Haven’t written here for well over a month, except to just post a music video or two. It’s too much effort to act like I want to put shit out in front of people. You know, the old give and take between self-love and self-loathing, between knowing that you have the ability and knowing that it is so absolutely inept and useless, it has been done better by others and continues to be done better by others. Wishing my hobby was music, so that I could only entertain myself alone (ha ha, he said “entertain myself alone”), because I’d be less likely to put something on the internet musically unless I thought it sounded really, really good. “Blog-shit,” who fucking cares? Put it out there. So then I guess it’s laziness, apathy, and general lack of wanting to. I know how to use a computer keyboard, though, while a piano keyboard or guitar or whatever, I’m only ever in the rudimentary stages of. Typing’s pretty easy.
Any aspiring writer needs to keep a little notebook also, unless they have better recall than I, to just scribble down ideas before they flit away like a homely, scraggly-haired little bird that was shitting all over your front steps till you shooed it off. I mean, you could at least write about shooing the fucking bird off your deck, not just forget about it and not write about anything, you lazy hippie. You could write (yes it’s fiction, goddamnit) about strangling the baby bird with one hand while the other hand was…. and people would laugh over the absurdity of the joke, hopefully, and know that you didn’t actually touch birds that way. Or yourself, under the flagpole, on the front mini-deck step area, that the little bastards keep shitting on, because there’s plenty of rooms in the mobile home for that, whether you’re thinking of baby birds or maybe of women at the climactic moment, you inventive eccentric hippie.
If you thought of baby birds at some moments, and of women at others, you could call yourself an eclectic fantasizer, I suppose. Except that, if you ever call yourself eclectic, I think you have to then call yourself pretentious too. It’s fine to call others eclectic, it seems to me, but if you call yourself that, it’s sort of snooty-sounding, don’t you think? “I have varied tastes in literature” is more down-to-earth than “my reading tastes are eclectic,” don’t you think?
Speaking of preferences, people speak of how incorrect it is that we talk of “homophobia,” which implies fear of gays. This brings to mind roving gangs of toughs who are all gay, who hang out in big cities and bully lone, vulnerable straight guys for fun. The straight guy is bar-hopping, looking for his friends or for the wrong woman, and notices the group of snappily-dressed young men across the street. He tries in vain to not gain their attention, but it’s too late.
“Hey, straight-boy, where’re you headed?”
“Hey, he-man, who dresses you–your mechanic? It sure as fuck ain’t your tailor.”
“The 1970s called; it wants its eyeglasses back.”
The straight guy tries to ease away quietly, but to no avail. The gang scampers across the street and surrounds him. They begin an elaborate ritual, spinning around Mr. Fashion Criminal and taking turns slapping him across the face, in a choreographed routine which reminds passersby of the old films of railroad trackworkers who stand in a circle around a spike and time their sledgehammer strikes so that the spike is constantly being driven in. On the last spin around him, the last gay gang guy would slap the victim in the back instead of the face, as if to say, “Okay, go on now, just dress better next time,” while actually slapping a sticker on his back that said “I Was Bitch-Slapped by the 5th Street Fashion Police For My Crimes Against Good Fashion Taste.”
There, I wrote something.
Contrary to popular belief, this is not the 5th Street Gang:
Is “honoring” the right word? I like the announcer’s voice, though.