ooby dooby and the early car that drives the worm

Today my favorite sound is Roy Orbison singin’ "Zig Zag" to me. Boy does it please me. Let’s hear it again. Again. Let’s drown in its dancing catch the woman next door to me who continues to complain in her loud Jersey voice day after fucking day. Heck, let’s just drown the woman next door.*


Let the fractaled brain muse:

There just isn’t time or belly enough to drink orange juice and soy milk on nights when the contract with the wine god is active.

Today I gave the doctor a poem and gained 20 years on my life. He exists independent of time.

Secretaries don’t have time to be nice to patients on the phone.

If weeks expanded within themselves infinitesimally, then piles of papers would become house plants.

In the end, time-dependent association between indices of iron store and mortality in hemodialysis patients is really what gets my reels to reeling.

Some people never get around to it.

In the words of my roommate, One can always use a handjob.

Everything will be all right. (People repeatedly need to hear this.)


Let’s go places:

Make time this Saturday, Jan 21, for The Teenage Prayers at The Knitting Factory.

The Supreme Court leaves it up to state to decide whether to allow assisted suicide.

Get a grip, Mr Cruise.

Farmer’s wife breaks husband’s penis. She was that hot.

Man mistakenly declared dead loses job. An old article, but still—What’s up with people mistakenly being declared dead? Trust nothing.

*I didn’t mean that.