no, oh dear god, it's happened. i can't think of anything funny to say. i mean, well, i'm not miserable. oh what the fuck? it is valentine's day. i'm in the mood to be as overwhelmingly bitter and nasty and such a whore that i have to touch myself just thinking about touching myself let alone thinking about touching myself in an elevator.
so here are me and madge's valentines' fantasy (disclaimer: do not attempt to read this if you suffer from back, stomach or head problems or if you're pregnant which is all three or if you keep spouting moles that look like newt gingrich. you have 48 hourse to gain 80 pounds or die.
anyway, okay, yes, i'm going to give you all the best e-mail sex you ever had. and the object of my of my of my the moist panic of my loins is, you guessed it MR JO-NESS, THE LEAD SINGER OF THE COUNTING WHORES.
okay, well before this post, there was a chance, that if adam had ever read anything i wrote, he might fear for his life but not really in a john-bobbit kind of way. and maybe he'd still give me the benefit of the doubt and not have me arrested. what am i trying to say here? just that, well, before this valentine's day, maybe i had a little pride. but i'm going to be a big famous comedian so i better check that shit at the fucking door, baby.
anyway, you just don't know what i would do for him. like if he were driving a car, a white mustang, in the snow, and it went over a bank, and i found him and dragged him home on my back and crippled him for life from about 6" below his hips down. and maybe it would be good if he coudln't speak. cause i know he would make me so mad from not being grateful.
then i will make him watch me have sex with the sheriff's wife. but no more appliances, no more maytag men and no more garbage bags full of norweigan stallion semen on my head. that's eddie vedder's job. rock stars have to take the big shit. i only get little mouthfuls of it on me. i'm just a writer, i'm a worse than a writer, i'm a writer who wants to be a lowly comedian opening chuck e. cheeses and shit.
or, if mr. rain-king is as cool as he thinks he fuckin' is, he's going to read my um,
***********ok, we're changing gears, here i am, madge. jo's hands are crampin up cuz she gained 10 pounds in 2 days or something but she ate some potassssssium and she'll be ok soon but in the meantime i, myself, my madgesty my darling my own very true valentine jeff ament's song jeremy is playing in the background and im a takin over. so i think she was about to say something like, if mr adam wishes he was on welfare so fucking bad duritz has ANY SHIT to GIVE HER when HE READS HER SHIT, well, then maybe he isnt quite, umm, *allll that.*
wait a minute wait a minute. jo has a correction: she is much more willing to kiss his ass than that would imply. BUT men do seem to have a problem with the publicity involved in being with the jo. like st. johnny the roofer, he wigged out all the time cuz he knew jo was telling me all about fucking him and everything. funny! Whoooops! (jo again, don't you men, any of you, act so surprised 'cause i garunfuckingtee that your old lady has drawn diagrams, the maps to the veins on your penis' for their girlfriends' amusement at the bar. we all do it. why do you think we all look at you laughing all the time? only kidding. we girls don't do such things. we talk about bubble baths and hair bows.
but she said mostly nice things about john. except that he needn't wake her next time. "far too kind in bed," says jo. well. if that isn't a telling statement then i dont know what is. she wishes to clarify: "all i want is for a man to be a man in bed, that's all." dont we all, jo, dont we all. (a man o' war in bed -- "the relapse")
ok. well now this is gonna get funny because jo is gonna dictate to me her ultimate valentines fantasy with adam duritz and im sure i wont be able to resist just sayin little shit here and there. but the potassium will kick in soon enough and then itll be my turn. so, you know,
ITS ALL IN GOOD FUN SO DONT GET YOUR KNICKERS IN A TWIST, OK?
UNLESS IT MEANS THAT WHEN THEY UNTWIST YOU WILL COME TO CARRICK AND DO ME. NOW.
ok, thats enough of that!!!!! gosh. wait, wait, mssrs. carnegie and mellon need our attention.
hey, kathy jo wore a pink sweater today. and her hair in the remnants of her gibson from the other night. just turned our pink lights on, too. kathy jo says we will fuck anyone who comes to our door tonight (306 suncrest st). except the upstairs neighbors, jo, please? she agrees, ok, all right.
i will walk through your garden of stone, baby. kathy jo is putting on little red pajamas. victorias secret cum gabe's pajamas. but cute. some gay man is in love with me (but at least he's not a gay taxi cab driver who wants to spank you while his dog watches). it's the weirdest fucking life, you know? and i have never had a real boyfriend really, ever. it's ever so sad.
let's all take a minute and shed a tear for me. ok, are we done? ok.
now get out your hankies for adam duritz.
this is how it would go down. he reads one of my crazy things somewhere somehow, he picks up a copy of a poetry journal in city lights in san frandisco and it falls open to a page across which is spilled a poem, spilled like hair. he reads it. it is by kathy jo kramer.
