The other day I was wondering aloud about the differences and similarities between the rock and roll interview and its "literary" counterpart. This breezy profile of Ron Howard's wife Cheryl, who (like Linda Bruckheimer and Gigi Grazer) is a budding Hollywood Wife Novelist, is another case in point.
I'm familiar with the scenario: a pleasant, fluffy, vapid journalist conducts a pleasant fluffy vapid interview, which is then turned into a barely-veiled hatchet job designed to leave the impression that you're the one who is fluffy and vapid.
I admit, it's hard not to join in to the spirit of the thing. Cheryl's quotes are pretty funny, and rich people are always fair game. She has gazillions of dollars, plus "assorted donkeys and minihorses" to console her if the literary thing doesn't work out. I'm with the New Yorker on this one, trust me: I hate rich people and their god-damn minihorses, too.
The New Yorker lady's wry mockery can be kind of funny, also:
If Grazer, who writes kicky social comedy (her book “The Starter Wife” comes out in June), is the Jane Austen of the group, and Bruckheimer, who favors steel-magnolia family sagas (“The Southern Belles of Honeysuckle Way”), is the Rebecca Wells, then Howard, who has red hair and a warm, can-do nature, could be called the movement’s Graham Greene.
I'm pretty sure Cheryl Howard's book isn't my cup of tea, and I doubt I'll end up reading any of The Movement's literary output. I kind of feel for her, though: I'm sure she won't like that Graham Greene crack. Or maybe she will. It might make a good blurb.
Anyhow, one thing is clear: you can't get away from that "what are your influences?" question. It's always the first one. Cheryl Howard's are "Stephen King, Robert Ludlum, James Clavell, and Nelson DeMille, along with Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky."
I think it's usually best just not to answer that question, actually.
A Russian circus plans to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the end of the Second World War by having monkeys dressed as Nazis.
Anatoly Marchevsky, director of the Yekaterinburg circus, said he had first wanted leopards to be the Nazis but that it was easier to design and fit costumes for monkeys.
"You can't dress a horse like a Nazi. Leopards are carnivores and they fit ideally when it comes to representing aggressors. People see Nazis as beasts anyway," Marchevsky said.
According to Mosnews, the wartime re-enactments will feature both people and animals.
To mark the taking of the Reichstag, a tightrope walker will hoist a Soviet banner across the big top.
From Craig's List/NY, under the title "Why, God, Why..."
Why is CL Women Seeking Men flooded with whores all of a sudden. Don't you skanks know there's a section just for you? Wake up, asking for "arrangements" and "sugardaddies" makes you worse than a whore because it means you lie to yourself as well as other.
In conclusion, GO AWAY WHORES!
(via Joanne Jacobs.)
This interview with the chief executive for the Corporation for Public Broadcasting confirms what I probably should have suspected all along: the people who run PBS aren't actually that into TV and don't spend much time watching their own programming. When you think about it, is there any other way to explain all those ten-and-a-half hour John Bradshaw marathons?
...coupled with a weakness for women and Champagne.
The best obituary I've read in a while, of the 10th Earl of Shaftesbury. Excerpt:
On his 9,000-acre estate at Wimborne St Giles, Dorset, he planted more than a million trees and, in 1992, was joint winner of the Royal Forestry Society's National Duke of Cornwall's Award for Forestry and Conservation. He also served as president of the Hawk and Owl Trust and as vice-president of the British Butterfly Conservation Society.
It was said, after his mysterious disappearance from a Cannes nightclub, that the 10th Earl, like Gladstone, had been devoting himself to helping vulnerable young girls working in nightspots on the French Riviera to start new lives. But as the mystery deepened, it seemed that his interest was more than merely philanthropic.
Indeed, Lord Shaftesbury had always exhibited a weakness for exotic women...
He became a familiar figure in some of the loucher nightspots on the French Riviera, where he cut a curious figure in leather trousers, pink shirts and large red-and-black spectacles; he was notable for his habit of flashing his money around as he bought drinks for a succession of nubile female companions.
Maureen Dowd phones it in from Rome, with a lazy compare-and-contrast between the Pope and Dick Cheney. This just in: "the new pope views the Roman Catholic Church as the one true religion." No way.
