I wanted to be a stand-up comedian, because I'd seen them on TV. Stand-up comedians lead very interesting, often funny lives, and they get to talk about them in front of people! Stand-up comedians get to say things you shouldn't say, and they get to play it off like, you know, they were only joking, and also, they are just exploring the ignorance and racism of the culture at large, and also, they are just championing free speech and the First Amendment to the Constitution, which is very important to do!
So, I wrote a joke.
Here it is:
There were two men sitting on a fence. One man said to the other man, "Why are we sitting on a fence?"
The other replied, "We are characters in a joke about two men sitting on a fence."
"And what," the first asked, "does that entail?"
"Well," the second answered, "you will say something, I will reply, you will say something else, and I will respond with something very, very funny."
The first man considered this for a moment, and then asked, "So, in this joke, am I what is commonly referred to as the straight man? Is that right?"
"Why, yes," said the second man. "You are the straight man."
The first thought about this for a long time. His brow furrowed. "No, no, no," he said. "I will not simply be someone for you to react to. I reject that as my lot in life. There is so much more that I could be. I could be a character in a philosophical allegory about existence and its meaninglessness, or perhaps its meaningfulness. Or a protagonist in a short story that perfectly encapsulates the generation into which I was imagined for countless college literature classes. My aspirations are higher than this. Good day to you."
And he jumped down from the fence, ruining the joke forever.
THE END
And since that didn't work, and I couldn't be a stand-up comedian, I decided never to write again, ever, ever again.
***
Hi. So, The Man Who Couldn't Blog will be taking a month-long vacation, as the author will be away and far too busy writing other things to write this thing. And, the absurdist books thing. And, adding to my collaborative novel, Tongue of Bee. But, back eventually.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Carmen
This is the world, this lovely, lovely fruit hat. We all live here on this lovely, lovely fruit hat that is the whole wide world.
We live here on this fruit hat—this hat covered entirely in fruit. We are the fruit on this fruit hat. We, the fruit on this fruit hat, are the citizens of the world.
We said, "...hat covered entirely in fruit..." but the truth is that we don't know. Is there, really, underneath all of us—we fruit on this fruit hat—a hat? Or is the fruit on this fruit hat, in fact, all that constitutes this fruit hat? We are not sure. Are we attached to something? Is there a skeleton? A continuous piece of fabric or a scarf? Are we, the fruit of the fruit hat, holding the world together as both its citizens and its superstructure?
This is a mystery.
What we do know is that below us is Carmen Miranda, and she is our pillar/God. She holds us up. She, stalwart, stoic, steady, carries us all above the nothing. Her feet reach down to eternity, to the everlasting abyss underneath. She is as tall as the entire universe. She goes on forever.
We, the fruit on this fruit hat, adore our pillar/God. We adore you, Carmen Miranda, who holds us up. Who carries us. We are your burden, but you never complain. You never falter. You are so much greater than all of us.
If we were anything other than fruit, we would worship you by setting up a hundred blogs. We would dedicate them to you, our pillar/God. But, we, unworthy, are merely fruit and have no fingers with which to blog.
We can only sing. So, we sing to our pillar/God. We sing to our pillar/God because we cannot worship her in blog form.
We live here on this fruit hat—this hat covered entirely in fruit. We are the fruit on this fruit hat. We, the fruit on this fruit hat, are the citizens of the world.
We said, "...hat covered entirely in fruit..." but the truth is that we don't know. Is there, really, underneath all of us—we fruit on this fruit hat—a hat? Or is the fruit on this fruit hat, in fact, all that constitutes this fruit hat? We are not sure. Are we attached to something? Is there a skeleton? A continuous piece of fabric or a scarf? Are we, the fruit of the fruit hat, holding the world together as both its citizens and its superstructure?
This is a mystery.
What we do know is that below us is Carmen Miranda, and she is our pillar/God. She holds us up. She, stalwart, stoic, steady, carries us all above the nothing. Her feet reach down to eternity, to the everlasting abyss underneath. She is as tall as the entire universe. She goes on forever.
We, the fruit on this fruit hat, adore our pillar/God. We adore you, Carmen Miranda, who holds us up. Who carries us. We are your burden, but you never complain. You never falter. You are so much greater than all of us.
If we were anything other than fruit, we would worship you by setting up a hundred blogs. We would dedicate them to you, our pillar/God. But, we, unworthy, are merely fruit and have no fingers with which to blog.
