My Dinner of Andre
Along with shorter days, cooler nights and me gluing falling leaves back on to trees and shouting to nature that green warm light was just fine with me, who the fuck needs all these colors signalling our insane march towards winter, a sure sign of fall, post-Xanax of course is that Wednesday nights are quiet nights alone.
Thumper is out and won't be in until its time for a glass of grape juice no doubt left in the sun a little too long and I park myself in front of a blog that has tsk tsk'd me for three months, disapproving of photos passing as a post.
One of the wonderful things about Wednesday's is the absolute, and I mean absolute quiet of the evening. We're in a little corner of Swellsville next to two sweet older folks who roll out at five a.m. for part time jobs, their way of extending a firm middle finger at natural ageing, but roll up and call it a day sometime around seven, their way of compromising on their terms. Street noise is at an absolute minimum which is to say I'm bothered by the cat rolling over on her other side in the middle of the road.
Nights like tonight I can hear my inner voice and tonight it sounded a lot like Wallace Shawn. This of course frightened the shit out of me because I want to be heard a little more like a cigar smoking misanthrope who tells good dirty jokes than a frumpy writer who's happy with a crusty coffee cup that's still there in the morning. Not that there's anything wrong with wanting stability and consistency, i.e. waking up next to the remote, the cigar and the tumbler versus a dyed-blue, black-haired-naked female and where'd that freaking chicken come from??
It's just that cold coffee and a dirty tablecloth aims too low. Next thing you know you're playing gnomes and dinosaurs as opposed to say, the penultimate Puck.
Now I can't project anything than the rambling, scattered musings about the general absurdity of things into your brains. If the voice sounds like James Earl Jones, I can live with that and even adopt a mantra of "Baseball, Ray" for a few. But please chase Rex the Green Dinosaur and Stuart Best out of the cranial cavity if you please and at worst, supplant it with Thomas Haden Church.
Even if you have to go back to "Wings."
Bunny on.
Thumper is out and won't be in until its time for a glass of grape juice no doubt left in the sun a little too long and I park myself in front of a blog that has tsk tsk'd me for three months, disapproving of photos passing as a post.
One of the wonderful things about Wednesday's is the absolute, and I mean absolute quiet of the evening. We're in a little corner of Swellsville next to two sweet older folks who roll out at five a.m. for part time jobs, their way of extending a firm middle finger at natural ageing, but roll up and call it a day sometime around seven, their way of compromising on their terms. Street noise is at an absolute minimum which is to say I'm bothered by the cat rolling over on her other side in the middle of the road.
Nights like tonight I can hear my inner voice and tonight it sounded a lot like Wallace Shawn. This of course frightened the shit out of me because I want to be heard a little more like a cigar smoking misanthrope who tells good dirty jokes than a frumpy writer who's happy with a crusty coffee cup that's still there in the morning. Not that there's anything wrong with wanting stability and consistency, i.e. waking up next to the remote, the cigar and the tumbler versus a dyed-blue, black-haired-naked female and where'd that freaking chicken come from??
It's just that cold coffee and a dirty tablecloth aims too low. Next thing you know you're playing gnomes and dinosaurs as opposed to say, the penultimate Puck.
Now I can't project anything than the rambling, scattered musings about the general absurdity of things into your brains. If the voice sounds like James Earl Jones, I can live with that and even adopt a mantra of "Baseball, Ray" for a few. But please chase Rex the Green Dinosaur and Stuart Best out of the cranial cavity if you please and at worst, supplant it with Thomas Haden Church.
Even if you have to go back to "Wings."
Bunny on.
posted by The Caustic Bunny at Wednesday, September 16, 2009
1 Comments:
I woulda thought you were off with MM on the grand adventure. Drop me a line if you are in desperate need of filler.
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