Let's Get Ready to Rumble...

Let's not. My mother told me never to rumble. Distract. Then back cautiously away.

Live to pule another day.

I am living on zombie time. Or Tokyo time. Or something.

I sleep like my cat Dru now. Dru has a Hollywood regimen. Hollywood in its seventies. You know. The cushy, dying part.

Nobody hand me a baby.

Because I've been dropping things all week. That's not something I do. I don't drop things. Ask my ex.

I get so pissed when that happens. There was this plastic cup that was in the dish drainer and it was acquiring an elliptical shape at the top (instead of its normal circular mouth) because of heavy dishes pushing on it. So I grabbed this deformed cup out of pity and like a pro bono plastic surgeon doing a reality show I reshaped it, and poured a lot of milk in it, and I was rushing to get back upstairs to catch the continuation of this TRU tv show focusing on a sleazeball who killed his girlfriend and was now on trial. I was dying to find out if the jury was "having it" (they weren't, thank god) because on that t.v. I can't scroll backwards like the big one downstairs. And if you don't get upstairs you never know. If the polecat got away with it. Or not.

So I was rushing to hear this guy get sentenced and hopefully get the death penalty and I dropped the still partially elliptical cup of milk (this made it harder to hold) and it hit the floor sideways with force and a tsunami of milk splashed up on my clothes and sloshed across the kitchen floor.

So I quickly took off my lounge pants (well, this is really starting to look sad, isn't it? it was 3 a.m.!!! 3 a.m. dude! dudess whatever! lounge pants are okay then!) and realized I had to use them to mop this up because....oh just because....paper towels don't cut it and I'm not using a bath towel and oh...it was just containment frenzy....

So I did that....got the mop for the rest and mopped the floor...threw all my clothes in the washer (even my draws was milky) and hunted down other stuff to make a full load and that's when I found this green sweater.

So I wanted to say. I like this green sweater.

It's Aeropostale, but it doesn't say that on it anywhere obnoxiously where you can read it as some annoying Aeropostale clothing does.

It's a nice shade of green. I think it's kelly green...no kelly green is bright..well spruce anyway...are they even similar? No, they are not.

The color of the sweater is like if kelly green decided to move in with spruce green, because it sort of trusted spruce green at this point and figured it wouldn't have to accomodate all that much really, and spruce green has a nice fridge and appliances and kelly green could use these things right now.

So kelly green is a whore.

But what happened is instead of kelly green managing to brighten spruce green, spruce green darkened kelly green and now kelly green feels like it doesn't know itself anymore.

That old story.

So kelly green is going to fuck another color soon.

That's the color of this sweater.

I like it. It's comfortable.

I am wearing a green lantern t-shirt under this unhealthy-relationship-colored sweater.

When Lee asks if I've seen his Green Lantern t-shirt, I say "I don't think so."

Is that bad?

I'm not technically lying because the sweater is covering it. I can't really see it.

I believe one should always dress in layers.

Like deception wrapped up in candor wrapped up in ulterior motives.

There is one dumb thing about this sweater. There is piping. Don't worry: it's subtle it's not like the sweaters single women who live in craft stores wear. The piping doesn't look like long lines of toothpaste. But the piping should have had some sort of sleeving material on the inside of the sweater so one isn't so sensitive to it and mindful of it.

That's where the Green Lantern comes in. Gay superheroes Battle Piping.

The other things I dropped in the past few days are a shrimp wheel (with cocktail sauce in a little cup in the center!!!) and a cup of ice tea.

If I were an Irish potato farmer in 1848, I'd probably be looking around me to see who's going to die.

But let's not go there.

That's a movie cliche. Did you ever notice that? Something drops and shatters when someone dies, or when someone tells someone over the phone that someone has died, or when Stephen J. Hawking is talking about the probable irreversibility of time in a documentary.

I don't believe it. Things go backwards all the time. It's a fact.

I was reading Banana Yoshimoto in the tub again.

She clears my head.

I know it's fashionable to make fun of her writing, but I don't. I love what I've read so far.

She's like the Target store of literature.

Not the shit they sell as literature at Target. She's like the store itself.

Like the store itself at 9:48 when it's a ghost town and I love to "shop" then because there's this entire city of objects and it's only for me now because everybody thinks this store closes at 9 p.m. but it doesn't. It doesn't. It closes at 10 p.m. suckers...it's all mine....I won't buy anything but I feel like I've gotten something for free.

Like I've rented this huge space and didn't have to pay. I must have had a coupon or something.

It's a great feeling.

I'm easily amused. Although you wouldn't believe it to hear me complain. But that's just the background radiation. Even the universe has background radiation. That's the static between the channels you hear on your radio.

Sometimes I think this mindset we all have in America right now that it's the end of the world but the world might be starting over in a different way is very healthy.

It's a good time to die.

If you die when you feel great things are coming, its like you died in a good movie.

A sense that things are really going to change. "Possibly maybe," to quote the poet Bjork.

America might actually become more Scandinavian.

And that would be like so awesome.

I had to go out last night. Lee let me take his car because it was too dark and cold to scrape ice off my windshield.

He's sick, the dear.

That sounded really octogenarian faggy.

I know, I know.

Anyway, we had this dumb argument that lasted about seventy-seven seconds that went something like this.

Lee Asleep in Bed: What?!?

Me in Room across the Hall: Where are the fucking lights on your car?

Lee: They are on the....on the....

Me: Where?

Lee: I told you!

Me: Where are the LIGHTS on your car? I can never find them and I don't know where the dome light turns on either so I'm totally blind. I'll spend an hour searching with my hands and no eyesight.

Lee: Yes.

Me: NO!! Where are the fucking lights, Lee. It's a simple question.

Lee: It's one...I'm asleep...

Me: Please!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST TELL ME WHERE THE LIGHTS ARE...ARE THEY ON THE HANDLE DOOHICKEY COMING OFF THE STEERING COLUMN OR ARE THEY IN THE DASHBOARD?

Lee: I forget. They're on the....I don't know...I just turn them on when I get in the car.

Me: I'm going to have a fucking nervous breakdown. DASH OR DOOHICKEY!?!

Lee: They're on the doohickey. I forget. I'm asleep.

Me: Thank you (the images of Tatar slaughter in my head begin to break up like a soft cloud at evening).

Bank. Liquor Store. CVS to get him cough syrup. Dollar store for great synthetic food.

"My cheap lifestyle." To quote the poet Eileen Myles.

Oh, the Sirius comes on automatically. I change it to my channel. It beeps to let me know a good Smiths song is on. We go there.

Lee's car is flashy. I drive an old boat of a car like the 70 year old Jewish ladies drive. I believe this is called being a good husband. The old Jewish ladies and I smile at each other across the liquor store parking lots. We do that all summer long. We bond without words.

The Jewish ladies weren't out tonight. It's icy and dark and they're drunk and watching Bewitched or something. Life is merciful.

At least my car is made out of metal not plastic.

Home again, home again, Jiggity Jigg.

Like the little troll dolls say in Blade Runner. I say that too.

That man needs sleep.

I shouldn't bother him so.