Numb-Rah: whose feelings are never hurt
Selectrocution Girl
The Facilitator
The Needler
The Compass: All sets of directions
One Track Mind: spookily methodical
I was playing with my friend Ben
who had a three-legged dog
and lived on top of a hill
where his road stopped in a pile of sand.
He swore at me and I walked out,
Ben’s father was sleeping by his sketches.
I walked through the scrubby prickly woods
that pressed close over the dirt road.
I bravely passed a big loose black dog
I walked for miles alone.
If any cars passed, I don’t remember.
It must’ve been Saturday morning
because the town library was open.
I went in.
The librarian called my mother
and my parents rushed frantic,
Ben’s father having woken to my absence.
My father says
this is when he stopped
worrying about me.
(Will I be waiting in the library forever?)
i made this
carina and patrick
maple syrup, hard cider and four kinds of jelly
I brought some crappy books on CD to NYC last weekend. The Art of Racing In the Rain is about a neurotic, dying, talking dog that can smell cancer and loves TV. My response: are you fucking kidding me?
Thank goodness Eric lent me Steve Martin’s book, read by the author.
Steve Martin’s standup superstardom happened largely before I was born. The distance from the time and his skill have concentrated the story into its essence. It is not a particularly funny book, although it gives his comedy a context that it never had to me before. He tells of his troubled relationship with his father and softens this cliche with the statement “I want you to know I am qualified to be a comedian.”
It’s a thoughtful book and it’s a saga- what happens when someone is profoundly driven from a young age and that drive aligns with his culture and he becomes a symbol and a superstar. Martin is intelligent and hardworking and this book is cunningly structured. It shares some, but not too much. I am obsessed with romantic relationships and would have liked to read more about them. But this is a book about Steve and his dad whose coldness drove him to such efforts. Or maybe that is how you get folks to sympathize with fame, by putting it in terms any Jerk can understand.
Shirley did the flowers for Jessie and found just the right ones!
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