Correction

Good thing I checked. Train wreck is the appropriate term. Car wrecks are, unfortunately, far to common to accurately describe the anomoly to which I refer.

Car wreck

How the hell did this happen? One minute you're cruising along nicely enough, wind in your hair and cool tunes on the radio. The next thing you know you're in the middle of one of the strangest car wrecks in history. Or is the metaphor train wreck? Hold on, let me consult my Guide to Tragic Analogies (the left angular gyrus region of my brain.)

A little more to the right...

Totally cool surrealistic photography by Robert and Shana Parkeharrison.

Their pictures looks like a lot of the songs I've been listening to lately--Iron and Wine, Iris DeMint, etc. Go visit their site and just stare.

http://www.parkeharrison.com/main.html

Yet another t-shirt saying

Distance has no enemy. We all yearn for relative proximity.

Sexy Problem

She’s married. She has kids. She’s gorgeous. She craves me like I crave her. We do not work together. She is pregnant. Not with mine. She is of blue blood. We meet occasionally at lunch. We’ve known each other for 15 months. We met at a bad place. We now meet at better places. She cries when I leave. We are stretching the thin veil of love to a clear sheen. She tried to take her life Thursday with pills. I mopped up the day and went to work today. I feel like shit. I barely made it home without freaking out. I can't. She has a husband and kids. Everyone thinks I'm just crabby. Forgive thou unjust shallow mutherfuckers. She has a cool part in a show this weekend. We are often seen together in Red Bank. She's a diner maven.

Fear is Pathetic

To all who think there has to be something more to life than this, what’s stopping you? To all of you who hesitate. What? Fear? One life to live and you embrace, endear fear? Wake up. Be fearless.

Immortgage

I am on a plain flat out search for the rarest of souls.

 

Unrequited love in its most healthy of forms still debilitates the soul. Especially if it is realized in the motif as the one who missed the bus on purpose. Let’s use me as an example. I’ve had three distinct chances to marry and settle down and turn my lust into a baby machine. But mad crushes feel so good. And marriage and kids and mortgages impede the pursuit of love. I know for a fact that people commit before they mean to because they are pressured or scared or tricked or vulnerable. And they live out the structure of their haste to form something that may very well morph into nothing.

 

It astonishes me how quickly children and mortgages make people age physically. Or am I immature? Should I buy an Immortgage? I think I’ve coined a phrase. It’s a word that means rent and financial and physical independence.

 

I am on a plain flat out search for the rarest of souls. I’m sick of listening to friends speaking in the gluey, mired language of getting more and more weighed down by husbands they don’t like and driveways they want paved and fences they want built and sperm they hate in their womb. Idiotic. Screw this. Go ahead. Paint your bedroom. Buy a cheap cut of steak for dinner. Wear aponcho to the game as if it will shield you from the rain. She might be the most beautiful woman on the planet, but she’s in a wheel-spinning mud rut forever.

 

I am on a plain flat out search for the rarest of souls.

Postcard

Vegas isn’t big enough for the both of me.

 

The squalid rebel with a cigarette in hand and a finger on the button ready to detonate deteriorate decimate debilitate. Eyes ablaze, amazed the hazy craze leaves me unfazed. Drawn from the hotel by the spell of all they sell. Nervous notion fuels locomotion and I flit from club to club up elevators down stairs through doors and velvet ropes one moment sweating it out on the dance floor with a blonde hanging on my leg the next on a rooftop ready to see if I can sail all the while knowing that if I follow that spilled glass off the railing I will next meet air, pavement, hell and coffin flies. Suddenly I am on the pavement yelling taxi taxi taxi and am off to the next hour. There is such a thing as time travel. For then I open my eyes and am lying under an umbrella of palms next to a pool and hear myself asking what hotel are we at. I blush briefly at finishing a sentence with a preposition and I close my eyes again and dream deep of air conditioning and showers and fresh clothes and sex and toys in the attic and baseball cards and betting slips and fascinating transactions with go-go dancers cashing out confidence and laughter a dollar at a time. One orangecreameruminfuzedslushy with two straws and then I am shirtless in the sun at a different pool on a different day slathered in coconut somethingorother and baking quite pleasantly, literally and metaphorically. Yes. My umbilical cell is still with me. I check it for messages and time.I can’t tell the difference between them because they both start with a one and have 2 numbers after them. Close enough, I deduce.

 

And then, there’s the other me who worked out, brushed my teeth, knew when to hold ‘em and fold ‘em and made it to the airport with nary a scratch. You know what ultimately did me in? I ate a bad cheezebooger on the Continental in-flight “meal”. Food poisoning. Ever puke in a Newark Airport men’s room? It sets off a free radical chain reaction in one’s mind and belly. Puking in a NewarkAirport men’s room is enough to make one puke. So I puked. And then puked at the thought of puking in a Newark Airport men’s room. And then I puked at the thought of the thought of puking in a Newark Airport men’s room. And so this curious fractal equation went on in exponential repetition until I was just once again the squalid rebel with a cigarette, fresh faucet water splashed on my face and pulling myself together and falling into a limo to be delivered home. Nothing like a good vacation. Viva.

Let the chips fall where they may

Viva, y'all!

Annie

This is my favorite picture from my friend Ann's journal. If you knew her, you'd laugh your ass off, like I did.

Ann.

 

Iron and Wine

This is my new favorite disc. The Sea and the Rhythm by Iron and Wine. It has a stoned intentness and a porch swing rocking chair easibility. The lyrics are utter butter poetry. Take it from a poet.

If you mixed Simon and Garfunkel with a beard and West Virginia in a blender powered by a mule playing a washboard and one banjo at a time this is what it would sound like.

Bad Boy

This has been a terribly odd weekend. I've been a good son (hi mom), a great friend (yo, Slabby), but an awful boyfriend (sorry, Ann). It's an almost incongruous blend. Leave it to me to live it, then define it, though.

Son of a Gun

I should talk to my mom more. She makes me rest easier than any quantity of Xanax.

Six

Good luck at making me lift a limb after Xanax. But I'll keep the fone close.

Zzzzzzz

I'm about to take a ton of Xanax and blank out for 20 hours.

Fortune

There was a line in Band of Brothers where Spears said it makes no use to worry about dying because you're already dead. He's right. I honestly believe there is no better philosophy. You end up dead. I end up dead. Let's make a break out of this insidious fence. And get laid. We're already dead, anyway.

Melody

The new trend toward harmonizin and joining in the chorus is a halted steady stready straight note rumblin under the harmony only to be exquisitely exposed after all voices have taken a turn for silence. Mmmmmmmmm Hmmmmmmmm Ummmmm.

Bloom

Does anyone have any idea how hard it is to get a fat set of flowers sent to 4 different moms, east and west coast, with a single graceful notion? After one has screwed up delivery dates and addresses? Thank the Lord for DiAndra at 1-800flowers.com. She ripped me up and knitted back a fine state of deliverable beauty to my four moms. Mary. Hilda. Kerry. Katie. I wish I knew where Ann lived. I'd send her quite the tight boquet.

Weekend Assignment - Mother's Day is on the Way

My poor sister Katie.

 

Who would have thought that such a beautiful mom (picture 1) would have once been nearly frightened to death by her mean big brother for the sake of a cheesy photo op (picture 2)?

 

Happy FIRST Mother’s Day Katie!

 

(and to Kerry and Mom and Grandmom, too)

 

Love,

 

PK