Tuesday, November 27, 2012


I’m thinking of taking morphine. Good idea? If it’s not one pain it’s another, and tonight another muscle in my back is tormenting me, actually spasming. Can’t hardly breathe. Have to hold my breath when I move. Haven’t had that in a while. Maybe I’d better start stretching? It’s been a bad few months, full of mysterious pains and drains. I’ve stopped bjj for a week or so, kept on activating that hip thing. I feel it wanting to be a problem, and I don’t quite know what sets it off, but I’m being careful. Had a for-no-reason muscle issue on the left of my back, now it’s on the right side -- I did 150 ring dips and 300 squats in 16 minutes and 2 seconds, maybe 3, but something amazingly awesome, like the way I am. Now for some reason a specific part of my right latissimus dorsi is spasming. So if you know any cheap drug dealers, let me know -- brother looking to score some pheen.

Fine talented young athlete is doing bjj now, comes from another sport and learns quickly. His father was watching tonight -- shaved head with a tight little ponytail, tats probably, big muscles. I suspect he’s an actor on some toughguy tv show. Big knotty arms, not much in the shoulders. Once you educate your eye, it’s a very odd and disquieting look. I just figured it out: it’s fine if you wear a t-shirt, but not if you wear a wife-beater. Short sleeves, no sleeves. Same thing with pro wrestlers -- big steroidal gym muscles, manly pecs and thick arms, and then these misdeveloped deltoids, all round and aggressive up front from all the benchpressing, and missing in the back. Gym bodies, entirely about appearance, pleasing or intimidating the uninformed eye.

I’m at an age now where I need therapeutic massage. Not sensual. Know anyone with reasonable rates? Need someone to wring the kinks out of me. I’m half calcium by now.

 Something else I wanted to talk about. Now what was it. Something about some huge sexual body part I have? That sounds right. Now what could it be. It had something to do with my thinking about if I were a woman I’d have really large breasts. I mean huge. Like, I cup my hands out in front of me, all the way at the ends of my arms, and that’s how big. Not even useful or attractive. Now what was it. My unit? No, that’s pretty normal, height-weight proportional. Scrote? -- nads? No. Libido? That’s under control, regardless of size. Well it’ll come to me. Nagging me though. Wish I could think of it, cuz it’s of general interest.  Deltoids? No. Glans? epididymis? vas deferens? Ah yes, now I remember. My pubic bone. Huge. Like a bull. Really fills out my chonies. Chicks dig that.

 Now you may suppose that sometimes my discourse becomes silly and unseemly. To this I would reply that every relationship is a compromise involving patience and sacrifice, and you enjoy the benefits while tolerating what you must. Along with the searing political insights and incisive historical analyses and devastating social commentary and rollicking satire you delight in and crave from these pages, you must endure my rampant narcissism and infantile obsession with my intimate body parts. You could start by being grateful that it doesn’t focus on my anus. Would you like me to drag you through that fervid swamp? I didn’t think so. At least a man’s primary genitalia are right out there in the clean and open air. At least mine are, at least when I’m at home. I’m a nudist.

 Every time I’m feeling ready to start some necessary project, I get some injury or find myself mysteriously depleted of vitality.

 The Obama Conjuration has traumatized me. It’s just a betrayal, by a voting majority and a plebiscite via silence, against Americanism. The word for Obama is mountebank. President Oakland -- there is no there there. We, by which I mean you, elected the Wizard of Oz – not the giant papermache head this time, rather the flapping curtain man, revealed, exposed, slight and stammering. It is the product of hope sustained by reality tv, a lottery mentality that imagines success always comes always through undeserved blessings.

 Universally observable human nature is no longer part of the calculus: as with the rest of nature -- say, climate -- saying so makes it so. Like, if communism could work at all, the Soviets, or the Red Chinese, or the Cubans, or the Khmer Rough would have made it work, and the whole world would now be enjoying the Age of the Workers’ Paradise … instead of enjoying a population periodically and cumulatively diminished by several hundreds of millions via Purges and Plans and Great Leaps and Killing Fields. Indeed, a man could fly by flapping his arms, if he could make his arms flap in just the right way.

 Lancelot has a wound, that will not heal, and it will kill him. So much for reality, and for myth.


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