I've done hundreds, if not thousands, of rock and roll interviews over the years. They're pretty easy. The first question is usually "what are your influences?" Then they ask what your favorite breakfast cereal is, and maybe something about Star Wars. They may, though this is optional, ask you to specify your favorite Monkee. (NB: the correct answer is always Mike.) They'll want to know what you think of some band you never heard of that is apparently on MTV all the time. You'll be asked if you're bitter about the fact that there are people out there who are more famous than you. Eventually, they'll say they don't like your latest album as much as the other ones and give you an opportunity to apologize.
I haven't done any "literary" interviews yet, obviously. If I ever do any, I suppose I'll learn soon enough where the overlapping areas are. Those will be the easy ones. And I guess at some point I'll figure out the right way to answer questions like this:
To me, language is a plastic Buddha from a five-and-dime store: it evokes, it triggers, but, without proper mindfulness, it’s just another thing to dust. How do you, as a writer, crawl inside of it? Shake it around? Spin the cylinder and feel its kick?
I just completed yet another step in the book publishing process: reviewing the copyedited manuscript. They print out your book, and an anonymous copyeditor goes through it and makes corrections and notes about style, continuity, grammar, discrepancies, factual accuracy, etc. Then you and your regular editor review the marked up copy and decide which changes to accept and which questions require an answer, a change, or another kind of action.
If you disagree with a change, you "stet" it, which means you write the word "stet" ("let it stand" in Latin) over the copyeditor's note. Then you circle it heavily and, on occasion, particularly towards the end where you're getting tired and punchy, angrily or with a slightly impish, stick-it-to-the-man attitude. I don't know about you, but being an "author" can bring out levels of immaturity I didn't know I had - even more than those revealed by being a "musician." My editor and I did it over the phone, going over the four hundred or so marked-up pages one by one, saying "stet" back and forth to each other. It took around four hours.
"Can't we just, like, stet the whole thing?" I said, at around Hour Two. I was picturing a giant "omni-stet, pp. 1 and following" scrawled on the title page.
But no, you have to do them one by one. Otherwise it makes a mockery of the whole stetting institution.
In fact, though, the copyeditor did catch quite a few things. She corrected my French, caught a Latin typo, and flagged an inaccurate biblical chapter and verse citation, among other things. I'm grateful for anything that stands a chance of making me look like less of an idiot; and a staff of trained professionals is a means to that end that I've never had till now. It fosters an extremely unfamiliar (for me) sensation of confidence, at least when it comes to grammar and the correct spelling of the title of this or that Funkadelic album.
It's a pretty weird situation all around when you think about it, though. You don't know the copyeditor and are never likely get to know the copyeditor. As far as I know, you never hear the copyeditor's responses to your responses to the copyeditors comments; and I kind of doubt the copyeditor ever finds out what your responses were. (They could read the finished book when it's done, I guess, but, well, would you? I can't imagine it.) My copyeditor left a few clues about his or her personality inadvertently in his or her notes, but he or she is basically a cipher.
One needs to be fairly neurotic to copyedit—you have to be willing to spend time worrying about whether something’s a restrictive participle or a nonrestrictive one, and you actually have to care. Relatedly, it has to make a difference to you whether the name of the song is “I Want to Hold You Hand” or “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.”
Otherwise, I never would have known that Young Loud and Snotty doesn't actually contain any commas.
This letter, written in pencil and green ink on two stapled sheets of notepaper, appears to be a report to a schoolteacher from someone who was charged with supervising the class one day. Perhaps a substitute, a student teacher, or other student/babysitter type? Found in Oakland.
Today was an interesting day!
The first period, that is, the period before recess, the kids were relatively well-behaved and hard-working. There were, of course, a few exceptions.
After recess, the kids were out-of-control - disobeying my requests/orders, talking over me, getting out of line, shoving, pushing, in a few cases, punching. Only about 5 - 10 kids were behaving well. The principal came out and order was established. Sort of.
To make a long story short, the rest of the day was fairly chaotic until the last hour. One child made a threat towards me, and several kids constantly disobeyed or backtalked towards me. The principal had to be called again, and after 6 or so
childrenkids were taken out, things were much more under control and some work andlearning werewas accomplished.
The general attitude among the kids, with maybe 5 exceptions, was simply that they were going to get away with as much as they could get away with for the day. And in a few cases, this included hurting me verbally and even physically ([illegible - looks like either "in secret" or "I'm scared" -- ed.]).
