Monday, June 17, 2013

Questions. So many questions.

Cooking sausage, onion, garlic, and tomato on an open skillet for breakfast, and it smells like wet dog. Why is that?

Whenenver I hear harpsichord playing, why do I think of Lurch?

People pay attention to actors when they talk about subjects unrelated to their field. Why is that?

Why don't more people shit standing up?

Sometimes, when machinery and technology fails to work as it should, I take it personally, as if the thing in question failed because it hates me. That's me with a capital m, like it had focused its refusal to comply precisely upon me, its chosen target, with a surgeon's precision. Just tonight, I propped up my bike and locked it to a street sign, and heard it clatter to the ground as I walked away. The helmet dislodged, the glass mirror popped free from its plastic housing. "Fuck you, too" was all I had to say under my breath, as I dismissively continued walking away. Why should one feel a sense of betrayal by inanimate objects?

Why have rock stars have stopped dressing like cowboys on their album covers, and is this partly because rock and roll is no longer really an act of youthful rebellion?

In a world without Zippo, who supplies the flame?

If they could, would trees will extend a grateful branch of thanks to the manmade computer circuit, friends embracing at the crossroads of mimesis?

When fat people go swimming naked, is it still "skinny dipping?"

Did Petula Clark ever eat dog food? Did George Peppard ever jump on a trampoline?
(these are the thoughts of today's men, as they shore up the dookeyshines of commerce, culture, and faith)

What if death were sexist?

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