| Untitled/No Wood
So it's late. The dog ate my homework.
This part isn't untitled. Go find some early Prince CD's and put them on. Listen to
them. No, I don't mean listen to them in the background, I mean:
/grabs reader by shirt and lifts him up/
Fucking A. Listen to this and learn something, asshole. Here's Erotic City:
All of my purple life
I've been looking for a dame
That would wanna be my wife
That was my intention, babe
If we cannot make babies, maybe we can make some time
Thoughts of pretty u and me, Erotic City come alive
We can funk until the dawn, making love 'til cherry's gone
Erotic City can't u see, thoughts of pretty u and me
And Scarlet Pussy:
She can make U crazy if U're too close to her heat
She can make U sad when U're happy as can be
She can make U shoot your ego all over her sheets
All is hers in love and war, my little scarlet pussy
/Okay, enough with that./
::Manic look comes into eyes::
So what the hell happened to everyone?
::Runs around electronic campfire yelling::
Doug?
McGuffin?
RJ?
::stops running for a second and notices something::
Hey, Sax is over there, and peakay is over there, and Seldom is writing something
there, and Murf...
And QL put it all out on the line.
Krap. There is no excuse for poor material.
A thirty minute visit to any strip club in America should provide enough material for any
reasonably intelligent writer to entertain an audience. You see, there is always something
fascinating in the dynamic provided by an entire industry based on the premise that not
only does sex sell, but it can be sold. And anyone can buy a ticket.
It turns out that some tickets are more expensive than others. You can take
Verushka's route--millions of Wonka bars bought to find your golden ticket. Or you can
take Charlie's route, and find one with the last few cents that you scrape together.
Two rules:
Expectations will kill you.
At some point in all this, you're gonna forget Rule #1.
I've tried to write multimedia, I threw in a turkey koan, I've let you all in on getting
flayed, bled on, puked on, come all over. There's old stuff, there's new.
So long as there are places where we can exchange symbols for a sexual rush, there will be
new things to do and say. Sometimes it won't be said well, sometimes it will be done
so well that you won't be able to think about anything else for an entire weekend.
The important thing is to just keep on going. As Sax (and Prince) point out,
it's all about ego in here. Because it's all about PUSSY out there.
Given that, cue up the following music from the Doors. It's called Alabama Song, but
I've always thought of it as the PL's lament:
Well, show me the way
To the next whiskey bar
Oh, don't ask why
Oh, don't ask why
Show me the way
To the next whiskey bar
Oh, don't ask why
Oh, don't ask why
For if we don't find
The next whiskey bar
I tell you we must die
I tell you we must die
I tell you, I tell you
I tell you we must die
Oh, moon of Alabama
We now must say goodbye
We've lost our good old mama
And must have whiskey, oh, you know why
Well, show me the way
To the next little girl
Oh, don't ask why
Oh, don't ask why
Show me the way
To the next little girl
Oh, don't ask why
Oh, don't ask why
For if we don't find
The next little girl
I tell you we must die
I tell you we must die
I tell you, I tell you
I tell you we must die
Oh, moon of Alabama
We now must say goodbye
We've lost our good old mama
And must have whiskey, oh, you know why
--
And that's the way it is, two days past AFTSD V.
And that's the way it will be. Like Heinlein's cat that was endlessly
looking for the door into summer, we all continue the search each time we
walk into the next whiskey bar...
SteveDrD
--
To reply, replace spamblock with stevedrd.
He who laughs last thinks slowest. |