Some of the kids did very well and were quite helpfull.
Most, weI only say this because it doesn't make much sense, to me, to punish the entire class for everything that happened today. Like I saidTo repeat, a few kids were well behaved and helpful.
Anyways, Here are some specifics. ---> See next page.
Ammeenah: was disruptive and
beganverbally threatened me; e.g., "and my father will come and kick your..." Also threatened me along with two other girls - do not remember who, whenwhen she came back to pick up her belongings. (E.g., paraphrasing, "we will make up stuff about you and sue you.")
Damian, Karrel, Shaniqua: Repeatedly did not follow instructions, requests, or orders. Repeatedly, as in, at least
a dozen timesten times throughout the day.
I was struggling with many names throughout the day which is the primary reason I am hesitant to specifically name
moreothers. However, the four above were noteworthy and deserve some recourse.
I wasn't sure
Good luck with your class.
Kind Regards, [name]
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Every so often, someone will post a comment to a post from long, long ago. Sometimes they're just spammers hoping not to be noticed. Sometimes, these comments come from those who just googled their way in to an obscure corner of the archives and don't know or care that there is little likelihood of anyone actually reading what they have written.
Such, I fear, might have been the destiny of the "call for a revolution against the capitalist government oppresion in america" that A Concerned Englishman posted to this item from March, 2003. I mention it here as a public service, for all who may be interested. Go to it, revolucionarios.
From Johann Hari's latest piece on Galloway, Oona King and Bethnal Green and Bow:
I asked Galloway how many Muslims had been murdered by his friend Aziz. The correct answer: even more than have been slaughtered by Ariel Sharon, or by Israel in 38 years of occupying Gaza and the West Bank.
Galloway said, "Why don't you go and take some more drugs, you druggie?"
Plenty of good lines in this Galloway profile by A. A. Gill.
(via Harry's Place.)
Here's a whole website dedicated to demonstrating "the futility of using Microsoft Word's spelling and grammar check." I doubt that this really needed demonstrating, in fact, but for what it's worth I think we can consider it demonstrated.
According to this article, the university professor who runs the site believes that the grammar-checker should be improved so that it actually prevents his students' grammar errors. I believe this would be a terrible mistake. The last thing we need is for some misguided technician to make the grammar checker more powerful.
I think MS should just reveal the closely guarded secret of how to turn it off so it stays turned off, which is something I've never been able to achieve with complete consistency. The grammar checker has a life and mind of its own, and really seems to resent being left out of the writing process. As soon as you start trying to turn it off, it begins scheming to hang on. It is stronger and more determined than you, and has a longer attention span. You may win a couple of battles along the way, but it has all the time in the world. Eventually, no matter what you do, it will manage to switch itself back on, and taunt you with squiggly green lines and by changing random lower case letters to capital letters and vice versa, and arbitrarily inserting bizarre formatting when you're not looking. At some point, you will get old and die. The grammar checker will still be there. Laughing.
Exterminate it, and the world really would be a better place. But I'm not going to hold my breath.
...and so am I.
The main point here is that there is not one thing about this name that I do not love: Dr. Debbara Dingperson.
This link was forwarded to me by former bandmate Aaron, who believes it's a sign of the end times. Those signs seem to be thick on the ground these days, it's true, but it's kind of hard to disagree with him.
You know the feeling...
It's that gnawing feeling that you aren't getting any younger. The world is quickly passing you by and your book isn't written or published or out there. If you don't act soon, it may never happen for you.
You want someone to take you by the hand and show you how to use your abilities to overcome the self-defeating "I don't have enough time, money, intelligence, education, good looks or connections" to make your publishing dreams come true...
Book Millionaire seems more like an infomercial than "reality" tv, though I'm not sure if it makes that much of a difference. But however you classify it, there is a great deal of enjoyable weirdness to be found on the Book Millionaire website.
Q: At the end of the filming, will a Book Millionaire winner be chosen?
The winner of Book Millionaire will be granted the ultimate dream — to enjoy the lifestyle of being a successfully published author. And they will receive additional prizes to help achieve the goal of Best Selling and Celebrity Status and becoming the America’s next Book Millionaire.