We can only sing. So, we sing to our pillar/God. We sing to our pillar/God because we cannot worship her in blog form.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Letter
In between L and M, there is a letter. The alphabet has another letter in it.
That letter appears in a surprisingly large number of words. You see that letter quite a lot. It's all over the language.
That letter floats behind words, you see? And it's only just sort of visible. It's only sort of fuzzy, too.
That letter changes the meaning of every word it floats behind. See, so a word means something. And then, you type that letter behind it, and it means something slightly different.
Slightly different, but different enough. It adds a significant nuance. It shades the word in a certain way.
It says, "Do you suppose?" to every word behind which it hovers.
It's important, you know?
And, I can't seem to find the combination of hot keys on my computer to make that letter. But, like, I need that letter to say what I really want to say. And so, no blogging.
That letter appears in a surprisingly large number of words. You see that letter quite a lot. It's all over the language.
That letter floats behind words, you see? And it's only just sort of visible. It's only sort of fuzzy, too.
That letter changes the meaning of every word it floats behind. See, so a word means something. And then, you type that letter behind it, and it means something slightly different.
Slightly different, but different enough. It adds a significant nuance. It shades the word in a certain way.
It says, "Do you suppose?" to every word behind which it hovers.
It's important, you know?
And, I can't seem to find the combination of hot keys on my computer to make that letter. But, like, I need that letter to say what I really want to say. And so, no blogging.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Stops
I am an inventor and my time is money, money, money. No, I won't be blogging for you! Don't ask.
I am an inventor, and I'm working on a new way to brake a bicycle.
(I like to ride a bicycle.)
The brake shoes are shaped like people. They are men and they are women—some of each. They desire to be with the wheel. But, they are repressing their desire for the wheel.
The grip, though, makes the walls built around their desire split and crash and turn to dust on the ground around them. The grip brings the brake shoes together with the wheel.
And, briefly, they are happy. They are without shame. They are in the moment, unrestricted. They are happy. They stop your bicycle.
And then they feel shame. And then they retreat. And your bicycle moves on.
Sadly, they don't know that on the opposite side of the wheel, they have a rival.
Sadly, they don't know that the wheel only desires its turning, and its connection to the pavement. It is only humoring the silly, repressed brake shoes.
***
Today is the birthday of Amy Hempel. She wrote this sentence:
"The house next door was rented for the summer to a couple who swore at missed croquet shots."
I am an inventor, and I'm working on a new way to brake a bicycle.
(I like to ride a bicycle.)
The brake shoes are shaped like people. They are men and they are women—some of each. They desire to be with the wheel. But, they are repressing their desire for the wheel.
The grip, though, makes the walls built around their desire split and crash and turn to dust on the ground around them. The grip brings the brake shoes together with the wheel.
And, briefly, they are happy. They are without shame. They are in the moment, unrestricted. They are happy. They stop your bicycle.
And then they feel shame. And then they retreat. And your bicycle moves on.
Sadly, they don't know that on the opposite side of the wheel, they have a rival.
Sadly, they don't know that the wheel only desires its turning, and its connection to the pavement. It is only humoring the silly, repressed brake shoes.
***
Today is the birthday of Amy Hempel. She wrote this sentence:
"The house next door was rented for the summer to a couple who swore at missed croquet shots."
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Hand
The very last bottle rocket in the pack is the one that begs, and I mean begs, you to set it off in your hand.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack is in the plastic, just aching to move. Just aching.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack is ready to go. Ready, ready, ready.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack wants you to pick it up (you, drunk, stupid you) and it wants you to light it with the very last match in the pack (the sad, stupid, probably wet, bent one), and it wants you to hold it, and wait.
Oh, wait.
Wait for the moment. Wait for the fuse to hit the powder.
Wait for the very last bottle rocket to go. And jump from your little, pale hand.
Drunk, stupid you.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack is in the plastic, just aching to move. Just aching.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack is ready to go. Ready, ready, ready.
The very last bottle rocket in the pack wants you to pick it up (you, drunk, stupid you) and it wants you to light it with the very last match in the pack (the sad, stupid, probably wet, bent one), and it wants you to hold it, and wait.
Oh, wait.
Wait for the moment. Wait for the fuse to hit the powder.
Wait for the very last bottle rocket to go. And jump from your little, pale hand.
Drunk, stupid you.
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