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A shoe- and soul-sucking adventure, on different levels. Tuesday, instead of the usual thunderstorm of curses, I awoke with the remnant of a peculiar dream fading. Only the soundtrack remained of what must have been set in Africa... a fey Sharpton-coiffed religious man, who only shook with his left hand, palm up, was the only uncomfortable character I recall. The song, the old gospel number "This Little Light Of Mine, I'm Gonna Let It Shine." I suppose it should be telling me something, but I haven't a clue. Optimism, with an edge, I presume. Which I'm working on. Frankly, now that shit is hitting the Iraqi fan, I'm removing myself from the media. I'll still bitch, and make pointed comments from the air studio, and continue to let my feelings be known... but that TV's gonna have to miss me. It's non-stop ratings blitz now, just what the doctor ordered. The rabble will be confined to their sets, off the streets... or else in the stores buying, buying, buying those bomb shelter supplies. Maybe, in some way, people will catch on to the real story... but I doubt it. There seems to be some out there, making some noise. It's not all sugar-coated. I think I'm in the market for another (more expensive) fuel pump. Once the rains let up. Constant driving torrents have the streams and rivers gouting a flood of sickly, orange-yellow bile. It's as if the landscape is nauseous, as well. The Swede certainly is. Th calendar says it's Spring... just a little less enthusiastic than it could be. I can feel the sap rising in the trees, so to speak. When the sun comes out, and the studio dust settles, I'm heading for the asphalt. I'm done with the bumpersticker, at last, after some late hi-resing and delivery, tomorrow. I wouldn't mind seeing Venus popping out of that half-shell, as the waters recede. This adventure could do with making the "suck" word a more ecstatic one. And throw some more pleasant curves my way.
I wonder what the designer had in mind when he made the clay of this bodywork? |
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