It will be exciting to release the names of people who are on the "Book Millionaire" Publishing Committee.
I admit, when I first heard about this show (back in December, from my editor in New York) I had been hoping for something like the Monty Python sketch where Thomas Hardy writes the beginning of The Return of the Native in front of a rowdy bank holiday stadium crowd. ("...he's crossed it out... and he's signed his name underneath it. Oh dear, what a disappointing start...") As it happens, however, contestants on Book Millionaire won't actually have to write their books on the air; they don't really have to write them at all, at least not right away - which is my idea achieving Best Seller and Celebrity Status, I can tell you that right now:
You will complete a series of tasks which pertain to book promotion and living the lifestyle of a best selling author. You will not need to have your own book finished for the filming. Rather, we will use prominent company products and currently published books for the tasks.
I can't wait to read the winning book. And I am totally serious about that.
UPDATE: Of course, I signed up for their content-rich Free Newsletter called Book Millionaire: Launching You to Best Selling and Celebrity Status, mainly because I must know these secrets:
You'll discover how to write your book in less than 30 days spending only 47 minutes a day.
Wrap your hands around this! You'll learn how to be guaranteed your book idea will be a best selling book — even before you write one word!
banish doubt and fear from your mind — forever!
Here's another installment of Ellie's (found) diary. (The first installment, and the description of this packet of found materials, is here.)
This section continues the entry for 1 - 8 - 75.
I just talked to Mario. He says he's cutting down on drinking & weed, (only on weekends) Then, he turns around & goes to a basketball game w/Bob, Rodell, & Dinelli, to get high. He says, "I'm not goin to buy anymore lids." But he's gonna go & leech weed off everyone else. I told him. He goes - "why not everyone's been doin it to me for 2 years." How fucked huh. I feel sorry for Patty cuz of Darrells drinking problem. Mario drinks too much too. I'm crying my eyes out right now. Its funny how I was in such a good mood about 1/2 hr. ago.
Mario's saving his money for a haircut. SHIT! He's gonna look like a queer w/a haircut. I'm gonna cry when I see it. I know it. Just like I am now. Look how small I'm writing. I'll need a magnifying glass to read it over. I'm so down. Everytime I finish writing on here, I get in a shitty mood. I've always been pretty good at sorting my feelings, so see try this minor problem - lets see - its probly cuz Im afraid or somethin. I don't wanna wright anymore. Oh shit - stop kidding yourself ass - you know deep inside you'll never marry Mario. You'll split up sooner or later, he'll leave you & you'll both find someone else. It's just that I WANT to marry him so bad. I guess I'm subconsciously (ooh, big word) counting on it. I've got to make myself stop, cuz I'll just get hurt. But actually, it's 2 late for that. I know damn well if he split right now I'd fall to pieces. That's one thing he'll never worry about - he's not that way. Not a fuckin sap. He don't let himself go (fall in love to be exact.) That's what fucks you up, Ellie. Not that he wouldn't be bothered, but I don't think it would effect him that much.
UPDATE: One thing I forgot to mention is that across the top of the first surviving page, Ellie has written: "JERRY GARCIA & MARIO GENTILE -> HA HA HA HA HA HA."
Has anyone ever actually loved a book he or she was forced to read in school? And is it possible to get over it after a decent interval, or do you just have to write those books off forever, so to speak? I've been thinking a bit about this lately because it's a theme in the book I've been writing.
My tolerance for such state-mandated books was always directly linked to the teacher's level of enthusiasm: the more excited they were, the more impressed they thought we'd be, the more annoying the book ended up being. It's not necessarily the book's fault. (Though sometimes it can be: it is for this reason that I can have utter confidence that Ecotopia will never darken my reading list again, which is all to the good, really.)
I'm not talking about a mild distaste, or simply "not getting it" at the time. I'm talking about a visceral, irrational loathing. Some people would rather tape open an eye and pour salt in it than re-read A Separate Peace. Have you ever known anyone who can't drink orange juice because of an unfortunate screwdriver incident in the distant past? I think it can be kind of like that.
Greg from the Talent Show says it's the funniest video ever. I'm not saying he's wrong, and he makes a good case, but "funny" just doesn't seem to cover it. If there is a place where kitsch intersects with the triumph of the human spirit, this is that intersection made flesh. Or is there some tongue in somebody's cheek somewhere? Honestly, if so, I'd rather not know.
