February 1st, 2009 ..i hand my dog a big dog biscuit.
he grabs it in his teeth and throws it across the room. we both watch
it sail, fall to the floor and break into two pieces then slide till the
pieces come to rest.
maxx looks back at me.
i hand him another bone.
he takes it and walks to where the two pieces are and lays down next to then and eats both bones.
he has me well-trained.
from the brain-memory glossary;
2 – Attention – The focusing of mental processes on particular environmental stimuli.
“While i thought i had maxx’s attention when i handed him the first bone, he got my attention when he threw it across the room.”
there. i posted a “glossary” word and used it in a sentence.
i got that out of the way “real quick.”
i posted a link about that phrase above. it’s interesting. i bastardize
the english language enough on my own and want to acknowledge the
ongoing evolution of words and phrases out there, in that universe of
these are photos of places that i look at differently since being told
(by the lizard who wore madoff’s son’s suit) that the lizard that
looked like omar sharif and sounded like eduardo cianelli was
“underground, literally,” that caused me to look at the
parking-lot-blacktop as differently as i look at these photos.
i took these photos as i was walking back, anticipating a meeting with
one of the lizards here when i got back to the parking lot.
three cars drove as i was heading back with maxx, with the driver of
a silver dodge PT Cruiser giving me the “look.” i wonder where the
lizards got their “human” facial expressions from?
that’s the first thing i’ve gotten to notice about them.
their slightly-awkward manner of human mimicry; their study is thorough
enough, but the muscular construction underneath their lizard-skin is
tighter than a human’s, making it seem that everyone who had become a
lizard-in-a-suit had the same plastic surgeon as joan rivers and mickey
rourke. if you look closely, you can see who’s the “suit” and who’s
still human. at least i can. i’ve been hanging with these guys a while.
the “40-ish” woman, as she drove past, craned her head down at the neck
and seemed to be giving be trying to give me a “hard” look. that eye to
eye sort of thing commonly used in conspiratorial settings.
what i got was more along the lines of a “fish-eye,” something
closer to this;
but not quite this;
alright. maybe i’m having a little trouble explaining this “look”
let’s just say, that it’s not “human” or maybe my “hackles were up” and
maybe it’s more about my humanity letting me know who was or wasn’t.
maybe i needed to know if they knew that i knew.
when i got to the parking lot, the car was there and the window opened.
the first thing the woman said to me was “yes, to that last thought you had…the knowing thing. ok?”
“ok” i said, “but i have got to know what’s up with that merrill-lynch shitheel.”
“oh, he’s one of ours.” she said, “we got him when you said – the day
he signed the deal with back of america. we got them both. my associate
who dined on him was very pleased with his texture, but he felt there
was something “alien” about him, too.”
“well, who are you anyway?…i mean, who were you before…” i trailed off.
“remember that woman who wrote that dear john thain letter that made you so upset?”
“hell yeah” i said.
“that was her last letter… and i want to thank you for your critique on
our imperfect underlying musculature. funny how you mention it and
there’s a clear indication of that in the press photo of john thain,
yet you thought he was an alien.”
“well, he does look alien, no?” i protested, “anyway, why did you
people tell me that there’s aliens here that are using humans as
“because they are,” she said, “humans are very low wattage, but you’re batteries nonetheless.”
“this is fucked-up,” i said. i felt really small. i felt like a bug.
“it’s ok” she said. “i’m sorry all of this seems to be ganging up on
you, but you can’t take this at all personally. it’s been this way for
a long time. you wanted to know. now you know. we’re part of your
culture.what’s the difference? don’t humans plug light fixtures into
“that’s different,” i mumbled, “we’re not potatos”
this is my life. we’re as insignificant as potatos, i thought.
i peered out to sea.
there’s that container ship out there. is it the same one from back
when i was given those great binoculars the first time i spoke to that
eduardo cianelli-sounding lizard almost a year ago?
how much has happened since then. it’s sure amazing, life on this planet.
it’s like a coney-island roller coaster;
at this point, i feel more like this coney island roller coaster;
and this roller-coaster is gone.
why did this moment remind me of mort sahl?
maybe there’s a synapse firing, causing a connection like, “oh, i
remember when mort sahl and me were in the same place.” by the way, it
was the word “synapse” that caused me to google search that which
resulted in the brain and memory “glossary” i’ve begun to incorporate
into my notes here.
is the helpless feeling i have right now a direct link to mort sahl and me in the same room?
well, not exactly the same room.
he was in the main room of Caroline’s Comedy Club, back when it was
located on something like 27th street and eighth avenue in NYC.
a short time after my firing from the be bop cafe, i got a phone call from my friend
artie (who also got fired from the be bop). he hooked onto a gig at this
place, caroline’s and told me that they needed a service bartender.
i knew this place. i saw pee wee herman and sandra bernhard perform
there some two-plus years earlier. now i was about to sling drinks
here. OK, i thought. i can do this.
then they said, “follow me” and i walked with some guy into the kitchen
where there was a stainless-steel dishwasher where they made a makeshift
service“bar” of sorts.
i worked in a restaurant kitchen when i was 14 years old.
i was a busboy, dishwasher, pantry man, frycook, broilerman, expediter.
i learned how to drink dewars white label.
i worked with willie settles and freddy turner.
i was a white spot in a black kitchen.
i did it through high-school and it afforded me cash enough to buy and drive english sportscars at the age of 17.
back here in a kitchen at the age of thirty-two, maybe the luster had worn off.
with all that stainless-steel around me, maybe i felt the failure of a giant stride backward.
maybe i understood that i may have never taken a step forward.
outside, in the main bar area, i heard the sound of weekend dates and laughter.
soon after, it moved to the room with the stage and i heard the place
become quiet with lighting changes showing itself through the diamond
window into the kitchen where the waiters and waitresses would begin to
appear and start ordering drinks in rapid order.
there would be two shows this night, with the second starting at 11pm.
with the show charge and the two-drink minimum, the first five minutes
were hectic, then the show started and i heard the legendary satirist
launch into his stuff.
a waiter came in with time to kill and we chatted idly with the subject
of drinks coming up. i casually mixed myself a “salty dog” or was it a
“greyhound?” vodka, grapefruit in a salt-rimmed glass? i poured one for
the waiter and a waitress came in and joined us.
i no longer cared to hear…who was that comedian? i poured myself another….
i remember being led out the front door.
i never made it to the 11 0’clock show.
artie stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into my pocket and put me in a cab.
he was angry and disgusted.
and that was that.
drunk, i was like a sack of potatoes in the back of that cab.