Young Abe Vigoda plays Frankenstein
thinking on Liz Phair, the changing tide of discourse, and how we grow
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Light bulbs for the wicker man
I abided by my promise. Six years ago I drank my very last drink, woke up suicidal and tired. Swore off all my bad habits. Then I walked down to a tattoo shop, listening to Dwight Yoakam in the shitty headphones paired to my phone. Drank a perfect latte and smoked three (four) cigarettes on the way.
No blood in any of this
I remember green feeling different. Green that was more than just a shade reserved for grass slowly emerging through the melting snow in the not-winter seasons of my youth. Green that hummed on a monitor, green with sharp corners and dull edges. Pixelated and cold, but teeming with life and
Duct-tape and soldered wires
Last night I had a dream that I was at a friend’s funeral, and this morning I had to wake up and check the obituaries to make sure it wasn’t real.
Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the severance turns the minutes to hours
I’m thinking about “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” this morning. Partially because I always am, and partially because of three seconds in the opening minutes of the latest episode of Severance.