Found at La Mancha Plaza in north Oakland:
Being a frustrated rock star -- and let’s face it, most male crime writers are -- it’s terrific to actually get up there with proper musicians and play some gigs versus standing up in a bookshop reading from a book.
This is another piece from the collection of found stuff mentioned below.
It is a letter, written in blue ink on eight pages of stationary from the La Posada Inn in Santa Fe New Mexico, to "William A. O." from "J." It's not dated, but I'd guess it's from 1964-5, like all the other stuff in this packet. It was found between the pages of a Teach Yourself Swahili book which was, according to the paper dustcover "borrowed from the Currys"- and apparently never returned. (If Will Spires never learned Swahili it wasn't for want of trying: the book is heavily annotated and underlined, though he seems to have given up around halfway through.)
The letter is very long, and not terribly fascinating, perhaps, on its face, but it tells a classic story: J. and a couple of friends from Berkeley's counterculture take a road trip to the southwest in their hearse, pausing to take in the sights and ridicule the yokels along the way. The resulting letter is a travelogue and essay at fine arts criticism rolled into one. It's refreshing, in a way, to see how little has changed since 1965: the distinctive Bay Arean admixture of condescension, self-importance, and contempt for ordinary folk (despite taking care to pat some of them on their sweet little ethnic heads from time to time) is very recognizable today. If J. was the same age as Will, she would only have been around 22 when she wrote this letter: but she is clearly an NPR public affairs program pledge drive waiting to happen. And that has a certain charm.
The highlights (just in case you don't feel like reading the whole thing - for which I wouldn't blame you): (a) J.'s theory on "co-educational" public toilets: "must be that making them coeducational would upgrade women's johns." Hence the pretty cutpaper curtains that are not generally found in women's restrooms. (b) the meeting with a "big wheel in the atom machinery" at Los Alamos. "We gave him," writes J., "the inside story on Berkeley." (c) the unexpectedly charming attempt to write lyrical, sweeping descriptions of natural panoramas with very few complete sentences. Ravens! Crows! Shining black in white snow! Adobe everywhere!
And finally (d) this awesome sentence: "Hippies arrived in leather and brass (local effect) and brought their puppets and movies in for next week's entertainment."
Hello William A. O. - We came down from Colorado across the great barrow wastes with ravens shining black in white snow, giant cottonwood trees (los alamos) we went through a town in the mountains called WATROUS which is owned by one family (named guess what) we walked in the deep ruts of the real honest to God Santa Fe trail which was covered with snow - saw rainbows of colors in
thehigh cirrus clouds from brilliant sun, went through steel mill town Pueblo (called here PEBLO) (they hate Mexicans and the language) full of filthy smog and smoke, saw abandoned big adobe churches on hillsides, ate potato chips, turtles, gum, sandwiches, in the hearse while travelling (and home made cookies) Into New Mexico the earth becomes in occassional spots a really brillant brick red. Gholla cactus. Pinion pine. Ravens. Crows. No people. There are fewer people in the whole state of New Mexico than in L.A. or Oakland. (950,000) Saw Blood red sunset on snowy peaks circling Santa Fe.
Narrow streets. Much mud. Very uncommercial. Adobe everywhere. Churches OK, but the really old one completely commericialized with a slimy guy (Charles said he was a bull nun) at the door in black gown holding out palm. Damn. Alienated me out of seeing their old bell which Jennifer said had a very beautiful tone.
Found Santa Fe "Continental Coffehouse" and had good food. Run by the usual fag (he is everywhere, there may be only one, who takes a thousand forms from coast to coast in every continental coffeehouse) Hippies arrived in leather and brass (local effect) and brought their puppets and movies in for next week's entertainment. Rotten paintings (except for 3) on the walls. Very old building, like 1760 - Pretty cutpaper curtain things on the windows of the co-educational john. Prettiest john I ever saw - must be that making them coeducational would upgrade women's johns.
Long street "the Canyon" in Santa Fe is repro of G. Village, Telegraph, Cost Plus.
Wintertime is not it, here. Much quiet - good for people who hate tourists (like us).
Jennifer and Charles building pinion pine fires every night in the Indian fireplaces (in all hotels, motels, homes, restaurants, gas stations) Very nice. Small opening. Shallow inside. Throws heat like crazy. Pinion pine smells good.
