Be that as it may.
Tonight my shoes are in the middle of the living room floor. My right and left sock are hanging willy nilly from the front doorknob and bookshelf, respectively. My clothes never left the bathroom once I got out of the tub that incidentally is covered in grungy man film and my own body hair. Were I to invite you on a scavenger hunt in my home right now, I'd challenge you to find a half-eaten sandwich, a three-day weekend's worth of junk mail, empty CD cases and cans of diet soft drink that are only half empty. Or are they half full? In the VCR is a videocassette that dates back to my younger, more sexually-potent days (if you catch my drift) and at the top of my lungs I'm singing along to my downloaded 80s-era (1880s, that is) recordings of Verdi, Wagner, and Rossini.
When those are done I plan to move on to 70s (again, think 1870s) mellow gold. Yes, I'm devolving not just musically but also developmentally. As I write I'm sitting in my throne. For some men the throne is a reclining La-Z-Boy-style chair with cup holders and convenient pockets for the TV Guide and remote control(s). Mine's a bit more streamlined. I bought it a decade ago when it came from Rooms To Go with an identical couch, a coffee table and two end tables complete with generic lamps. The couch, tables and lamps have long since gone the way of garage sales or the trash, but this chair remains. Acquaintences affectionately refers to it as "the plaid chair", but I know it' as the throne. Along with an old Bullwinkle t-shirt, this chair's the only thing of mine in the home that predates my current state of insanity.
Well, OK, there's that VHS collection I mentioned, but I generally keep that hidden away. Ahh, if this chair could talk! Well sure, most of what it would say would be about being covered in stale french fries and spilled kosher box wine but it'd also talk about sexual escapades involving me and . . . that VHS collection I mentioned earlier. Right now I want to shout, shout, let it all out. These are the things I can do without: emissions testing; overdue library book bills; Social Security reform proposals; the lawn that still needs to be mowed in the front of my apartment building; alarms set to go off at 7:28AM; and food stamp recertifications that need to be reported every year.
Wait, where was I? Here in my thrown I fell asleep and dreamed that I ran. I ran so far away. Tracy Lordes, hold me now. Warm my heart. Stay with me. We can dance if we want to. 'Cause your friends don't blog and if they don't blog then they're no friends of mine. It's a safety dance.How embarrassing!You'll have to forgive me.You see, I suffer from My Own E-Hollywood Story Disorder. The visions always start with the same image. I'm wearing a Boone's Farm-stained Bullwinkle t-shirt and I'm sitting in a tasteless plaid Rooms-to-Go-esque chair. Tina Turner walks in and she's my private dancer. Sometimes the music playing is 80s (1980s, this time) glam but any old music will do nicely, thank you. She does what I want her to do which is take on me and take me on.
For a brief moment part of me wonders if I can escape my responsibilities into a world of music video animation where it's better to be safe than sorry. I start to shed tears, but they're only tears for fears, and then I think Hey now. Hey now. Iko iko I, eh?If a picture paints a thousand words, then why can't I paint you? Screw Tracy Lordes. I'm ready for the delusions in my head to go away. I may be climbing on rainbows, but Brian here goes. Dreams, they're for those who sleep. Life is for us to keep. Brian (I'm referring to my imaginary friend, Brian Brown), if you're wondering what this blog is leading to . . . It's leading to where my life is currently leading -- namely, nowhere.
Were it not for whatever treifah drek is on that plate, I'd buy that that's an actual picture taken in your apartment.
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