in very obvious ways, not the least of them is a certain freedom not known by those fixtures of the clock and the calendar. In my own marriage situation, it is always a struggle, a tight-rope walk born out in the lives of both Sue and the husband she loves.

Only by the unfathomable graces of BS Hedrick do I eat, have a roof over my head, decent clothing, medicine, any disposable income at all. Life is more than food and shelter, of course. The fact that I overindulge in the one matter and am nearly agoraphobic in the other changes not the joy of my pursuits. When I test her limits I must make sure I count the costs and identify the potential gains. Yes dear, I am ruthless in my 41st year. That said, you just whisper the magic words, and I am soon the highway star...

To the point, just like female masturbation has been elevated in feminist literature to a goddamned political act while male masturbation remains mired in snickers, putdowns, and psychotic fallout by the feminist wag, women leap to heap ridicule on men for penis size while many a flatchested woman to the contrary feels empowered to chastise women as bimbos and pawns of the male obsession when endowed with huge mammories, boobs, whether naturally or via the easy purchase plan.
I took Landry to task for her commentary on small cocks, and she too, has answered with a resounding thud of nothingness, contrary to her usual back-atcha gonzo. Nothing overtly personal about the tone or language I used in presenting my arguments to her, but who knows, maybe I am just too ridiculous for reasonable minds to waste.

Wild, riveting discussion for its own sake is my motto, not by choice but by default as one who does not know his audience, or even if there is one to be earned. Digging for gold in a trash heap. Poking the sky full of holes with the ironies of our time. I depend on the plain writing of others to help fertilize my parched barren crops of thick gilded sentences. My language tends to get mugged with adjectives and adverbs and cheap alliteration and rhymes, all of which serve me in a fist fight but never in a slow sensual dance with my best noun. I dunno. I suppose this method of scratch and claw gets me every ounce of feedback I deserve. None of us are professional debaters, meaning none of us are burdened with the making of argument in a tense public environment on a regular for hire basis. Pouncing on friends with topics as sensitive as the ones I pitch is probably in bad taste, but then I have been frequently fingered as the Anti Hip. So to my point: women like to suggest that men are consistently fixated on size, and yet find it very natty to mock the flaccid or diminuative phallus whenever the chance arrives. Landry's own sarcastic line, typical of the type of remark associated with a liberated tongue, hey, aren't we all saddled with one of those, suggesting she could understand why the Mentors—the sick LA band of the early 90s—frolicked about like asses on stage waving long thick rubber dongs is one I felt under the circumstances of our ongoing banter about all things fuzzy & frank that required a solid well-reasoned response. To the point, just like female masturbation has been elevated in feminist literature to a goddamned political act while male masturbation remains mired in snickers, putdowns, and psychotic fallout by the feminist wag, women leap to heap ridicule on men for penis size while many a flatchested woman to the contrary feels empowered to chastise women as bimbos and pawns of the male obsession when endowed with huge mammories whether naturally or via the easy purchase plan. Of course these are sweeping generalizations both they then and I make now, but both are valid observations nevertheless for entirely different psychosexual reasons.

Understanding that I am adamantly against the right wing pontifications and their feeble interpretations of man, and God, and law, the issue is not easily thumbnailed in a few sentences. Every thought I render is just as quick to butcher another one standing in close proximity a few minutes later, unless discipline and context is imposed.
Browsing for insight a 700-page hardcover I bought several years ago called "Girls Lean Back Everywhere, The Law of Obscenity and the Assault on Genius" by Edward de Grazia, an attorney practicing communications and First Amendment law here in DC. He was integral in the landmark Henry Miller and William S. Burroughs publishing cases, as well as the "I am Curious—Yellow" Swedish film breakthrough. I am trying to formulate a "free speech/blue ribbon" position paper to correspond to the intellectual margin my web presence requires on matters literary and artistic. The title of the book is drawn from a quote "The Little Review" editor Jane Heap made at the James Joyce "Ulysses" hearing concerning some text in question. Her magazine was the first to publish excerpts and as such felt the strong arm of the law reach out in fierce rebuttal in an attempt to smack down her artistic sensibilities. The books cover most of the 20th century court battles from Zola, Joyce, Lawrence, Miller, Burroughs, Karen Finley, 2 Live Crew right on up through Mapplethorpe in an exquisite commentary bulked up by full first hand accounts of the noted judiciary principles, and their hodge-podge of so-called principals. So far, after several hours over several days in composite, I am still unsure how to approach this position paper.

While I believe in an artist's right, or more probably, his duty, is to exploit the tools of language and all media according to her own peculiar vision, I am also dead set against public funding of this area of life. Zilch. Rock music gets along without public grants. So can photographers, writers, and painters. If not prepared to give it all, or convince a private source for sustanance, then sorry charlie. A paradigm shift of the ways in which we view both art and the marketplace may be required, but public funding is a sham and a scandal to both artlover and arthater. And while I believe that the artist should be as free to draw from real life as he sees fit, I also am certain that the media, specifically films and TV have detrimentally added to the chaos of the past several generations and the sickening decline of the individual in respect to morals as they pertain to the rights of others. Understanding that I am adamantly against the right wing pontifications and their feeble interpretations of man, and God, and law, the issue is not easily thumbnailed in a few sentences. Every thought I render is just as quick to butcher another one standing in close proximity a few minutes later, unless discipline and context is imposed. Even so, freedom of speech is hardly a fair substitute for freedom of action. They must exist hand in hand.

