K Sublime

Why isn't anyone calling me back?
Well, shucks.
I wanted to tell you all about the merman I kind of know, but now I feel slightly pouty (or sleepy, I only got two hours of sleep).

He says that touch is the last of the Mohicans. It was his way of clarifying what Cher tripped through in "It's in His Kiss". Deep stuff.

Or, for those of y'all that dig Depeche Mode, words are very unnecessary. They can only do harm.

Not entirely true. Like, if you're waiting for an email or a phone call, words are pretty flipping imperative. I'm sleepy, yo.

A few folks have been hip enough to catch that I haven't posted an archive yet.
Yay you! You're so rad!!

I am a well adjusted, mature, happy adult.
Rinse.
Repeat.
I say too goddamn much on this thing. I box myself in and hold no mystery.
Which is entirely uncool.
Paper's still not nearly done. I'm wasting time. I don't want to write a paper.
I want to be drunk, or not, outside, playing my guitar and seeing stars that probably died before I was born. Then I want to lie on cool sheets and dream all manner of megalomaniacal dreams.

Howard Stern scared the poop out of me.
He doesn't usually do that.
Yesterday he expounded on the many reasons he would not date a woman with kids. Even if Jenny McCarthy were free (she has a son and Howie likes her), he'd run for the hills.

My male friends assure me that having a kid is akin to having syphilis and gonorrhea at the same time. Which is nice. My female friends disagree, but that's because they are nice.

Perhaps I should buy the first of my cats now?
Or write my fifteen page paper due tomorrow morning?

If you do not like Pablo Neruda...
I'm avoiding my 15 page paper by reading Neruda's love sonnets.
He writes about other stuff too, for those of you who are not cheeseballs.
Sometimes I prefer his nonromantic work.
One day I hope to find a posse of bored people who feel like drinking wine or cognac or whiskey and reading Neruda all night.
When I read him I want to rip up all my poems. Aren't I the chipper lass today! Come, we lick arms.

Slow down my beating heart.
I am not good with realistic expectations.
I wonder if this makes me a megalomaniac.

I'd like to chase hope down a dark alley and smash its head against a brick wall.
Repeatedly, until it promises to stop following me around telling me falsehoods.
But--I am a pacifist and everything like that. I mean it in a nice, 'you can't really chase hope down a dark alley' sort of way.

If I were to honestly encounter hope I believe I would offer it a slice of peach pie.
Slowly, slowly love.

On an interesting sidenote: I now understand Amberie's desire to lick someone's arms. It had seemed kind of odd before, as I never thought of arms, but now I do.
Indeed.

My shit is tight. And also beheadings.
80 grand said that to me the other day...I think it's a... compliment...?
Every week I'll be posting "The Best of Kanga Sauce", in honor of our dear departed (well, replaced) previous blog. Yes, the ever popular letters to Alby will be among the posts included (i got ur number...hehehe). The first will be...on Monday I guess. Many ellipses...
A word about the many beheadings (okay, two). I have long lamented the lack of nonviolent resistance as far as the Islamic fundamentalists are concerned. But for a minute I'd like to explore the anger that must seep from their pores, so much so that they slice a man's head off to punish his country. What is their breakfast like? How does their day go? Beheading is a much more personal business than than planting/dropping a bomb. That must take some special kind of terrible. I'd imagine the nightmares are bad. Not as bad as those of someone whose loved one was just beheaded though. Jesus.

Feminine Wiles. Where can one purchase such?
From time to time I hear that gals can get guys to do things by using 'feminine wiles'. By like, crying. Or showing some chest.
I have never done anything like that in my life. If I have, it hasn't worked.
I do not even know how to flirt.
At all.
Which makes all my relationships minor miracles.
I blame my disintegrating ovaries. I have a health condition that causes me to have slightly more male hormones than I should (among other things). My ovaries are failing, like the petals of Beast's rose, and maybe that's where my feminine wiles went.
I am very impatient with the entire courtship thing, which is why I was uninterested in it for so long. Some of my blog readers may be surprised to know that for many post-Astrophysicist years I was a mild mannered, calm hearted logical type. But then one night a young man sparked my interest, and a year later Alby burned the whole fucker down again. I digress.
Working 'feminine wiles' feels quite artificial, I'd imagine. But men seem to respond. Which really, is what makes the world go around. How men feel about things. Love and war and politics and life. Brute strength and all that.

Don't cry, it's only the truth.
Before it turned suck, the Matrix had a clever idea: most people are stuck in 'The Matrix'. And are happy to be there. Some people come out and want to go back in.
This happens in reality. It does. Truth, like God, wields a lead pipe sometimes. It is easier to turn away before one's knees are broken. It is comfortable to believe in Santa Claus.
Sometimes succumbing to truth means admitting you were wrong. That you built a belief on sand instead of rock, that you thought the paint was marble, that you could not tell if it were butter or Parkay. It can be incredibly humbling and difficult to do this. People can build entire lives based on erroneous thought and lies.
There are some who would say that all truth is subjective. I believe, for example, that there is sufficient evidence to prove the current occupant of the White House is a cowardly bottom feeding spot of a man. Someone may disagree and believe with all their cockles the opposite.
Is all truth subjective? Methinks not. It is true that the sun rises in the east. It is true that I love the kid. Indeed there are absolute truths. They shouldn't make one cry. Even as wheat is ground to nothing to make bread and all of that. I am all of a sudden inclined to read Khalil Gibran's The Prophet.

More later today...

Deleted posts.
Yes, I've deleted some posts, for those of you who have been asking.

Dear Alby:
i heard i dont like u cause i dont know u
like i gots to have a degree in A.l.b.y.
before i can even apply for the job of totally platonic unthreatening person
who likes to be around u even as u try to turn me into some ant and it has been six months but it feels like a day and this is sad.
so um, i require a cheat sheet.
like, do u like eggs?
do u get cold or hot when u sleep?
i get cold. unless its 800 degrees out like right now.
do u like me?
oh i know that one!
is there some kind of school i can go to so i know u good enuff to like u back?
are you chicken bawk bawk to see me because i will make ur semi-colons will come back?
i think u r.
if u are not write back.

Plumb Dumb.
Mr. 80 grand asked. I declined, much to his (and my) surprise.
That was before I found out he thinks it is stupid to volunteer, "why do it if you're not getting paid for it?".
Ahh...a superficial, money hungry, selfish jerk. Just what I've always wanted!
He was full of compliments for me, though. He thinks we should go on vacation together.
He asked me out again at the end of the day. I declined.
Clearly, I am plumb dumb!
Good to know, really.
Explains a lot.
And that's what guys like, isn't it? Cute Dummy or Poser Book Hag?

Ronald Reagan.
It is sad when people die. Even when they're a conservative former actor (hey, Hollwyood should stay out of politics, right GOP?) and you couldn't stand to be affiliated in any way with their thieving, lying, fancy poser ass. I am soft that way.
I work with someone who has alzheimer's disease, it is a painful thing (one day I will pontificus on mental disease). There are people who deeply loved Ron. Poor Nancy must be delirious.
But the near beatification of Mr. Reagan is something I don't understand. Actually, I guess I do. It is so innately American. Or Western.
Say all the nice things when someone's dead, that's the way. Everything is such a BIG HUGE DEAL.
Hey, America, maybe you can spare some niceties whilst people LIVE; we spend so much time fighting each other, ourselves....and screaming over each other and blowing each other up. So much time running away. Where are we running TO?

Love to love you baby.
I bought a pair of shorts that says Aloha! on the butt.
Yes I did.
More later.