sometimes people ask if they can

guest-write a post on the busblog.

usually i say no. for kitty bukkake i say yes. always

Hi Tony, thanks for having me over.

I bought gray-blue corduroys and picked up takeout special from Hard Times Pizza, and here, in the new pants, I’m trying to eat dinner at my desk in my emptyish apartment, alone, with a cold.

I don’t even want pizza, but I couldn’t stomach lunch. Don’t feel like running either. Hard Times.

A crap year for my family, 2003.

So much, my superstitious mother won’t say goodbye at the end of a phone conversation. Only buona sera. She has been calling every night to see whether I’ve recovered yet, from this and that. Tonight I picked up as I came through the door, having just driven home through Griffith Park while the DWP was testing the light festival. I sobbed the distance.

Sorry but I did.

She asked what was wrong. “Same as yesterday Ma, but with holiday anxiety.” I have presents I can’t give. Things could be good but they aren’t.

I have an art career I would envy if it weren’t my own, but I still can’t get out of bed until twenty minutes before I have to be at my job. When I am sad I can either eat or sleep but not both. This time I sleep.

I wish I could talk to my Dad too, for some unconditional love, male perspective. There’s a fantasy. He’ll be 60 next week. I will call him. I will hold my breath for the duration. If I could just call Garrison Keillor, or Harrison Ford instead. Or Dr. Phil or Ellen. I don’t know.

Here’s a reality show: Suicide Island. Seven contestants, each on an island, alone.

Last one to kill himself dies.

Rusty told me I would not have survived the year if it had come four years ago. There’s my Thanksgiving toast. No, I’ll say I found a ten-dollar bill on the street last week, because that’s also true. And my life got bigger this year. I am grateful for that and the ten bucks.

I just went to Amoeba and spent more money, I had to get out of the house, in my pants, it’s not retail therapy, I haven’t done that in years. Got some Peaches, got some Wilco, some Elliott Smith, Kings of Convenience, Paula Kelley, got X’s Los Angeles reissued with bonus tracks.

Have I told you I have the greatest friends? Nope, still Kitty. Tony has them too. Mine are on grief detail. They are better than Dr. Phil.

“You can’t make a dog behave like a chicken no matter how much corn you feed it.” Right? We are what we are and that’s all. But I like dogs and chickens.

And corn.

Corny corn, like silver linings and hope and the magic of affection and endurance.

Love just don’t quit, so hard to see from where we sit.

Buona sera,


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