Plucking the wings off an adverb in the Gardens Of Soho,

GT

Another Checkpoint Charlie

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

The Croyden Affair Meets Andy Corrigan's Big Event

Private Neurosis
Private Neurosis
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Date: Thu Mar 28, 1996 3:23:30 PM

Bob, since you were not shy or coy in voicing your infatuation with Our Lady Elizabeth of Croyden this morning on the phone, I thought you might also appreciate Tom's fresh reply to my blast. In the following piece, you may recognize the name of Franz Anton Mesmer (whom Tom is conspiring to sketch among others of similar ilk in his "Psychic Investigator" CD-ROM treatment), but you should also know that this Schwartz mentioned is Laurens Schwartz, an equally wacky youngish New York talent rep, who took Tom on after I composed and printed for him twenty or so a postcard queries to spearhead his search for an agent early last year. Seems he & Elizabeth are indeed moving that tour forward. Bravo! Theirs is quite the sembiotic relationship, shark and little sucker. Enjoyed our chat. It's too bad we are deemed socially incompatible. We do ebb a strong conversational tide when we allow ourselves the luxury our more sober inklings insist upon.

Still up for Andy Corrigan's Big Event tomorrow, Bob? Three o'clock. Still haven't talked with Sue this evening to determine her status. She often plans to knock off early, and only 2% (one in fifty) of the time ever pulls it off, unless she's heading out of town towards home which I figure she must take rather seriously. Ah, Richmond. Sure be interesting.

Heeeere's Tom...

Right on I agree with every word, that is, I would agree, I mean COULD agree, (Tom loses his train of thought here) if that last missive were put in form of an agrument, which it was not, or I could respond point by point if it were a prose essay, which it was not—what da' hell was that?! Anyway, it had the ring of truth. Elizabeth is a piece of work, a squirming mass of contradictions (see? you got me talking like that now). Anyway, I follow in the footsteps of Master Mesmer, and I'm taking my hysterical patient to Cleveland to get 800 color copies made, and then on to Philadelphia were Elizabeth's private neurosis will be on display at a comedy club. The back to D.C. on Monday to check e-mail and pick up snail mail and then up to New York to present four bound volumes to the Schwartz. —Tom Howell

Any Cracking Due To The Heavy Snows

The Croyden Affair
The Croyden Affair
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Date: Thu Mar 28, 1996 7:24:35 AM America/New_York

"...profane my domain" Har har har! That's rich! Elizabeth started bad-mouthing Big Al over the mic at his bar on Columbia Road. She was ranting while on the portable phone with him, airing her dirty linen over the P.A. system, we heard screams outside, whipped the camcorder around, Big Al had Elizabeth in a choke hold from behind, a bear-hug. The cops came, Elizabeth wants to sue, I just returned from small claims court, my lawsuit is coming along fine. It's like they say at BZT "Sue Thy neighbor!" (registered trademark, BZT Industries, used by permission). —Tom Howell

Hey Bob, our illustrious neighbor, did your walls suffer any cracking due to the heavy snows this year? We sustained minor runs in the bedroom plaster along the partition where the column we installed props up the crossbeam opus the library so proudly rooted inspires, and also in the dining room, a near perfectly spent straight line approximately one and a quarter inch to the right (east) of a wallpaper joint streaks a crack the full height of the wall, splitting open the wallpaper quite nicely as if it were a planned joint. The damage however is merely cosmetic and since our "never mind the bollocks" indoctrination we don't care, we find it only slightly irritating. I suppose in a counting our blessings way we are lucky, very lucky. Some buildings collapsed under the weight of two feet. Of snow.

Ah...spring, seems so oddball, heavenly even, some six months after the impressionistic post-nickeldog renovations, to randomly gaze out into the backyard hubris and spy large tufts of greener than green grass, a few choice flowers, a stray but environmentally harmless cat, and a fence that just won't quit articulating rumors of a vestal nature about the subsequent rise and fall of my character. Go figure. It's a shipwrecked idea, but I enjoy my delusions of mediocrity.

You don't know any of the precious folk save the writer himself, in that forwarded piece (Oh yeah, Big Al, you know Big Al) but I just thought I'd rankle your pieces of mind with a few choice words Tom inspired. Oh yes, there is the Thomas Jeff Howellnyms, whom you know, a fair piece of shoddy workmanship himself, or just another snow job in today's vernacular. Anywaze, have a goody too shoes afternoon. You deserve it, and please, just this one favor, for the glory of expatriate Pennsylvanians everywhere, flash off a quick glance at the wicked little office artchik in your best Aqualung resolve just once for me. Whatever else you undoubtedly launch you should claim as your own.

GT