Thursday, May 06, 2004

sometimes more must be done with less in order to equalize the parameters of the preset stationary cogs that be rollin with no end in site. You and I and your next door neighbor Herb know this to be true, but it’s one of those things you don’t talk about after a certain time of the evening, when the shadows draw long and the children are nestled in their beds with cheerios on the brain, no, for those moments of insipient longing for the thirst of fear, we would rather settle back with a nice large batch of ovaltine and perhaps a few recorded films to pass away the hours and ceaseless minutes and reattach to our brain some sort of a rationale for continuing on, for attempting to reach that which has not made itself visible, the one thing we all want, differentiated by walk, style, and motivation, the golden goose, the magic apple, the why & the wherefore. And once you arrive at said destination, will it be even half that which you expected, will the journey have been more of an experience than the final conclusion, will you miss with a passion the struggle to achieve that which you so desired once all your fantasies, seen & unseen, have been granted? It’s a total cliché, of course, I’ll be the first to get in line and admit it, I mean, it felt tired when steven tyler busted it out, but the concept behind the overworked framework still bears plenty and good room for reinterpretation by any and all who have half a mind to take a good look at it in it’s beautiful or ugly face.

Tuesday, May 04, 2004

just a teeny weenie itsy bitsy bit o’ shit about Poughkeepsie, doing time with mel Blanc’s caddie, doctor normie, you know the one, that mad butler whippin bastard son of a fallen broken skullish horse of a mane’s mein vein. Ok, no, yes, no, shit, no, yeah, whut, you know? Shit, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

So, uh, yeup, hmmm, new word, yeup, ye best be up on your scribaries of paper chasin, son, if you expect to be advanced to the next level of Brandon-ness with a minimal amount of lack of expediency.

Now that is that which should never have been ordained, not that it was, I mean, by any authoritative entity like keeping regulations regulated, but, in a way, it was, by me, but who am I? What right do I have to ordain anything in any way shape or form? I’m no demigod, not even a faithful servant, although I try to walk the semi-righteous path, but how dare I, a human faced with his own humanity, even sum up half the cojones to even come up with such a mad scheme as actually uttering that utterance. It’s unfounded, unnecessary, irregardless, and completely tantamount to everything this cased is NOT supposed to be about. So on to new business.

It’s funny how discerning I can be of that which is witchitawed in way shape form styles up in that which should not be mentioned but yet at the same time how completely haphazard can be the customization schedule by which half the artistic plagues are enacted, and if you understand half of that please drop me a line to explain it to me.

By that which of you that thought I would say that it would be greatly appreciated, thank you and yes it is, but that isn’t what I wanted to impart, what I wanted to get across is, just think about it, if moses spread the great red sea and little jack frost spreads his peanut butter and little kids everywhere spread all kinds of germs on every populace from here to Nantucket, think of the almost herculanean odds which might bring about you to have any of the number of items that catalog themselves through your medulla oblongata with alarming regularity.

Monday, May 03, 2004

Yet another reminiscince on a day from way back that no one gives half a fuck about anymore. Except me. Dang, dawgs, I’ll tell you one thing, or a few, fuck it, here’s a bushel, but you know whut? Thinking bout the ol’ times can be nice and smooth sometimes. Like all the places I’ve lived. I’ve lived in the phattest ranches and some of the most geed out hoods whut with you’re almost looking around for naughty by nature to tell you to get the fuck out of there. Ok mebbe not that core, but still, I mean, illicit shit was going down on the regulah, and it was all well & good and kinda fun actually in that tizime in my lizife, but, well, I gots to say, that you can’t go home again, even though you can, and I haven’t, but in a way, I have. Weird wild stuff, fa sho, Johnny.

And furthermore, just to clarify a point that I wasn’t making earlier, I have no ending for this sentence. At least not one that doesn’t make you wanna say whoah, speaking of which I was flipping through old magazines and wondering whatever happened to g-dep, not that he’s black rob, but you get the picture. The boob tube likes shoveling the latest it thang down our collective throats, and if there’s even a semblance of the appearance of any form of discernible digestion of said pop-oids going on, they keep jamming it in until it hurts, and finally throw that bad boy for “life” on the latest charnal heap of burning effigies and look for the new posterchild for that dollar sign blazing in the sky, just off the horizon, hovering over that old decrepit outdated bat signal.