Lake surprise

When the sun goes down, the desert breaks its torpor and comes crawling
out of the sand to fill ears and eyes of the unwary with play

~ I write with your life and my own ~

Peaches

Life in the desert continues to work majestic wonders. Occasionally I look outside my window to remind myself that the world does, in fact, still exist and then I go on with my tepid ways. I often return to the window looking for something that usually isn't there. I don't know if I expect a long column of smoke to loom over the horizon, but I'd certainly like it to be there. Damned if I'm going to wait the equivalent of forty years for something to happen. Perhaps some kind deity will open the sky and drop down to me a nice convertible, preferably with a manual transmission and a back seat loaded with beautiful, buxom, bikini-clad babes, but both you and I know that we'll have a democrat majority in the government before that happens. I freely admit that this prison is of my own doing, and chanced that I could have seen what would happen, I would have played my hand differently, but the flop is on the table and the bowls are cash.

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The problem with this desert mecca is that there is no redeemable public transportation. I was talking to a new friend the other day and she told me that a subway system was voted down in a referendum. I immediately launched into a tirade worthy of a filibuster meeting. What kind of ass-backward, stopped-up colon of a city would vote down a subway system, especially one like Phoenix, where the highways are filled with the mad clangle of snow birds, immigrants, and escapees of vicious northern states? Phoenix is exploding with people and the roads cannot handle the flow. I understand that people are attached to their cars, but can't they be attached to their cars long enough to board a nice subway system? Hell, all the good cities have underground public transportation. Look at the nice, pretty roster: Chicago (mon ami), Los Angeles, New York, Washington D.C., San Francisco, Tokyo, London, Paris, and any other bangle of buildings bandying about the name "metropolis." What's Phoenix got against progress, or at least cleaner air and easier A-to-Bness?

My mother did tell me that the city at least passed a light rail bill. We'll have a MUNI, but no BART.

Baby steps. Ta-dinka-dink.

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I had a nice chunk of skin lopped off the other day. A mole went whacky on me and we have sent it and its infested soul to some bio lab to see if I'm infected with melanoma. The doctor tried to smear me with euphemisms, but everyone in the room was held with a bit of concern. It's generally not right for someone of my age to have nodules sliced off and fretted over. Then again, I've always been advanced for my age and a bit ahead of the game when the board's laid out to play. I'll find out if I have cancer some time next week. In the mean time, I have six new stitches to play with and a vivid memory of something that looked like scooped out peach flesh floating in a plastic vial.

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I need to find something positive or at least viable to write about. I'm getting tired of mewling about how shitty things are going. Give me another day and I'll be bound to bitch about something other than myself. I mean, the world's sailing along splendidly enough. I suppose I could find some words to attach to its rudder.

Spike Magnets. My sister made me buy some for her. I'm going to call him Mr. Cheekbones because that's all the man has. He (James Mar...something) doesn't really have a face. He has cheekbones with some eyes attached and a permanent scowl dangling somewhere near the cheekbone point through which he breathes.

A random burble of thoughts

At one point in the day my boredom was so pronounced that I decided to string together random sequences of words to see what post-modern joys would be born. I had one particularly delicious sentence, but, of course, I cannot remember it in its entirety. There was something about poppies popping and wind blowing and other words which makes me want to dance around the room screaming fits of marvelousness. I have a Henry Miller book in the mail and there is no doubt that the post modern style of writing has infected me through whatever distance exists in our glorious mail system. It's almost as if Henry's words have been swept by the arid air and have been taffy-stretched into my waiting mouth.

Yeah, I'm a bit bored, hm?

This is day whatever of my current quandary. I need money to get a car. I need a car to get money. Somewhere, Heller masturbates furiously.

My sister keeps a stack of Cosmo(s?) in our shared bathroom. I'm secure enough in my masculinity to admit that I flip through them while sitting on the can. I take particular pleasure in reading the articles that claim to show what a guy thinks. I always wonder where they find the guys that comment. A typical guy comment is every guy stereotype manifest. I imagine that either the cosmo editors create the comments while simultaneously making guy-like (or perceived guy-like) faces and grunting while pretending to scratch non-existent scrotums. I have vivid fantasies of walking into the Cosmo office and finding a group of women engaged in distorted face play. The uncomfortable silence that follows would likely cause a deaf man (namely I) to crack from the sheer strain of it. Another option which ran through my head is that the Cosmo office has a secret stash of assholes purloined from the mean streets of America. I imagine that there is a crack team of Cosmo writers which, while wearing black jump suits designed by some random french chick, descend upon a simian beast of a human male and kidnap him only to deposit his grunting, hairy figure into the previously mentioned man compound. Whenever comments are needed about the state of the male mind, a brave Cosmo writer throws a steak and a stack of Penthouse into the compound while shouting out questions.

Scene 1

The curtain opens up to a particularly dreary scene. The lights seem steel, which reflects the rather Spartan nature of the stage. On the right, a group of men gather in a primitive circle of sorts. They are engaged in stereotypically male behavior. A few scratch their balls. Others are engaged in boasts about cars and equipment size. One or two are attempting to watch an imaginary sports game. On the left, a lone potted plant stands under a Kincaid painting. A woman enters carrying meat and a stack of magazines. She walks to the plant, which is the dividing line between the male portion and the female portions of the stage. The woman pauses, then throws the steak and magazines into the group of men. The men immediately cease whatever activity they were engaged in and descend upon their prizes.

Cosmo Writer: There you all go! Food and Porn! If you're nice and answer my questions, I'll even throw in a case of beer.

Men: Beer! Beer! Beer! Porn!
Cosmo Writer: Yeah. That's right. Now, who can tell me a secret sex secret?
Men: Beer! Beer! Porn!
Comso Writer: No beer until I get answers!
Man 1: I won't stand for this! This treatment is inhumane! I don't even like beer!
Men: ....
Man 1: Um, Beer?
Men: He's gay! Kick the faggot out!
Cosmo Writer: Guys? Guys? Focus. We'll take care of the queer. I need answers, first.
Man 2: Beer! I'm what they calla butterfly hunter. You know those girls with the tats on their backs? Those are the only kind of women I fuck because I like looking at something pretty when I bend them over.
Cosmo Writer: Thanks! Here's your bud. As for you (She points at the man who doesn't like beer), I have some Dolly Parton for you.


Yeah. I imagine it's something like that.