I swear to God I saw Gay Talese crossing Lexington at 62nd street yesterday. I was lying about Joan Didion in the bushes, yes, but I swear I saw GT. He was right across the street from me in fedora hat, looking all dapper ‘n shit. I wanted to say hello but then these other two dudes recognized him and shook his hand, and when I got across the street he was trying to break away from them; stopping him again didn’t feel right. Still, I did get to see him and get all fanned-out like a bitch in the noon-day sun, so that’s nice.
I also saw Keanu Reeves sitting outside the Bowery Hotel at 1am on thursday morning. He… whatever.
People always ask me, “Hey, jerk-tits, why do you rely so heavily on sex and sex organs for comic relief?” Good question. Here’s the answer:
When I was six it occurred to me that I was here, alive, on planet earth, but I didn’t know how I arrived. I asked my parents how I came to be and they sat me down and explained human reproduction in all its gory detail. I was disgusted and amazed.
Later that day I wandered around the corner to the park (because my parents were negligent circus folk) and I met a group of teenage girls and boys, four of them, and I told them what I knew about sex: the sperm, the fallopian tubes, the ovaries, the whole bit. They fell about in fits of laughter (which seemed odd at the time) and insisted that I come back to their house for lunch. At their house I sat around a large table with a family of about ten people: uncles, aunts, moms, dads, kids. I gave the lady of the house my phone number (my mother made me learn our home number off by heart as soon as I could speak) and she called my folks to ask if it was okay that I was having lunch with them- the strangers who lived around the corner. It was okay.
Anyway, during lunch the teenage kids asked me to explain reproduction again to everyone at the table, which I did. They were doubled over in their seats before the erect penis had even been inserted into the vagina. Grown men had tears streaming down their cheeks and one of the ladies choked on a sandwich; she ran to the sink and started spitting it up. They were laughing so hard I had to yell the facts of life over their hooting, which only made it funnier. I personally didn’t think it was funny, but I did enjoy making a room full of people laugh just by saying the word ‘penis’.
Anyways, that’s why I always crack wise with the willy gags. What’s your excuse?
In other news: I’ve got a bunch of free magazine subscriptions; some I requested, and others that just turn up once a month all by themselves. One of them is Rolling Stone. You may be revolted to learn that I actually like Rolling Stone. I don’t know why, but I find it comforting. There, I’ve said it. I know it’s not ‘cool’, and I know it’s largely responsible for rigging the charts and making popular music stink worse than a trunk-load of three-week-old kippers, and, yes, I know they seem to be contractually obligated to run at least three photos of Bono in every single issue (This month: Bono with the President!), but there’s something about that rag that feels good, or wholesome, or something… I don’t know… wait, what’s my point?
Point is, RS used to be the hip-bible; RS had all the cool news fit to print, but now it’s staid and lame like an old uncle who used to be fun but now he’s stuck coughing his lungs up in a recliner made from corporate bureaucracy (don’t get me started). The point is: I still love him for the good times. And there really were some good times! Who do you think published that story about the Mint 400 after Sport Illustrated turned it down in 1971? Rolling Stone did, and that’s a legacy they’ll never tarnish, no matter how many times they run Sting on the cover.
This is all gibberish, of course. Pure waffle to winnow out the non-beleivers, the hangers on, the people with the better sense not to read this far into one of my posts. Now here’s the scoop, and thanks for sticking it out: Rumblings. There’s been some serious rumblings and you can expect to see a new issue soon… and then another, hot on the heels of that one, and then more where that came from. It’s all coming together like the mellon-sized turd that killed Elvis, and it’s good. More soon…
Also worth mentioning: the Lakers kicked Boston’s ass last night in the finals opener. 102-89. Pfff.
Anyway, enough of that. What we’re really here for is BOOK CLUB!
I read that My Cat Spit McGee by Willie Morris and it annoyed the living shit out of me. And I’m a cat person! I think it was the melancholy tone of the whole thing, PLUS he never stopped using the word ‘Domicile’ when he could of just said ‘House’. Irked the hell out of me; moving right along.
A Moveable Feast, Hemmingway… Once again, Ernie’s spare style of writing left me bored. I don’t now how I got through this or any of his books; it’s like eating a bread sandwich. I’m sorry. I know he’s an important literary figure and I’m not worthy of the toenail clippings of the guy who collected Hem’s toenail clippings, but he bores me. Old Man and the Sea worked though; it was fable-like, and I likes me a nice bit of fabling.
That concludes BOOK CLUB!
Have you read something? Was it good? Bounce us a review.
Send your book review to me, the editor, on the contact page.
Oh yeah, there’s still a big hole spewing oil into the Gulf of Mexico… But how about those IPads!!!!