cheese it, the cops!

how-to

loving the female artist is now a personal essay on splice today.

 

devotional fescue

i have a terrifying admission to make: my work is plagiarized from ludwid wittgenstein. that's why my work sucks so bad that it tastes like sperm. (wait does that work? what is sucking, what ejaculating etc in this metaphor? fuck it i just don't care anymore. anyway i plagiarized that from ludwig too, of course.) worse than that, my actual favorite song by the rolling stones, whom - as you know - i have proven mathematically to be the greatest band in history, is this one. i feel that proof of the transcendent greatness of this song - which is transcendently greater than any other song in the very history of songs - is unlikely to emerge through the mathematical disciplines as currently configured, though each of these, of course and incomprehensibly, is a non-denumerably infinite realm. this will certainly require the profound yet logically impossible development of trans-non-adenumerable infinite infinities, or whatever.  fortunately i have some free time, and i'm devoting my next 57 years to scratching futilely, like a cute little kitten, at this impermeable surface. when i get it, as i inevitably shall, i shall dedicate the non-denumerable or entirely nonexistent nobel to jane irish and jane sartwell.

 

christ i had forgotten how hilarious and great this whole album is. you'd think that would be hard when you listen to it twice every day for five years. right now i'm hearing it as their best album, which is ridiculous since i'd also rank sticky fingers as the greatest album in rock history, this one outside the top 50. i have overcome rationality itself and finally realized the teachings of my dear teacher soren kierkegaard. when i was attacking him during his office hours once at the university of beaumont (texas)... man, he was hard to deal with; he'd just sit there laconically, his face invisible underneath that stetson, loading and unloading that fucking colt; like my dearish rorty, he'd just revel in his irrationality, glorying epiphanically in every reductio ad absurdum with which i battered him. that shit sucked too, like..whatevs. but i'm suddenly finding it very encouraging that i can forget literally anything. i used to be able to forget literally nothing.

 

plus i am so over these giant reflections on the whole shape of my life, like out and loving the woman artist: a how-to-guide, though these contain my most beautiful and honest writing (eds.? best am essays, etc?) but that shit is sysiphean or however one might spell that. i'm so over that shit. ok, am i certifiably sane now? then why the rubber room?1

1[did i make up this mode of comedy? absolutely not. it is what is known in theories of hilarity as 'high burlesque.' i have fucking perfected it though.]

 

 

mpdg

i was a sullen, withdrawn young man (ok ok i was pushing 40), and in a quasi-courageous attempt at life-affirmation i married a real-life manic pixie dream girl (ok she was pushing 40 too), indeed a person who for awhile was going to be played by zoe deschanel in the film of her memoir. i came out of the whole thing with a new appreciation for sullen and withdrawn, so it did have a life-affirming effect after all.

romantic love, the obit

i have given up on, or aged beyond, this romantic love thing, and i have placed a moratorium on sex with other people. the whole sex/love conflagration had for me its ecstatic moments, and its decades of pain, rage, obsession. i wasn't good for the women i was with (jamie, rachael, judith, marion, from when i was 15 to 50) and they weren't good for me. i have seen it work out ok; i just haven't seen it work out ok for me. indeed, with the (possible) exception of the deaths of people i loved, it has been by far the source of the greatest pain in my life. i often mutated into an asshole that i myself despised. i was both jealous or controlling and actually betrayed, sometimes for years on end both ways round. i helped produce beautiful children, but you know romantic love is not strictly necessary for reproduction, and my reproductive years are over. anyway, at 55, i am less driven pillar-to-post by sexual desire, which was always to me necessarily connected to romantic love. (i've tried semi-casual sex over the last few years, because there were no other real possibilities, but to me it just seems wrong, not for you necessarily, but for me.) it has been a great relief to me just to give up and chill, despite the fact that i still experience a hole where the love of a good woman should, in my unreality, be. i'm gonna try fill that with asphalt.

no, this is not a plea for a date!

 

 

everyone's a critic

heterosexual romance is difficult for all of us, even billionaires, repulsive mayors of san diego, and dictators. admittedly therapy, anti-depressants, sad country songs, and changing my identity and moving to the yukon have not worked for me. apparently, kim jong-un just takes the direct approach: having his gf and her whole pop group "machine-gunned". how you like me now, baby?

 

 

 

i'm for love

on the other hand, i would try again. and even though the j.geils band was my fave in the 70s (partly because they featured the harp of magic dick), i offer the following reply to crusader. dude, don't turn against valentine's!