the next day, he picks up a copy of the east bay express. in it a columnist expresses undying love for him, in a way he always hoped he'd hear it. who wrote it? who wrote it? the phrase 'have to have her' repeats itself through his head 'have to have her, have to have her'. the byline reads kathy jo kramer. could it be the same girl? lucky for him, she has included her phone number in the column (412 431 4912) so he dashes to the nearest payphone, pulls out his at&t universal card, and makes the call. when it is busy (i left the modem on all day, i didnt even mean to, says madge), he hangs up the phone, dashes to the airport and spends 4 anxious hours on a flight to pittsburgh international airport.
this is getting boring. ok. he knows when he's found the right house because the pink lights are on and pearl jam's 'release' floats out the window even though it is closed. he knocks on the door.
ok, jo is coming back. she has to get the door. i understand that. i concede control completely and willingly.
okay, me now. jo here. fingers lithe and lusty. but i feel so differently now. i smoked a bowl, took some potasium, see, well this thing with adam is funny. but what's so funny is that it feels so totally real to me. as real as the orange-yellow hue and sharp shadows of candlelight falling on my red shirt. and outside the window, the moon is a soft dry kiss on my chalky-white neck and freckled shoulders.
see, it's the thought of him. and i guess that's bad. it's all based on a feeling. but see, that's what *art* does, just erases thousands of social miles, millions of miles of fearful highway. and makes it appear to be effortless.
well, so, i could tell you, and wildly amuse myself at the same time, of all the carnal delights that my mind seduces me with so that i can endure the wait. and we all know the waiting...and i really believe that in our lifetime, we will see our worst fears realized and biggest dreams come true. just like my life.
and now, well, i do want to describe kissing him. but i don't know. it has to be all in my words and if it isn't, it's just not there. just as i most certainly know his hiding places from his music. see, he can't hide his hiding places. the essence of bullshit is found in hiding. and the essense of insanity is in really believing the ideas and impulses that you try to let govern your behavior, like being nice versus being brutal, having fun verus misery, being in love with kathy jo or hating her guts. It's just harder to take the softer, kinder approach, it means a total giving over and trusting. i do it so easily, so completely, well, for me to fall in love is essential. so maybe i borrow his eyes, his lips, his fingertips and palms, so maybe his music is an elixer that i am defenseless against? so what if every day, especially valentine's day, i think about how utterly ridiculous is that i have such troubles with men when so many men love me and end up hating me for talking about men troubles, but, well, man. he is something beautiful.
but maybe i'll return to my henderson. and oh yeah, we uh, cross-posted because bill clintoni asked us to.
i'm too serious but i'm on the most intense crusade of my life with these welfare issues and have to talk to hundreds of people about how i was a welfare mother. holy shit. so i'm going to try and be funny. i will be funny 'cause they won't be expecting me to be and will be so relieved because the whole thing is so intense. and man, at the protest today, well it was nice seeing so many other people out there in the freezing cold.
you generation x'ers ain't worth shit if you don't get of your asses and make this your war. you have no idea what they are going to do to your future. my gosh. you guys are going to have to stop the republicans who continue to try and scapegoat poor people for the actions of the us government constantly covering the asses of u.s. investors who screw up.
oh, see, see i am too serious. but i have to be. i wasn't expecting to be doing this, you know? okay i'm giving you back to madge. sorry, i was going to be really funny and shit, but i don't know. it really is a war on poor children. they know how desperate these parents will get, that they will find ways to take care of thier kids. and if they don't, they will lose them. it won't just be infants going to orphanages. instead of just helping the parents, oh, it's economically ridiculous as well. it's all about hell and damnation and punishment MISERY.
i don't think people really know what's at stake. if we would evenly distrubute our wealth, every man woman and child in our country would get 150,00 dollars a year. think about that. this is ridiculous. so, okay, sorry. i tried being funny. but, well here's madge. happy love day to all of you in it. or lucky enough to have enough heart to still keep wishing . . . open your eyes to the moon tonight and think of me way out here, feeling the same shit. all of us alone, but at least we're not alone in that.
(i was a little funny for a while anyway i think, eh?)
okay, it's still jo, madge is out there doing jane fonda, throwing darts at her picture, anyway, happy valentine's day to courtney love and francis and adam duritz and every model he ever sweat on, eddie vedder and every model he's spat on, to jeff ament who, yes, okay, quit sending flowers and jewelry, i'll marry you, man, and to all the fat people, chins up (get 'em off your chest), and all you pathetic personal's people, i got my start on the net over there, after the poetry group with the charisma and talent of the tydy-bowl man.
oh, here's pearl jam, we should be at the bar listeing to this 'counter lady' song. oh well. work to do, worlds to change.
i do love you guys,
skippy, thanks man. i'll be back there in a few weeks. you bet. and i'm going to kill. thanks.
jojo