Futile Horn

10.22.2003 - 6:53 am (tequila for libations to the bowels)

I spent the entire weekend in the Bronx, so my mood has darkened considerably. I've the smell of baking bread and a purple sky, but otherwise it's intolerable.

I used the recess in the World Series to look for a new cafe downtown. I found a place where the coffee was good but I was forced to sit at what was really an end table I couldn't put my feet under. I read Horace by candlelight, which wasn't nearly as romantic as it sounds.

For Halloween a skeleton hung by a broken neck over the counter. Blood dripped from its chest and groin, and from the left hand dangled a china cup. Broken-hearted bones-on-the-rag finally lynched for treachery against the Republic of Tea. I tried to convince myself there was some delightful perversity to this image, but I surrendered it to my demented subconscious only to have it churn out nothing. I felt betrayed really.

Nothing about Halloween is ever as scary as the sombreroed, bandoleered death riders you must face in Mexican restaurants before you can use the shitter. It's one thing to plague an innocent man's bowels in the name of sustenance; it's another to laugh at him with a vacant skull afterward.

I'm sure there was something else I had to say, but it'll have to wait till I am awake.

Born to play the funky céilí,
Futile Horn