Nowadays, I am stockpiling annoyances like a Gummi Bear hoards the Bouncy-Bouncy-Booze…
Be wary, children, of They Who Brew the Black Coffee of P.M. and Curdle the Flow of Disaster with Gorgeous Slabs of Lemon Pound Cake. As a collegian, I was never tantalized by coffee, but I downed cups of cocoa from the periphery of the co-ed cafeteria to Feed the Peoplewatchin’. I often thought of the stories in their heads as they burned their toast and stood in long lines for plates of soggy French fries. I also often envisioned myself as a disdainful moderator of this Mundane Catastrophe, countenance in line with the image your eyes engulf below:
Black Coffee is my Catwoman. It fills me with precious horror/plenitude of sideways, diversions, and alley-scampers for The Lonely Nights. Tonight, the Cauldron compels back-to-back Charles Bronson movies, courtesy of Youtube (PUSHER MAN! PUSHER MAN! JUST GIMME THE PRIZE, YOU BASTARD, GIMME THE PRIZE…) — My Primary Agendum was the viewing of the flick “Some Guy Who Kills People”, but the local Redbox was incapacitated with Video Measles. A post for another day, ya riff-raff… *DELIBERATELY AMBIGUOUS IMAGE IN FIVE…FOUR…THREE…TWO…ONE…”:
“Mr. Majestyk”, “The Mechanic”, “Death Wish”, “Death Wish II” — my head is still attached to my shoulders. Surprised? Skip it. Black Coffee is Black Tar that Keeps All Molecules in Format & Tone. I probably need another two or three movies before I start to Feel It. You know…that twickity-twick, that squint, that ripsnort that Shoves You Into the Next Dimension of Your Time Hereabout. Hey, I won’t worry – Steven Seagal made a movie with “Steve Cold” Stone Austin (?!?! I’m not fixing that mistake – Lettin’ it lay) that may be the Golden Ticket….or the Golden Tick-Tick-Tick-BOOM.
The schemes of mankind are worth a chuckle. What a wonderful experiment. The dust from the ground is going somewhere, whirling upwards into the mouths of clouds. The nature of the generational saga is in front of us. We can talk about the history, if that kind of conversation has any meaning, which i doubt. i get it, now. All of these cultural illusions sound like Sylvester Stallone. Promise me that you won’t get mad at the universal reaction to the scene; we understand that there is anxiety. That was part of the fun. See me dancing? I wish that the primary language, this religion of mediocrity, would get brushed under the carpet. Why can’t we all agree that the Best Reasons are Shrouded in Mystery?