What’s going on?

The last couple of weeks have been almost laughably disastrous:

I spent my birthday evening at small claims court in the Bronx because my doctor’s crooked ex-partner is trying to sue me for money he fraudulently says I owe. The court was adjourned because the slimy plaintiff and I have — duh — conflicting testimony. Unbelievably, I will have to go back. I oddly enjoyed going to the Bronx and hearing the ruggedly exotic Bronx accents; truly otherworldy.

On Sunday an amazing birthday party for me and Kim and Brenda last Sunday, generously DJ’d by Marc Nasdor. This was not disastrous, but a very joyous little respite from what was to come the next day: I was sitting on the couch in the living room watching Pan’s Labyrinth and shuddering, commenting on how gory it was. Gary was sitting at his drawing table organizing his pens, and said a little snidely, “It’s magic realism.” (A genre we have both expressed annoyance with in the past).

I don’t remember exactly how long after he said that — maybe fifteen seconds, maybe two minutes, but certainly not very long after, he let out a horrific AUUGGGHH and I saw a calligraphy pen stuck in the back of his hand like an arrow. He pulled it out. There was blood everywhere. We rushed to the kitchen sink and applied pressure, which helped the bleeding stop, and then got a car service to the E.R., where we waited for hours and Mitch came to distract us for a while. An x-ray revealed that the tip of the pen nib, an malevolent little barbed thing, was stuck deep in Gary’s hand. There was a hand surgeon on duty and he made an incision but couldn’t get it out, so on Wednesday poor Gary had to have real surgery with total anaesthesia. He’s now healing nicely

but in the meantime, I caught a terrible cold. It feels very strange as I haven’t had a cold for about five years. I thought I was above such things. Guess not.


I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help myself: I send people messages on eBay correcting their grammar and spelling mistakes and mistakes I notice on their listings (if, for example, they describe an Indian dress as “Mexican”, or they advertise “flair” pants instead of “flare” pants).

Recently, a garnet ring and earrings set was described as “hugh.” I wrote in saying “‘Hugh’ is a man’s name pronounced like ‘hue’ or ‘hew’; I think you mean ‘huge’.”

I confess that I am completely insane. Is there a word for this particular disorder? (I mean a publishable word — don’t everyone write in saying “asshole.”)

“People are walrus. Fuck ‘em”

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might
like a syrupy, chirping walrus queen
who draws ornate monsters with her eyeliner
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the whisk haven clasp sling stint
urges champ piety chirp pleat posse sunup night.

Sitting on a cornflake,
addicted to eyeliner and pineapples,
a little green puppy with tea-leaf ears
named ryoku was singing oh it’s winter
the sky is clear blue
there are birds chirping and floes melting
goo goo g’joob…

The sea was wet as wet could be.
The pornographic priestess
could not see a cloud, because
of too much eyeliner and the metalocalypse,
Ferrets were flying overhead–
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the syrupy categorizable imperatively
neutralist ineffectually phallocentric myrrh
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
the media art, space diapers, gorno, permanent eyeliners,
hairy teen barmaids, super nudist sodapop, such nice scorpions,
and spectacular nonviolent science

“If seven hairy teen barmaids maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“That they could get it clear? Or at least free of chili, chimes, china, chirps,
psalms, puffy pulses, punky puppies, spunky puppies, and slappy pussy syrup?”
“Peace is shaped like the wind,” said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

“O baby Puffalump puppy, come and walk with us!”
The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach.”
The syrupy pooch had a synapse-blasting effect
like microwave-heated syrup topping on the oyster cake.
He chirped nonsense into their audio receptors, until the
portable soda fountains that run on syrup cartridges
and mockingbird chirps overflowed instead with saline walrus tears.

Oh tawny radiator of tablespoon walrus, synth-pop hip-shaker,
postal service, bambi, husky tuskers, succubus nincompoop stringcheese,
stress puppies, and walrus soulmates, my personality is like a chirping bird!.
“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
prairie dogging like a mouse potato in a cube farm:
The eldest Oyster winked the yellow matter custard from his eye,
climbing up the Eiffel Tower in a coat of napalm syrup.
Global weirding textperts with baby antlers made of sauerkraut, chili,
and hot pepper hurried up,
All eager for the treat – syrupy astral space doom!
post-kinetic environments!–
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn’t any feet.

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes–and ships–and sealing-wax—
corporation t-shirts, wide stances, percussive maintenance,
unwritten laws, velociraptors, vervets, irritainments, vicunas,
vipers, coles, vultures, wagtails, walking fish, wallabies,
fauxhawks, wallarooes, walruses – walri?–
Of cauliflower–and kings–
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And why the sea is boiling hot—
“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And why the sea is boiling hot—
Goo goo g’joob Goo goo g’joob
Goo goo g’joob
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And why the sea is boiling hotttttttttttttttttttttt–