VICELAND AD #0000000

We are all part-time tenants on this big, old oblate spheroid of ours. Get the most out of it while you can. Home was just another place long-gone from where I never was. Slipping at the rink. There were chandeliers crooked with bottles. There were holier things than the ones I kept getting. Do not get lost in distinctions. Almost all the petals were bruised. We are the less of all mores. We are soldiers? Frontiers? I am shiftless, at least. I am one of the ravaged generation. I speak not a lick of French. A perfectionist who’s swallowed his tongue for the moment, in bad need of a martini or seven. Dents and davenports aside, who’s savvy enough to care a lot less about it all, now? All poured out. Another gesture never delivered: registered under an assumption, never named. Continental drifting through it all. Never mind about the rain. We’re all soaked enough as it is. All my nickels have been slugged. Anyway. There’s this point I keep trying to make between windswept moments, here. And I’ve got a lot less than dollars to my name, now. All that Victorian Stick over on Folsom, it just keeps getting older, like the rest of us, too. So, don’t mind me. This is a song I learned from Bob Lemon when I was a kid, and it goes a little something like this: “Memory’s just a longer way to never get home by. Stay old. Get the part wrong. In fact, part your hair the wrong way, all the time and then some. There. That’s that. And you know that’s the lie, too.” Pitch me another bullshit excuse for doing what you do and being who you are. We’re always listening at (646) 851–0347.

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