Futile Horn

02.22.2003 - 3:44 am (who was in the zone?)

This morning I woke up, jerked off, and went to take a shower, and there was some kind of roach or waterbug the size of Detroit waiting in the tub. I stared at it for a few minutes, got dressed again, went upstairs to fetch some roach spray, and then I gave it a good talking to. It scurried about, then flipped onto it's back and went into its death throes. I was kind of impressed by how semetrical it went; the feelers both kind of pealed over at the same time. For a moment there was something eerily awesome about watching a death I was responsibly for, and I wondered if perhaps on some level I should feel guilty or at least sorrowful, but I looked at the heinous bastard for a few more moments, and I felt anything with a head that much smaller than its body really needed to be offed.

Of course after the intruder was duly flushed, I realized my tub was full of roach spray. It needed to be cleaned. I just didn't wake up prepared for that kind of house work.

After I showered I cleaned out my hairbrush. I pulled damn near a full head of hair out of that thing. Tribbles, folks.

Today the rerun of the PRI show, Mountain Stage, had that Del Fuegos guy. Dan Zanes. He sang:

No sky burst into flame
Rocks did not melt
But that's just about the way I felt

I've been listening to John Coltrane's Sun Ship all day. The more that tenor sax sounds like flatulence, the more it moves me. Anyway, one of these days I shall articulate it's appeal for me.

Since I've been playing my unyielding acoustic guitar, the callouses on my fingers have tripled in thickness. I've no fingerprints anymore. I can commit any crime I want as long as I do it left handed. That's the hand I use to... well... nevermind.

I was going to run away tonight and spend the evening in blissful solitude reading/writing on the lower east side when I got a phone call informing me that my friends were supposed to go out to celebrate my friend's recent engagement. Sigh, surely I must conform. We went up to Westchester County, which is one of my least favorite places on earth. To protest I went with two days stubble and some dirty denim over a Pinky and the Brain T-shirt. Eugene picked me up far too early, so we went out and I got some black bean tacos. Mmm. Beans. Girls were dancing on the bar, but five hours was more than I could take. I refused to drink because I could kind of sense that I would have gone from zero to asshole in three beers. The last time I was out with these folks I got my sorry ass bounced into the street. The scars from that one still hurt when I touch them.

It is supposed to rain tomorrow and melt the copious amounts of snow we have on the ground. I never shoveled out the stairwell my door is at the bottom of, and if the drain can't handle all the water, I fear I shall be flooded. Well. It would serve me right, wouldn't it?

Born to play the funky céilí,
Futile Horn