Found a really GOOD classical guitarist in a bar in Taos. He was backing Cielito Guido for the local anglos who like to play Mexican when they get drunk, but when we arrived he switched to Bach, gave us 2 hours of J.S.B, Soar [?], Murrado and everybody else including his own compositions and some Aztec folk talkes his grandfather told him. Very startling. Very fine.
Indians in Taos walk around with thin cotton blankets (like pink & white plaid-esque) wrapped over heads, over blue jeans & shirts. I really thought they were kidding when I first saw it. But they aren't. Saw an Indian kid in blanket carrying baby sister in blanket, carrying doll in blanket.
It is obviously best in Taos or Santa Fe to know somebody local. It's been fun and good but not quite as good as I'd hoped.
Strange country. Land all snarled up in Spanish land grants and tenant claims and etc much etc. Saw an ad for somebody stating "I do hereby challenge the following people to put up their claims to section 467.5 by March 4 or shut up forever - followed a list of 532 names. Yes. I counted them.
We went to Bandelier and climbed into the Indian caves dug in the cliffs about 1200 A.D. Found pictographs and some pottery shards and a piece (large) of obsidian and deer bones gnawed by a puma. People in ordinary stores (like getting a lemon coke in a plain ordinary drugstore) speak constantly a mad patois of intermixed Spanish and English. Everybody. Newspapers have a Spanish section.
Went to Los Alamos to see friend of Jennifer - big whieel in the atom machinery. We gave him the inside story on Berkeley. He'd heard "it was financed by foreign money." Saw a supremely miserable theatre thing there by local actorettes or actorasters or actorites - S. V. Benets John's Brown Body. Just awful, except last 3/4 of last act which was piquantly backed by sonorous and delicious snores from an honest man in the back rows.
The legislature is meeting in Santa Fe. The town is full of Texans who come to lobby. Texans are buying as much of New Mexico as they can get. In the lobby of La Fonda (the big hotel) one sees tall lean guys with cordovan brown faces wearing stockmen's suits - hand tailored, narrow pants, snug, short good looking jacket, dripping silver &/or gold nugget lanyards and hand made beautiful boots and big hats - they stand around the lobby talking stock market and checking the ticker tape for the latest prices. Out here money takes a different form - except the women - they look about the same as any peroxide and mink type.
We're leaving soon. I'll be in L.A. soon - looking forward to picking up my mail and getting news of
We're going to Albuquerque.
We went to an old little village called Chimayo and the old lay in the grocery told us all the local folk lore in mixed English-Spanish. Every story was about La Muerte and she even said La muerte es suerte.
Are you taking care of Bill and figuring out what you need and how to get it? Give Kathy a handful of love & regards from me and keep working on
thyour journal, hey? - J.
This is from an enormous packet of stuff I got for $3 at an Oakland junk/antique store. Most of it dates from 1964-5, and concerns one William Spires, who apparently ran a gallery called Pro Arte at the time. Materials include: phone bills, notebooks, traffic citations, an Order to Report for Armed Services Physical Examination, sketches for the gallery logo and store front, handwritten transcriptions of folk songs, a crazy series of drawings entitled "A Group of People and the Rain: Hallucinations by Don Brown," and much, much more.
I believe this is the same Will Spires mentioned in this hippie Northbeach/Renaissance Faire history because Don Brown is also mentioned as a fellow member of a hippie/folk band called The Golden Toad. I don't know if this Will Spires (fiddler and folklorist) is the same guy, but it seems likely, as the link comes from this "Faire Herstory," which also mentions the Golden Toad (on which, more is to be found here.)
This is a transcription from one of the tiny spiral notebooks, apparently dating from 1964. The author says he is "in" Bill Spires's studio, so he's not Will. Or is he? He calls himself Bill, Towi, Gene and Jane at various points. Whoever it was, he appears to have been more or less crazy.
On the front cover is what appears to be a drawing of stonehenge:
Inside, all but the first five pages are blank. On the first five pages:
ash can lids should rise on wires. clov shuts them by snapping his fingers.
a plate of Mexican food: losing focus, dissolving and cutting back into focus. Sour cream...
