Just got to get it out of the way-
Yes sir John Kerry, yes!, of course I will vote for you!
But, I'm sorrier than hell that you look like Abe Lincoln. Really, you do. Poor tired wife thinks that you resemble Abe's scrotum, but you should forgive her for saying that because she's gonna vote for you too. Besides, excepting Mary Todd Lincoln and the delegates attending the DNC who's seen honest Abe's saggy old change purse lately?
I won't even start with the John Ritter/John Edwards thing.
So, I had a few crap days chasing the paycheck. Sure would like to be rich so I can stop wasting my time endlessly rotating "product," running numbers and trying to inspire underpaid youngsters to follow my every martha-like command.
Care to help with this new endeavor humble visitor?
At least my work day was brightened by two treasured visitors. Swish and hubby came in for a poke around the little market in the heart of the village of the damned. Sure was nice to see them. Actually, it made my night.
Considering my working man's angst, it's no surprise that I am up way later than I should be while poor, tired wife and snuggly royal bed warmer curl against each other in our way-too-small bed.
How can I go to bed when there is plenty of ruby-red lusciousness to be savored. Not to mention Sonic Youth drifting through my headset-
Mmmm, Kim Gordan whispers, "Beauty lies in the eye..."
I have been on a huge nostalgia kick with the music lately. I humbly recommend dusting off:
-Siouxsie and The Banshees
It'll End in Tears
-This Mortal Coil
The Bride Ship -
Crime and The City Solution
The Good Son
-Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
Rum, Sodomy and The Lash
-Echo and The Bunnymen
The Man Machine
One of these masterpieces could actually save your life.
As for something almost new, how could I drive to work everyday without being catapulted through rush hour traffic like a Valkyrie by Einsturzende Neubauten's Perpetuum Mobile!?
The title track alone will produce an instant erection in manner und frauen alike. I promise.
I save God Speed You Black emperor's Lift Your Skinny Fists...
for my fiery descent back into the ghetto necropolis I call home.
It's late, your just gonna have to trust me on all of this, ok?
Took the little Highness to visit old fuzzy grandparents today.
As usual when we entered the humble house of kingdad's birth, the TV was blaring, the drapes were closed and I swear the heat was cranked to the nines.
Upon entering we were enveloped in thick mists of oldness. A miasma comprised of worn shag carpeting, burnt microwave popcorn, mothballs, numerous lotions, ointments and medications, suspended in midair by the evil spell of cheap air freshener and an unmistakable twinge of bathroom funk.
These are a few of my not-so-favorite things.
Still, underneath it all it strangely smells like home. Anyway, after two years of swampy diapers and the foul breath of the diaper genie the smell of my parent's decline is negligible.
Royal visitor is unfazed by the dark and aged den. She knows that inside treats are waiting- candies that I hurry by in the grocery store, toys that I frown upon and food that isn't really food at all. She lets go of my hand and rushes forward to revel in the thrills of the forbidden, the indulgent twinkle of Grandma and Granddaddy. My parents look youthful for an instant. Everything in the room lights up.
Except for me. I hurt inside. Its so hard to see all of our clocks racing ahead, as I sit on the tired sofa and watch my parents fade away.
I was told today that my Dad recently had a mini-stroke. Of course I had one of those 'told you so' moments with my Mother, because I knew my Dad's recent confusion seemed much more pronounced these last few visits, and was told it was nothing unusual. It has always been hard for him to admit his vunerability even though it's a huge neon sign that flashes above his little bald head.
What makes the royal imp happy, makes me sad.
I never thought that it would be so hard to go home, but it is. It's hard to see the peolple that raised you, that held your hand and read to you, that taught you most everything that you know simply diminish.
Couldn't help myself on the way home and played old friend Dexter Romweber's Blues That Defy My Soul
just a little louder than I probably should have.
My passenger didn't seem to mind since she was all pumped up on sugar.
I am a perfectionist. This means that I am cursed. I see silver linings, but they always need a very thorough polishing.
My friends still think that I am kidding when I tell them that I clean the bathroom with a toothbrush.
I am working on this little character flaw. Really, I am. For example, everyday I try to find fault with half of the things that needed drastic improvement the day before.
To achieve my objective, I simply lie to myself.
Tonight we went to look at a house in our neighborhood that we've been admiring lately. Our appointment was around dinner time, which is ironically, when I was attempting to cook dinner. The hardwood coals were glowing perfectly as we left for a supposedly short tour of our would-be dream house.
Of course by the time we got back the coals had burned down to piles of lukewarm ash. It was also closing in on 9 pm As it happens I have a new little rule to guide myself with, and that's not to cook or eat dinner past 7:45 pm. So, I found myself in quite a bind.
Still the answer was simple-
Poor, tired wife and sleepless royal powder keg are sitting together enjoying the few things that I could put on the table quickly while I sit down in the other room to feast on steaming hot self-loathing and a hefty side of red wine.
I'll bend someone else's rules, but my own rules are unbreakable golden laws. They are the divine tenets that keep my crazy kingdom intact.
Where's that silver polish?...
