There it is. The wall. You hate the wall. The wall that is so thick, so slimy, so damn tall you can't possibly get over it. You look in your valise. Nope. Forgot to pack the grappling hook and line. Rocket boots? Nope. You left them back at the motel too. Damn. Now what? I'll tell you what, numbnuts. You pace. You stare at the wall. You come up with a series of brilliant ideas and then think, nah, none of them will work. You think some more. You lie down and look at the sky. You get bored of seeing bunny rabbits and sandwiches and the island of Virgin Gorda in the clouds. You get to an elbow just as a big bird craps on your forehead. You scream. You pray. It's still there. But wait, what's this? A scrap of paper in your pocket. The formula for making dynamite out of common everyday items that just so happen to be at your feet. What are you waiting for? Get busy, you jerk. But even with the formula nothing seems to work. Maybe you're just tired. Could be. Yesterday was my birthday. Uneventful. Got a massage and ate a nice steak sandwich. Looked up what happened on May 3rd in history. Not a hell of a lot. As far as I can tell it was a toss up between the last episode of Dallas airing in 1991 and the first British heart transplant back in '68. James Brown's birthday though. Jump back, kiss myself. On the brighter side of things, they caught that crazy guy. There was a time when one could just say...tell you what. How about we leave him in Times Square and let the good people of New York take care of him? Piece by piece.
5/4/10
I Hate the Wall
There it is. The wall. You hate the wall. The wall that is so thick, so slimy, so damn tall you can't possibly get over it. You look in your valise. Nope. Forgot to pack the grappling hook and line. Rocket boots? Nope. You left them back at the motel too. Damn. Now what? I'll tell you what, numbnuts. You pace. You stare at the wall. You come up with a series of brilliant ideas and then think, nah, none of them will work. You think some more. You lie down and look at the sky. You get bored of seeing bunny rabbits and sandwiches and the island of Virgin Gorda in the clouds. You get to an elbow just as a big bird craps on your forehead. You scream. You pray. It's still there. But wait, what's this? A scrap of paper in your pocket. The formula for making dynamite out of common everyday items that just so happen to be at your feet. What are you waiting for? Get busy, you jerk. But even with the formula nothing seems to work. Maybe you're just tired. Could be. Yesterday was my birthday. Uneventful. Got a massage and ate a nice steak sandwich. Looked up what happened on May 3rd in history. Not a hell of a lot. As far as I can tell it was a toss up between the last episode of Dallas airing in 1991 and the first British heart transplant back in '68. James Brown's birthday though. Jump back, kiss myself. On the brighter side of things, they caught that crazy guy. There was a time when one could just say...tell you what. How about we leave him in Times Square and let the good people of New York take care of him? Piece by piece.