So I got rid of the cell phone. Ten years is enough. It used to be a tool, but then I became the tool. Now I’ve outgrown it, adapted and evolved so I don’t need it anymore and left everyone in the dust. People have to fight to get hold of me now. Side note: Watched a cool Liam Neeson–narrated documentary about Darwin, apparently he suffered from acid reflux, too. Also it turns out his ideas are not in fact incompatible with God and Jesus.
Other reasons I got rid of the cell? For one thing (and I know the jury is still out), I have zero interest in getting cancer of the balls. Sex life is hurting enough lately. Nah, actually I got some last night. Screamed. Also tired of texting all the time, receiving texts, anticipating texts, getting excited and disappointed about texts, hearing that text ring go off when I’m watching TV and getting up off the Eames to find out it’s a mass text cleverly disguised as a personal one. Hate the word “text.” Text, text, text, send me a text! Text me!
Could really use some potpourri in my bathroom now. Dropped the kids off at the pool. Gave birth to seven or eight guppies, a great big northern pike and a cigar-shaped UFO.
My favorite Depeche Mode song would be “New Life.” Talked to D. A. Pennebaker about them once and he said the documentary he did on them was about the most fun he’d ever had doing a documentary. Snow White turned me onto the song, danced with her all alone to it in basement of Siberia bar circa ’01. Got no action but she danced real close. These cool slick freaking geniuses are like 18 years old. Tell ya, you’re gonna be tapping your feet, swaying around, nodding your noggin:.
Also wanted to curtail the late nights, which having a cell phone often leads to. Straw that broke the camel’s back happened on a recent Sunday—I was at home, being responsible, doing the dishes, brushing the cat and a text came in from a 19-year-old who wanted to meet me for drinks with her mother. I thought, Well, even though I’m happily engaged, I’m not a man if I pass up this opportunity. Started thinking about how in 1931 Brooke Shields’ grandfather skipped the finals at Wimbledon for a threesome with a mother and her daughter or maybe it was two identical twin countesses. So I went to meet them and had a real nice time but ended up in a bathroom on the Lower East Side with the 19-year-old and two scary ne’er do wells who were trying to shovel some toxic diesely white powder into my nostrils with little sharp knives. I couldn’t do it, I was so terrified! Got home at 6 a.m. and it took three days to fully recover.
The Metropolitan Museum has a bronze version of Degas’ “Little Dancer, Age 14.” Her name was Marie, she was one of “the little rats” at the Paris Opera, whatever. When the sculpture was first displayed, Parisians were horrified, thought she was an ugly, bestial monkey whore with a low primitive forehand. I think she’s pretty cute even though she’s only about 36 inches high. Wouldn’t mind having her running around my pad fixing me coffee and doing pirouettes, long as she kept her mouth shut while I was emailing. Apparently she and her sis were hookers, pimped out by their mother, and Marie made the gossip columns as a girl with loose morals and probably came to a sad end in the gutter. Price of immortality. Here see for yourselves:
Dude, you remember anything from the other night after 3:20? We got into a cab and then what? Did I go by myself? We take a cab together? Only thing I remember is asking Kid Rock about Bob Seger. Remember everything from Rodeo and Emily’s but do not remember much else between 3:30 and 8. Is that called a blackout? I mean I know where I was, but can’t remember too many details.
Oh boy, more Googley nonsense you’ve been polishing up for years in order to impress girls in bars and make dudes feel inferior. Give me a break. What if I was in the woods, set my tape recorder down right next to a tree that was teetering around, about to fall, hit record, then went into town for a snack and came back 45 minutes later? Think there would be a sound.
Quantum whatever is all myth at this point and will probably be totally discredited next year. Its main purpose now is it allows people to show off, feel superior as they hold forth—hey, look at me, I can explain string theory. You may as well have faith in Wicca, or some big tata cult. Not to sound deluded but I’ve always thought I’d make a decent cult leader. I wouldn’t go down the sex and child abuse road, wouldn’t demand too much money (just enough to keep me afloat), wouldn’t mess with minds all the time—I’d be my regular old self. All that would happen is once a month or so I’d send out an email saying “Don’t use Sprint” or “Get rid of your cell phone for six months” or “Don’t Google anything today, use Alta Vista.”
Believe it or not, marriage is not a pressing issue. If it was, she’d be dropping hints all the time, right? She might have mumbled something during the Sex and the City movie.
Cops are awesome in general and so is our military. Side note: figured out a strategy you might want to try with your girlfriend: Be around all the time, drive her crazy, follow her around the pad in your PJs, like an old geezer, and ask “What’s going on now?” “What are we gonna do tonight?” “What’s wrong, what did I do?” “Are you mad at me?” And she’ll beg you to go out and carouse and stay out all night. Works every time.
Well a fair amount of sports fans are ridiculous, like 40 percent. Beginning to think ballet’s something I should know something about, too. All I know is there’s a guy named Balanchine, Nuruyev (sp?), Misha, Merce, Peter Martins and Darci Kistler and Karole Armitage, whose father taught me biology. Had to take it at Kansas U to get into UVM, but fell in love with a girl and decided to stay at KU. Two months later she goes, “If you call me again I’m calling the police!”
Think I’m too stoned to work out. Hope my guy has weaker weed next time. Side note: anyone seen The 400 Blows? Whatta masterpiece.
Going to Met today, buying a $60 membership, which gets you unlimited visits for a year and other perks. Same basic price as sushi dinner at Hatsuhana, four drinks at the Beatrice, entry into cheap boomie massage joint, a month of unlimited 8 netflixes at a time.
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