Hookers or Cake

Where the self-obsessed get serious about silly
I'm too wacky to be hip.

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    • ------------------------------------- How this blog got its name

      ------------------------------------ There was a large painting of Evel Knievel shaking hands with Richard Nixon. It hung in the Mayors office. Late one evening after everyone went home. I took it down to the lab. I zoomed in on Evel’s left eye a 100x and enhanced it. It was an address. I went to the address. It was a modest, 1970’s style, split level ranch home in the suburbs.

      ----------------------------------- Inside I found a dead parrot lying on a waterbed. I revived the parrot with some saltines and adrenaline. We became good friends. The parrots name was Randy. One night a few years later while Randy and me played Gin Rummy, he sang me a song about a fire. The title of this blog was never mentioned but I sensed it, and Randy confirmed it by giving me ‘THE LOOK’.

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          • June 8, 2012 1:01 am
            I see people crying about Ray Bradbury and other writers and artists dying, fuck that. I understand crying over someone you know dying, but an artist? Take John Coltrane for instance. He was an incredible artist, transcendent in that he mastered his art and took it apart in the name of love. His art lives forever and nurtures damnable fools like me. Think of what he got to do and be. Pouring every bit of himself into his passion - immolation into the heart. So don’t mourn the dead artist, they and their art is immortal. Mourn the poor sad fucks that never once broke open and spilled all their love and fear, those that never had the guts to come undone for anyone or thing. Mourn their wasted sad fucking excuses for never having any goddamn guts. Or finding anything that meant enough to them that they would risk humiliating themselves or looking a stupid fool. Cry for them, because they never even lived.

            I see people crying about Ray Bradbury and other writers and artists dying, fuck that. I understand crying over someone you know dying, but an artist?

            Take John Coltrane for instance. He was an incredible artist, transcendent in that he mastered his art and took it apart in the name of love. His art lives forever and nurtures damnable fools like me. Think of what he got to do and be. Pouring every bit of himself into his passion - immolation into the heart. So don’t mourn the dead artist, they and their art is immortal. Mourn the poor sad fucks that never once broke open and spilled all their love and fear, those that never had the guts to come undone for anyone or thing. Mourn their wasted sad fucking excuses for never having any goddamn guts. Or finding anything that meant enough to them that they would risk humiliating themselves or looking a stupid fool. Cry for them, because they never even lived.

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