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Fuckers

There are few situations in life that count as laugh-on-the-ground hysterical. Especially when it’s you who kills with the punch line.

Johnson’s [Anti] Baby Powder.

Guess you had to be there.

I work with a lot of theatrical women. That’s not a bad thing.

I should have flown coach to Phoenix and First Class back to Newark. I did the exact opposite.

Who was the first ever to document a dream?

(And how much was it like Everlong...Foo Fighters?)

No matter what anyone says, its all about the transition between god and time. Who drew the line?

What is our distinction between daydream and nightmare? Heaven and hell? Child and adult? Entertainment and commercial? Coffee and tea?

It’s far more drastic than a dripping full moon heaving large over the Atlantic.

Is the distinction between three years ago and three years from now beyond belief? Simple spans of six years come and go while lives yearning for meaning dissolve into apathy.

What day will your birthday fall on 10,000 years from now?

Does god see night on the canvas edge of a splattered map? What is our distinction between now and NOW?

Who was the first human to dream of a god?

How deep are his/her bones buried? Or have they been atomized?

Can we excavate his/her daydreams and nightmares?

Migration

I’ve been up to no good.

I’ve been consuming vintage and not-so-vintage videos on MTV.com like one might feast on the blue-gray frosty melt of broadcast static after being the focal point of a nuclear winter’s burning, parching laser blast.

I’ve been indulging in the past.

I’ve been performing CPR on my ghost.

I’ve been a good ghost at whork.

My mind is on the verge of 40 days and 40 nights.

My body needs some rest and some running.

My soul needs kindling.

I figured out the migration, Ann. There are now some 800 or so entries from an oddly named old blog to a new place. Still as stranded as ever. Ever marooned.

Let me out. (That's a clue...)

Ghosts are being resurrected.

In response to the coolest woman in America

Sarcasm? Nope.

Belief? Yup.

Frog? Woman.

I like the Rays because they are not the Yankees. They embody the “I have no idea how I got here” swagger I've swung every damn day since I turned 22.

When one with a fluctuating mind grinds him or her self into the baseball playoffs, he or she learns, maybe gradually, what keeping an even keel means. It means never giving up. And never believing you’re comfortable with a 7-0 lead.
And it means rooting for the good guys. Sorry, hun. My good guys have socks of red. Blood blends into our uniforms (Schilling, 2004). Yours have socks of…aqua???

Regardless, this by no means involves blowing a 7-0 lead with 12 outs to go, as the announcers commenced their annual countdown to the Red Sox demise.

This involves me really liking your frog story. 5x is unusually amazing.

(And the Sox beating your butt.)

Never Say Die

I watched every pitch of game 5.

For nine mind-numbing innings, my heart was audibly thumping, pumping adrenalin-infused anxiety to all invisible, intangible aural points.

By the time the final impact of tired leather upon smoldering ash, I was wired to the fucking ceiling.

The result of that hit had me elated.

I consider the Red Sox response from a 7-0 deficit in the 7th inning of a deciding game to be yet another personal inspiration. These comebacks are beginning to add up, over the years, to my shocked delight.

It's nothing compared to Ann's frog.

But it's all I got right now.

Wake me when October ends

Once again, all I can say is go Sawks, go!

Must be autumn. Beautiful time of year here in NYC.

All the famous celebrities come back to NYC and the Sox are on all TVs. Saw Michael Imperioli, Maggie Gyllenhall and Paul gap-toothed comedian dude this week in elevator rides. Wake me when Youkills is here. (Re: Pic above...google it.)

In spite of the "NY celebrities", lower Manhattan is all about the friggin RED Sox. We're beginning to associate the gorgeous weather of this time of year with the return home from LA of movie stars and our baseball passions. The Village is a Sox recluse from all that uptown Yankee crap.

Red Sox caps abound. We refuse to accept the imperialistic notion of an overpaid October dynasty from the Bronx. We want a team with heart and soul. Like, um, let me think, THE RED SOX. If the Yankees were a political party, they’d have run us bankrupt, wallet-size and passion-wize, long ago. They are as bankrupt as the street named Wall a mile from my office.

Go Obama.

Go Sox.