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Thursday, August 14, 2014

BOGO, plus one

In which we go whole hog



It's not good to think too much: -- overthinking sucks. I wonder if that's one of the words the Oxford Dictionary added -- you know, like 'side boob' and 'hot mess.' I was going to slop the pig with this stuff, but I'm throwing it out here instead, because I read this by David Gordon in the NYT
Let’s face it: just writing something, anything, and showing it to the world, is to risk ridicule and shame. What if it is bad? What if no one wants to read it, publish it? What if I can’t even finish the thing? 
Or post it. So, what the hell.

First: In which we continue to reflect on Robin Williams because he reminds us of John Belushi who we still miss very much

Rain and Cocaine

In the morning at work I drink bad coffee from the machine and watch it rain on gloomy Huntington. Robin Williams is very dead. He’s died a million times on Facebook since yesterday, where everyone has eagerly announced it. In death he’s become everyone’s best friend, all the Hollywood types issuing statements and tweeting mournfully and cleverly, and everyone who’s ever seen a movie or watched ‘Mork’ sharing YouTube clips on looping replay. Even the president got eloquent. Nothing like a celebrity death to divert attention from Iraqi atrocities and Mideast tension. I’m thinking of John Belushi, who is also very dead and who really was a friend of Robin Williams. Belushi’s death scared Robin straight -- for awhile. Demons don’t always die or kill quickly, it seems. I learned that reading Wired, which was full of Belushi, drugs and demons. Robin Williams was in it, too. He saw John that last night at Chateau Marmont. Which is what scared him. Wired is a book about a train wreck. Which still seems to be happening.
There’s no good way to end this. Sometimes, things are just over.

The paragraph's over, but you're not so lucky in this post, because we were playing with the frig again.


Rather apocalyptic, huh? I have no idea what it means. It's like poetry stew.

One more to go, we've saved the best worse whatever for last because why not, we've lost all shame anyway.

The Picture Not Taken

is the one you want. 
Carrying cameras we talk to,
pose pose pose,
duck lips, guns, hands in the air.
Mickey Mouse. Sunsets.
The delicious dinner.
The pragmatic parking spot.
Memory triggers in high resolution hidden within the machine  --
Only by luck are the real tells captured,
the crime, the proposal, the look of love --
or loathing.

We are brave because we read David Gordon's essay, and because we're listening to Sam Smith, who is brave in his art and brave to come out


Oh baby, oh baby, oh we both know the truth / If it were the real me and you, / This wouldn't be the right thing to do / Now the room is all hazy, we're too lost in the fumes / I feel like it's just me and you, / Yeah we got nothing to lose

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