Have you noticed that the other cats are assholes? I don’t feel like you have noticed this. Evee, Frida, and Quinta. You pet them quite a bit. Feed them. Play with them. Meanwhile, they vomit on the bed, randomly lash out at you, and talk all the time about murdering you in your sleep.
The worst is Evee, of course. Young and happy looking. She’s all like, “Ooooo, I want to lie on your lap. I’m going to lie on your lap so you can’t get up. I’m cute and obtrusive.” Sucking up to you with that rubbing…
I am writing to complain about a program on your streaming service that I found to be both inappropriate and upsetting. I felt tricked. Deceived. The advertising for the program was false in such a way, I think, as to deliberately draw the unwary — possibly even the children! — into the sinewy tendrils of its insidious plot, theme, and message.
Crash Landing on You, a supposedly innocent and virtuous entertainment, took advantage of my weakened state in this difficult time, exploited my vulnerability, and, frankly, unmanned me. …
Transcript from an interview with Sisyphus, March 2021
Reporter: — levels are okay? Check. Check.
Cameraman (Off Screen): indistinguishable murmur
Reporter: Here he comes. Okay — Five, four, three, — , — HELLO! We’re here in the underworld talking to the famously reclusive Sisyphus! You may recall that Sisyphus was sentenced by Zeus to roll an immense boulder up a hill for all eternity only to have it roll back to the bottom, again and again and again.
Sound of rock rolling up a hill
Sisyphus: Grunt — NNNNNNN — argghhh — Mother — f*&^ing — f*&^ing — goddamn —
Love — or something like it — at the contradance! Who was it we saw canoodling at the Yarmouth monthly contra dance? Olivia Hackenschmidt, who has made an avocation of romancing everyone on the dance floor with her accordionistic seductions, was seen in the kitchen between sets whispering something-somethings with a fiddler-dude of up-and-coming renown. Is there a Mr. Hackenschmidt in the making? Hundreds of about to be disappointed folk dancers await news, and dancing on tenterhooks is hard on the feet.
Make that Money, Honey. Squeezer Rolf Lensheim will be raking in the cheddar after signing a contract with…
If I’m honest, my butt has always leaned to the shlumpy left. Watching “the news.” Being nice to people. Ignoring the basics of grooming. Speaking admiringly about the Nordic socialist utopias. It’s all of a lefty liberal piece. My butt became a Bernie butt. But polite, not one of those rude Bernie butts. Until my butt got angry.
I don’t know what the inciting incident was, but my butt began talking about marching in Seattle, the cops this, the cops that. Complaining about billionaires. My butt has never met a billionaire. What does my butt know from billionaires?
One moment you’re at the top of the stairs heading down to the garage. You’ve got a gig. The first since lockdown. The accordion is already in the trunk of the car.
The next moment, you’ve tumbled down the flight. Your arm is twisted behind you in a way that it’s not meant to. A bone pokes through just below your knee. There’s another hole somewhere, but you can’t see it. The blood from both holes is pooling on top of the indoor-outdoor carpet.
Nice, you think, it’s doing its job.
You hear a noise above you. A slight scraping…
I remember the conversation. On the phone.
“Hey, Mom. Does Dad like Miles Davis or B.B. King?”
“What? Of course he does. Dad plays trumpet. He loves Miles Davis.”
“Miles Davis and B.B. King are playing. I was thinking of getting him tickets for his birthday.”
“That would be amazing.”
And I thought, Dad plays trumpet? Because the Dad I knew played guitar and the B.B. King angle was where I was going with those questions. It turns out that my Dad did play trumpet, but hadn’t for some years. And he did love Miles Davis.
“Haven’t you noticed he…
I don’t need anyone else to tell me that my butt is not everything it ought to be. I am self-aware, self-pitying, and self-loathing, and the inferiority of my butt is a fact I won’t dispute. It is mediocrity in the shape of a peach. Here are six ways that my butt has failed me, and one way it has not.
Tom Waits writes songs that leave scars on you if you’re open to that sort of thing. People get the wrong idea — like wondering why he only writes about hobos, which isn’t true … read my satiric rebuttal of that canard — but one of the ideas they get right is that his songs are filled with, to use Keith’s phrase, sad bastards. Here are the top five sad bastard songs in Waits’ catalogue.
I write. I have always written. I write about education and other things. I play accordion. I have an extraordinary ability to be fascinated by things.