They finally got him,

The six of diamonds, that is.

I bet nobody else has a bedroom this cool!

This is the part C-- edited out...and I tend to agree.

A while back I got this itch to start a writing project...a conglomeration of sorts with friends. So I started and the discard from the beginning is presented below. The problem is that I quite like the discard, so it is my hope that you will join me in adding to it; whatever you like, however you like--just add you bit as a comment, we'll see where it goes. R.

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…Somewhere over the Midwest it happened. A child discovered the Father Christmas didn’t really exist; the he was just a figment of some poor bastard’s imagination who liked to rob children of their innocence. That and he liked fragments and run on sentences. I thought about telling the child to cheer up, that things would be better and life would continue for the rest of her existence to let her down. I thought about telling her that it was the small things that mattered and that is where one needed to draw their inner strength from. I wanted to share the picture in my mind of a dew drop on the end of a tree branch at sunrise, the waves crashing on an empty, secluded beach or of wild mustangs running wild across the vast and endless plains of the United States hinterland. I then came to my senses. First, this child had no arms and only one leg. I’m sorry, all my images of serenity and greatness cannot do shit for that poor creature. She was not happy and I understood why. Secondly, nobody respected her. Common folk and caretakers alike treated her like some kind of token freak. Undoubtedly she was but compassion does not require the transfer of idiocy.

The freak child episode, while providing some black comic relief, got me to thinking. And then I was done. Quite honestly I like being done without all the thinking business; it is taxing. So instead I usually chose to consume massive quantities of chocolate candies and ketchup, sometimes together. It has been about 20 years since the freak child with one out of four appendages came into my life and then very quickly out of it. I can’t help but think that she has somehow colored the fabric of my existence much more than I would like to admit.

By now you have probably come to wonder exactly who I am? God, I am a megalomaniac. That is just the problem, so I don’t think I can give you a very satisfactory response; maybe they can. However, for rates and payment options refer to magazine instructions. But regardless of the randomness of my musings I think that a proper introduction is in order. Hi, hello, how are you very well thank you, much obliged to make your acquaintance. Good, now that that is done, I’ll clue you in to my latest adventures in Borneo.

Reset the shot-clock.

My health is on the rebound thanks to the z-pack. The unfortunate side of this blessing will be the requirement that I reenter society, replete with its pleasures and obligations.

There is snow outside. I never spoke much about them but I found the Gates quite fascinating. There are some pictures below. There have been quite a many conversations, had and overheard regarding Christo and Jean Claude’s work in the park. One of the best critiques I heard was that “art is stupid.” The irony killed me. I have no problem with those who don’t understand it, at times it confuses all of us. But stupid?

There are a lot of stupid things and stupid people in this world, but I doubt that art in whatever form it may take ever falls into that category.

So Sean Connery is a bully and HST is dead

I am ill…very, very ill.

The good news is that my many illnesses are slowly decreasing. The decrease, I attribute to my medicine man, witch doctor, and assorted concoctions of hippie medicine—echinecea and vitamin C. The problems associated with being sick are axiomatic even to the blind. For me, being sick is an altogether another affair. As much as I hate not being well, I relish the opportunity to complain. A while ago I mentioned that I could play the part of the aged misanthrope quite well; being sick compounds that talent.

Imagine if you will, me, in all my cheery glory, afflicted and persecuted with common ailments. It is a sad vision, I agree but you must look at it in order to understand the depth of the problem. The first step in our analysis of my infirmities must start with a diagnosis. But how can I be diagnosed for I am no ordinary man? The answer is simple—embellish everything. The second step is much more profound because you have now realized that what I have is not all that different than millions of other people: the flu happens, colds come and go, and obesity is seemingly everywhere. So that’s the problem—the common and the banal cannot be of or part of the R.

On a very light note, consider this: “The Bible tells us the God of this world is the devil. The influence of Satan is the reason 90 percent of the press and Hollywood elite are liberals who vote exclusively for the Democratic Party. The one-minded eagerness of the left to influence the electoral process should act as a warning sign to the conservative base of this nation. You can be a perfectionist and find a hundred things wrong with the Republicans. It is serious error to try compare a floundering friend to a deadly enemy.” Apparently this is another reason to vote republican.

The Park and The Gates

The Park and The Gates

This shit’s definitely Rasputin like.

Like a bad disease I tell you. Yesterday being the Valentine’s day, I proffer this to you, my limited reading public:

To all the girls I've loved before
Who travelled in and out my door
I'm glad they came along
I dedicate this song
To all the girls I've loved before

To all the girls I once caressed
And may I say I've held the best
For helping me to grow
I owe a lot I know
To all the girls I've loved before

The winds of change are always blowing
And every time I try to stay
The winds of change continue blowing
And they just carry me away

To all the girls who shared my life
Who now are someone else's wives
I'm glad they came along
I dedicate this song
To all the girls I've loved before

To all the girls who cared for me
Who filled my nights with ecstasy
They live within my heart
I'll always be a part
Of all the girls I've loved before

The winds of change are always blowing
And every time I try to stay
The winds of change continue blowing
And they just carry me away

To all the girls we've loved before
Who travelled in and out our doors
We're glad they came along
We dedicate this song
To all the girls we've loved before

To all the girls we've loved before
Who travelled in and out our doors
We're glad they came along
We dedicate this song
To all the girls we've loved before

Now that Julio has done my bidding for me I can get on with the more important business of existence…I tell you things have been downright fantastic lately, in a moribund sort of way.

The writing has been lulled to sleep by complacency coupled with an effort to avoid the dangers of constant complaint. Hopefully something more creative will kick in the following days…aside from my general malaise, I have this nagging suspicion that good things are on the horizon.

Ciao.

Precious Moments for the new generation

I need some help

Start donating now...I promise you can come over any time. DONATE.

This is quite funny

This guy has his ducks in a row.

Its all in the family

Let America Be America Again
Langston Hughes
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Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/