Monday, March 23, 2009


You have how many years on this planet? First twenty, you don’t know what the fuck is going on. Last ten, you’re thinking about the next time you have to take a piss. So there’s maybe fifty in between, sixty more recently. Unless you’re in Bangladesh, or Florida. How many hurricanes is that in the last six years, on top of an extra foot or so of ocean? Florida’s gonna be a chain of islands before I shuffle off this mortal coil. Unless I take a buyout, which even though I have met Martin Kindred and know him to be a standup guy will never happen because I’m too goddamn old. Yes, LA, I’m old! I was born in the twentieth century! I was alive when Neil Armstrong walked on the Moon! I have conscious memories of Ronald Reagan! And yet you listen to me. Listen to me! In another ten years, you’ll be able to swim from Miami to Tampa, and along the way you’re going to see a lot of bewildered and misanthropic fucking alligators, man, because they had it good down there for a while. So long, Everglades. So long, everything. I think the end is coming. I have a feeling of impending impendingness today, and it impends. The sky is falling, the British are coming, the bases are loaded with two out in the ninth.

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