- 5 November 2007
- No. 5,736 (cartoon)
- You should call a suicide counselor.
I did. She said I was doing the right thing.
- 6 November 2007
- Clucky, the Plucky Chicken
- For me, writing and making art is a solitary pursuit. And, on rare occasions like today, a lonely one as well. And so, I went to the grocery store to escape my loneliness. And it worked.
I was walking down the aisle at Ledanos Supermarket, and thats where I met Clucky. Most people might not have spotted Clucky, but then most people havent seen Jeffrey Vallances brilliant, slim book, Blinky: The Friendly Hen.
Vallance describes meeting Blinky at the supermarket. He brought her home, then prepared her for a proper burial at a pet cemetery. Many years later, he had Blinky exhumed to determine her cause of death. Thats fowl amore!
Had it not been for Vallances insights, I might never have spotted Clucky among the neatly stacked row of chickens. She looked so delicate and so inviting that I decidedwithout hesitationto bring her home.
I knew from talking with my late Uncle Russ, who worked as a government meat inspector, that Cluckys last bath was probably in a foul rinse of fecal broth. And so, I prepared a hot bath for Clucky immediately after returning to my studio. I could feel Cluckys muscles loosen as I lowered her into the steaming water. As she relaxed, I gently reached into her clammy body cavity to remove her neck, heart, gizzard, and heart. And thats when I discovered that my intuitive response to Clucky was correct.
Clucky had two hearts. There they were, right in the palm of my hand. Clucky the Plucky Chicken had two hearts!
I decided to become one with Clucky. Of course, both bestiality and necrophilia were out of the question, even in San Francisco. (Except, of course, in certain neighborhoods.) And so I decided to have Clucky as my dinner guest. Or, more accurately, as my dinner.
Clucky, who Ive renamed Clucky the Plucky Chicken, is now inside of me. Shell never be cold again.
- 7 November 2007
- Morning Relativity
- I enjoyed a very productive evening last night then extended almost until dawn. And so, I was sleeping soundly when Randall called at eleven this morning.
Did I wake you up? he asked.
No, the phone was ringing before our conversation, I explained.
I thought you said you were a morning person, Randall responded skeptically.
I am, I replied. Im also a believer in Einsteins theory of relativity, which teaches us that some mornings begin after noon.
Well, Im relatively thirsty, Randall said, so I do believe that its time for a tipple.
No one could argue with that, so I didnt.
- 8 November 2007
- Pollo Carnage Asada
- Some incompetent mariners rammed a huge ship into the San Francisco Bay Bridge that cut a fifty-meter gash in the vessels hull. And, more significantly, a puncture in a fuel talk from which hundreds of thousands of liters of nasty bunker oil spilled into the bay.
I didnt think much about the incident until tonight, when my burrito had disturbing petroleum overtones. I wonder if my chicken burrito is really a seagull burrito?
Hay caramba! I suffocated the offensive odors in an ocean of spicy salsa, so I suppose things arent that bad after all.
- 9 November 2007
- Thanksgiving Plans
- I have so very much for which to be thankful, so Thanksgiving is my second-most favorite holiday of the year. (Fool that I am, April Fools Day has always been my first choice.) And so, Ive been fishing for invitations to this years celebrations. I asked Dr. Lyon if she knew of any Thanksgiving parties populated by neer-do-wells and dance-hall floozies, a venue where the cheap alcohol flowed like cheap alcohol.
Sorry, no leads, Dr. Lyon replied. Im volunteering on Thanksgiving to feed children and their families who cant go home because a child is hospitalized.
I should have been more clear, I explained. I was looking for a second celebration after I was done cleaning up from the banquet I prepared for homeless quadriplegic orphans.
Good luck, Saint David, was the last thing she said before she turned off her phone.
- 10 November 2007
- Permanent Cringe
- Rebecca called to discuss my notes on cringe readings.
David, you know as well as I do that you could do a really cringy cringe reading if you wanted to, she said.
Not really, I replied. I was telling the truth when I wrote that I destroyed my tawdry teen archives decades ago.
You dont have to be a teenager to cringe, Rebecca responded. Im thinking of your first encounter with Anonymouss daughter.
I cringed when she said that; I remembered the horrific incident perfectly. I was visiting Anonymouss farm, when I saw his wife with an grotesquely obese young woman.
Looks likes she overdosed on ugly pills, I observed.
Thats my daughter, Anonymous replied matter-of-factly replied.
I looked for a rock big enough to hide under, but there were none. And to make matters worse, my friend was gracious and forgiving.
And so, it turns out that Rebecca was right. And worse, I can come up with even cringier stories now that I think about it.
- 11 November 2007
- (C)Rap Music
- I heard a few minutes of an interview with the (c)rap artist Percy Carey dba MF Grimm. In that brief time, I learned that Carey was once a minor actor on the childrens television show, Sesame Street.
That explains everything!
Well, not everything as such, but it does shed light on the popularity of (c)rap music: its a generational thing. I never saw the preschoolers program, and so I was never programmed to appreciate insipid, inane rhymes.
I wrote a (c)rap song to torture my New York City hosts twenty years ago; its held up well. It seems as laughably asinine now as it did when I wrote it a couple of decades ago.
HampeRap No. 1
I had a bad assignment
hadda go to New York City,
where the air is bad
and the climate is shitty.
Had to shoot a band
called the Grateful Dead,
They music be so bad
That it hurt my head.
I thought theres only one way
that the job could be fun,
thats if I didnt use my Nikons
and instead I brought a gun.
But it wasnt very long
that I be feelin illin,
When I figgered I could see some gals
who never be mean or chillin.
Im rappin bout some beauties
named the wild sisters Hamper,
So when I give em all a call,
they say wed love to have you camp here.
So I show up with some wine
I also bring along some beer,
but they say dont be such a dickhead,
cause that stuff dont bring us cheer.
To make this rappin story short
I had a real far out time,
just a fool and three good friends
and some jivin crap that rhymes.
So if you gotta go to to New York
and you wanna have successes,
just avoid the Grateful Dead
and check out the gals with wild tresses.
Check it out.
Check it out.
Check it out.
Check it out.
Check it out.
Dang; reading that still makes me wince with embarrassment. Maybe (c)rap music has some perverted flavor of longevity after all?