Tuesday, April 24, 1990
Another lame personal ad response (1990)
Thursday, April 12, 1990
Answering Machine Message (Downey 1990)
Saturday, April 7, 1990
Trying to write porn while high (Downey, CA 1990)
Friday, April 6, 1990
On the subject of Paul, Timmy and buggars
Timmy never learned. Whatever the case or instance of his ignorance anyone chooses to discuss, Timmy is always going to come out smelling like a transmission. I used to hear it said that Timmy smelled like lots of pork after it's been killed in the sun. And Paul, his brother, known also as “the whale," smelled like some underwear that's been lying in a corner. There is more to it all than that but you must remember that water flows quickly, oil and honey more slowly and shit more slowly than the two of them.
Buggars are the eighth wonder of the world. The first seven pale beside the majestic green olive camouflage bits of olfactory byproducts. Once I knew a man who picked his nose in the window
of a famous restaurant in downtown Hollywood owned by an Iranian Jew named Raji. The man would always ask for this particular window to sit by and would always order coffee and say that he would be ready to order in a little while but that his stomach had to settle, oblivious to the unconcern of the waiter. Then, when the waiter had his back turned he'd pick a big green one and fling it up against the window. I must have witnessed this scene daily from the bus stop outside the window. One time I rode the bus twice in one day, and both times when the bus stopped outside that restaurant I could see the man, evilly leering at the window about to hurl his mucous missile at the glass.
More ramblings on the subject of Paul and Dorsey Fallen
long forgotten love affairs, buggers hanging out of the na -
Jesse wore his suitcase like a diving bell; he had cut a hole in the bottom so his little head could see inside the small world of clothing and personal hygiene devices.
Paul was a beautiful baby, very fat and hairy, but that was good, the doctors and specialists all agreed. “A wonderful mongoloid you have there, Mrs. Fallen.” Well, that was encouraging. Timmy had been such a disappointment. Betty had wanted a girl and Dorsey wanted about four or six hefty men so there would be someone sure to carry the casket at Betty's funeral. Those are important considerations for a man in the back woods of Kentucky with a four hundred pound wife.
Paul didn‘t know of these plans for a family pall-bearing unit, it would be many years and a whole lot of beers later before Dorsey Fallen would spill his guts to his third son, Paul one day
Then he said to him, "Oh, shut up my man of little cock."
Paul and Dorsey, new typewriter, buggars
BuggARS
Buggars in the night or "As the Twinkle toe communist cocksucker got his start.”
Paul was fat, yes, Dorsey woulsd
Paul was fat, yes, Dorsey would always say, but he was good. Best damn retarded kid a man ever had. Dorsey had quite a few things to say about Paul that weren't so kind or generous but Paul never took any of these things to heart. Paul, as myself, does not have any pubic hairs inside of his thighs; he a victim of brutal rape, myself a bizarre shaving accident. No matter, it is unimportant. First, we must ask our
This is a very nice typewriter, although it is somewhat impersonal For instance, if you'll notice, there is no period gracing the end of my last sentence. Yes, MY last sentence. Ok, so it's not the last one anymore, it's a couple back. But on a clear day, when there are no cops or ambulances or people dying in the room next door, you can really get a sense of peace. Not lasting or anything, but you'll never notice if you don't think about it.