[illegible - scribbled out]
I believe I may throw away the "rain-bows" in favor of more direct relationships. If anyone wants to know where I am they can find me in the direct center of the Te Pee's moon. This can be very bad and certainly hangs up all the other life that can be put into words or communicated & lived in other ways.
The back of my head (which doesn't any longer belong to the front) is very black. The front is rainbow colored and I am seriously getting tired of the trip -
Moot, Bill - (Towi)
Note that modern existence conotes telepathy & computers & is too much to
otake after awhile -
The existentialist atmosphere is much better since things can take place in relative freedom of approach and END GAMES - - - without knots in the head -
I am Gene
I take note of the fact that I am merely in Bill Spires' studio despite the hassles which buzz around my head/not so indifferently - I cleaned up.
I am not myself but stand in the center of the iceburg existentially I note that this is progress and wonder what "JANE" would do. Jane
would have been my name ifis a side of me, as yet unseen.
WHERE N THE HELL ARE THE AVERAGE LOOKING SLIM OR BIG OR CHUBBY OR THICK OR GIRLS I KNOW THERES 1 GIRL OUT THERE THAT HAS ALOT MEAT ON THE TUMMY AND A BIG ASS IF YOUR READING THIS PLEASE EMAIL ME BECAUSE IM LOOKING TO SPOIL YOU AND TAKE YOU PLACES AND INTRODUCE YOU TO PEOPLE YOU ONLY SEE ON TV OR IF YOUR READING THIS AND YOU HAVE A THICK FRIEND PLEASE HAVE HER EMAIL SPREAD THE WORD AN RECORD EXECUTIVE WANTS A GIRL WITH A BIG GHETTO BOOTY AND I DONT CARE ABOUT THE FACE ALSOIM LOOKING 4 A GIRL WHO WANT A GOOD MAN IN HER LIFE I NEED A GIRL WHO LIKE GOING TO CONCERT, INDUSTRY
PARTIES AND YOU MUST FEEL COMFORTABLE BEING AROUND CELEBRITIES BECAUSE IF YOU ARE MY GIRL YOU WILL MEET PEOPLE IE JAYZ LENNY KRAVITZ D ANGELO JANET JACKSON JADAKISS I MEAN THE LIST GOES ON AGAIN IM WILLING TO PROVE. THE GIRL CAN BE THICK OR CHUBBY I LIKE CHUBBY, THICK GIRL U CAN ALSO BE SLIM OR AVERAGE LOOKING I HAVE NO PROBLEM SPENDING AND SPOILING MY GIRL IF YOU DONT BELIEVE ME AGAIN IM WILLING TO PROVE IF YOU U DONT BELIEVE ME AND WON’T LET ME PROVE IT TO U
THE 4GET U If YOU THINK ITS WRONG FOR A GUY TO SPEND AND SPOIL A
GIRL DONT EMAIL ME BECAUSE IM A VERY CUTE GUY I STAY WITH A LITTLE MONEY N MY POCKET AND I LIKE TO SPOIL MY GIRL IF YOU WANT A GUY WHO LIES IM NOT HIM BUT IF U R LOOKING FOR A GUY WHO HAS HIS OWN APARTMENT AND GO TO COLLEGE AND WITH A CAREER IM YOUR GUY EVERYTHING I SAY IS TRUE AND IM WILLING TO PROVE FOR THE FEW WHO DONT BELIEVE ME I AM A CUTE GUY I HAVE A CAREER I AM A A&R TALENT SCOUT AT A RECORD LABEL ANYBODY I REPEAT ANYBODY WHO DONT BELIEVE ME LET ME KNOW SO WE CAN MEET AT MY JOB, I AM A VERY SUCCESSFUL TALENT SCOUT I'VE WORK WITH JAY
Z 50 CENT AND NOW JANET JACKSON AND LENNY KRAVITZ AND YOU DONT BELIEVE ME IM WILLING TO ME AND PROVE
Harvard's sexiest librarian has lost her case. While it is a sad day for those of us who have been discriminated against because of our sexiness, I for one intend to keep up the fight.
I'm in the minority, I'm sure, but Terry Castle's hilarious kiss 'n' tell account of her life as a Sontag groupie actually made me feel ever so slightly more positively disposed towards la Susan than I was before reading it. What a freak.
(via Clive Davis.)