Here now we pause momentarily and attempt to recapture the lustre and the sepulcher that represent the natural order of things. I dunno always why the pain and tribulation has to be wrought, or why the rose turns to bloom and withers. Withers?
I’m more Stevie Wonder
or here Stevie made an appearance so you get Dick Cavett looking very 1968
but this is what’s been up. You know, with the wither. whatever.
Who exactly does Seattle think She is, anyway?
On the heels of only the second major sports championship in the cities’ history, not counting the Stanley Cup-winning Metropolitans c. early 1900′s?
Not a punk, fer once. Our fair seafronting maiden
I believe the artist within emerges at will.
Now I have proof.
I spoke with Abby.
We met for a moment.
I never felt so happy
and so sad
I best hold my tongue
I’m the monolith along the Granite Sepulcher, inert, long-straddled and securely held. It’s a cold side of the piece. She is incontrovertibly bled of and by her mother. The connection most prominent, though, is that she is of The Sun, and hers is the most brilliant of lustre as Red Hearts descend to her.
Magnificent. c. 2009
I’m mostly up Getchell.
Not that it’s yer bizness. It’s my life. Finally.
Great late lunch. Engaging leftovers, I salvaged these wacky sliced chicken breast with crunchy REAL BACON on a mountainous roll, lettuce tomato blah blah…
and fresh popovers made by The Illustrious Lovely herself. We thought they’d pop over but then they just popped over and we popped them.
look inside, girl
newest latest… so you can watch the road
The illustrious and beautiful Ms Kelly Shibari and my good friend and newly-fathering compadre Brandon Iron were working a rudimentary math equation… when the brilliance and simplicity simply melted away all concern.
Buddhist rule re: Worrying.
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Larry Hillman, Joey Beretta and Brandon Iron like this.
Joey Beretta: Or, as Mickey Rivers once put it: “Ain’t no sense worryin’ about the things you got control over, ’cause if you got control over ‘em, ain’t no sense worryin’. And ain’t no sense worryin’ about the things you don’t got control over, ’cause if you don’t got control over ‘em, ain’t no sense worryin’.”
February 9 at 6:04pm ·
Keith Calandra: slide in, dust off… we all know in our hearts whether we’re safe… or out.
February 9 at 6:23pm ·
Thxxx as always my fine bro’s n sis’s
Groucho said it worst
Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read.
The saddest part of the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman is the unspoken, the unknown and never conquered. The debilitation of the man, the loss of purpose that occurs with addiction to opiates, all the unmade and incomplete, the sadness that accompanies such junkiedom; these are the ‘deaths’ unmourned.
No one knows how the spiral went. The man was iconic; he mustta’ had peeps who loved him, and he them. He must’of done or acquired his heroin with or through someone, equally broken no doubt. The idea is anathema to most of us, though, to stick our nose in someone elses bizness. We are repulsed and saddened by weakness, vulnerability; some could in retrospect not forgive him such indulgences. While I’ve come to understand self-flagellating brutalities and their measure is not my bane, i can draw only one sad conclusion and it falls to Heller, Arkin and Buck Henrys 50 year aged script:
Help the Bombardier! I’m the Bombardier!!
Then help him! Help him!
Ya gotta help yerself.
So sad, when it runs dry, such a lovely meander that was Hoffmann.
Live and learn. we seek ecstasy.
But I remember Bobby Orr flying…
ya gotta really want it.
Can’t fool a Bruin.
can i change up the tunes, though?
Stevie waddn’t reeelly me. I’m more
uhhhh, well, y’all know me by now…
that’s right, a human package of dynamite.
A legend in his own time.