Sometimes the act of driving can be enjoyable.
I became my own private Volkswagen ad tonight. The temperature has dropped a little these last few nights, so everywhere I go I have the windows down.
Tonight as the cool night air rushed through the car I got lost in my favorite summer listen, Serge Gainsbourg.
What a brilliant man Serge was.
His music is bold, mixing many contradictory seasonings that just somehow cook out to become his own savvy dish. He was a huge fan of Afro-pop, bubblegum music (and the nubile chantueses that popularized it) and jazz.
He forcefed a generation of superficial record execs the stunning beauty of his ugly genius. He was most often drunk, sometimes high, always clever and usually reeked of stale smoke and sex. He wrote songs that questioned and mocked love, politics and modern European culture. He is best known for his steamy duets with lover Brigitte Bardot and wife Jane Birkin.
He is also remembered for propositioning Whitney Houston in French on an American late night talk show shortly before his death of a heart attack.
As I made my way home in the darkness from running errands Serge Gainsbourg made the ordinary sweet and thrilling. With each carefully constructed phrase I pushed against the gas pedal a little harder.
I had no choice. It was 'l'anamour' and 'les sucettes' that drove me. It was 'je t'aime... moi non plus' that made pulling into the driveway for the evening painful.
Beloved Aunt Mimi and Uncle Peepee came for a visit this past week. They are the kind of friends that end up feeling more like family than family does sometimes. They broke our hearts by moving to Waco Texas.
Sure, we gave them no end of guilt for leaving us. We shoveled load after steaming load at them for moving away, and away to Waco at that. But they come home still. And when they come, our little royal abode glows a little brighter and feels just a bit more regal.
Ok, so we downed a fifth of rum in an evening. But the glow was real I tell ya...
We went on an impromptu royal progress to the sea together just before the prodigal bums up and left us again.
The beach we visited is so seedy that I now refer to it as "the little scab by the sea."
In just one short stroll Uncle Peepee and Kingdad saw the following sights:
A 14-15 year old Hispanic girl with waist length bleached blond hair. Packed snugly into terry cloth hot pants (just a thread or two away from being a thong) and an inch wide tube top sans any undergarments, she was dutifully sweeping the floor of her family's brothel/grocery store with a cigarette hanging from her painted, glossed and perfectly outlined lips. She had a few tattoos located on some choice physical real estate and seemed to be available "to let."
Another lost teenaged waif wearing a shirt that said "pornstar." She looked more than a little drunk and was sitting on the porch with five or six middle aged drunk men. One of them kept pulling her onto his lap and kept yelling, "it's just a little black and white thang baby. Come on!..." She went from lap to lap as we sauntered by. I later noticed her walking with another tragedy that was perhaps her mother. They were with the same group of men, although they seemed to have gotten quite high by then.
Some very leathery people with horrible hair drinking low carb beer with their kids. This scene provided the answer to our "where are the parents here" question.
Lots of men with little teeny-tiny legs and great big bellies strutting around their sandy territories like great silver-backed gorillas. Shirtless of course, he-breasts swaying over giant paunches. All of these men had spent way too much time in the sun and were the color of wet cardboard. More than a few of them had mullets and sported really blotchy patriotic tattoos
A strange she-creature with foot deep make-up in fishnet stockings crawling out of her big shiny new truck, Pat Benetar's 'Love is a Battlefield' blaring from the open cab. She leered at us and then proceeded to look at Uncle Peepee's large drooling dog with an unmistakably lusty, longing gaze. Apparently anything awful was possible here (Dear Penthouse Letters...) so we bolted!
Everywhere we went people seemed to think we were gay German tourists. Was it our straw cowboy hats? Gosh, everyone else was wearing them too.
We ate at a so-called restaurant that served steamed shrimp that was not deveined. A note to all you know-it-all waiters out there- yes that is shrimp shit in that thar vein, and NO- it's not "supposed ta look like that."
Otherwise we had a wonderful tour of the lowest of the low country.
Come back Mimi and Peepee!!!!!!!!
It gets harder and harder to write these days.
So many nights I sit and stare at the empty screen. I usually end up nodding off after typing a few letters.
Life used to flow from my fingers.
Now I am swirling in it's eddy. Perhaps this is better than sitting wide eyed and naked on the cold bank, tracing the letters of life's little story about with my fingers in the sand.
I don't take enough pictures or make enough phone calls either. I have put down my net and am letting the days flutter away freely.
What will be left to find in my ruins one day, if I should just start to feel it and stop recording it?
Have had more to do than to say these days. Sometimes this is good.
Last night I went to a movie with poor, tired wife. It's been two years since we last sat in a theatre together. There was no making out this time. Thank you trusted babysitter for getting us out of the royal confines.
Of course we went to see Fahrenheit 9/11.
As much as I have tried to refrain from discussing politics here at kingcentral I have to say this, just once-
If there is such a thing as justice and democracy in America then when will we see Bush and Cheney being led off to trial in handcuffs. Better still, being led into the same courtroom where Saddam Hussein sits today.
Afterall, Bush and Cheney have destroyed two countries.
Just a thought.