Monday, May 21, 2001

hey.
here's me. workin'.
today is what they call a 'dark day' in the theatre. a 'dark day' in the theatre is any day where nothing's going on on stage; namely what every other profession labels 'dark day': monday.
which means 'the weekend' for an actor consists of monday and tuesday--the two days per week when the hordes of cultured americans
...
take sebatical from their seemingly endless quest for artistic enlightenment and watch re-runs of jerry springer instead.
which means don't become an actor if you at all value your social life. i mean; don't become an actor anyway, but most especially if you value your social life.

taking the path of logical thought progression, one might assume--this being a monday, myself being an actor--that i am posting on my day off.
one would, however sorrowfully, find onesself, in this particular instance...
just really fucking wrong.

you see, it just so happens that 'dark day' for the theater means we can rent the place out to other people for the staging of "non-sexually-oriented public events", such as this evening's staged reading which has imprisoned me in the office as of 9:30 this morning--caretaking the building while a bunch of actor-types ponce about and fail to impress oneanother downstairs.
ACTors.
yuck.
an amazing thing really; i happen to come across quite a few actors in my profession, and if you've ever seen a group of actors on a cigarette break--
...have you ever, e v e r seen just the pure embodiment of idleness? holy shit: actors just standing around.
you ever wonder why actors smoke? -because they have nothing--but fucking n o t h i n g better to do.

doesn't that insult you?
you people w o r k for a living!

anyway that kinda struck me this morning on my way to get coffee.

Sunday, February 11, 2001

...there are reasons behind it having been so long since my last assertion.
quit smoking.
didn't want to vent.
might offend someone and lose half my readership. then it'd just be ben; God bless him.

work gave me a couple hours off this week, and one of my friends is off dumping my other friend at the moment which means i'm home alone for the first time in months. home, alone, is reason enough for celebration--slave that i've become to my job (willing slave, mind you; but slave)--but home a n d alone...
well.
i could just pee.

so what does one do when one finds onesself alone and at home all at once? i've considered pulling a tightey-whitey-boogie a-la the business of risky; but as one or more of my duo of friendly-likes might walk in at any moment, looking for sanity and security in this big crazy world, i'd not like to subject them to the trauma of my scrawny arse be-decked in naught but me wee 'squares.

under-squares, that is.
that is; trottin' about to tom of waits in my 'roos...

guess that leaves masturbation.



see ya.

Friday, December 22, 2000



Gangster rap and a cookie;
Coffee and parliaments at a cyber café in d.c.’s dupont circle.

Nursing a nasty cold with america’s favourite diaretics.

Speaking with my steam-boiler man and fellow-soul, Bruce, the other week…
He was telling me of how the grand majority of the boilers around this town are too huge for their britches. 100-year-old giants built for heating spaces twice the capacity of the antiquarian homesteads in which they crouch.
Slightly flummoxed at the sight of so many warthogs in so many rabbit holes, Bruce—white knight of our nation’s metropolitan heating community—took a pilgrimage to the Grand Master Guru of Georgian Home Heating.

The Guru sayeth—after some several moments’ silent meditation—that the phenomenon has its roots in a particular socio-economic peculiarity which existed during the time in which these steam boilers had reached their peak in installation and use.
And The Guru told his tale.
One hundred years ago, the upper echelons of the d.c. metropolitan community thought it unhealthy to re-breathe their own expounded air. That once exhaled our breath became unsuitable for recycle; toxic, no less.
So these affluents, with their fancy-schmancy state-of-the-art steam boilers, would keep their windows forever thrown, that they might exorcize their own breath—feared the very moment at which it was discarded—and created monstrosities of human engineering to crouch in their storm cellars. To quietly brew like warm-blooded anacondas in two-gallon aquariums, and compensate for their masters’ fear of their own exhale.

It seems to me that there are a myriad of clever analogies to be had here. And while I would not dane to lay down any here amongst these humble lines, I challenge all four members of my vast and variegated readership to conjure up one of said possible analogies when attendant at the next dinner party or otherwise social gathering; producing a cleansing sense of awe and enlightenment minds of your enemies and fellows alike. In hearts both oldish and young.

And your very own mr. spanky, however removed by distance across these wide plains, shall indulge in a proud and widely grin—shall sit back easily in his burgundy drawing-room chair with brandy in hand, partaking of a decadent smoke—contented by the brotherly fellowship of kindred hearts and minds.

red wine and mangoes,
mr. spanky

Wednesday, November 22, 2000


a horse farts:
four or five suffer
on the ferry boat

--senryu


i don't know where you people live, but it's bloody cold here.
How come this weather freezes everything but snot?
Water, roads- my coffee froze this morning- even locks freeze- that’s steel, mind you;
but not sinuses, no- sinuses melt.

so here i sit;
nose running over an un-lit cigarette.
no fags this morning.
too cold for fire.



i don't hear much where i'm kept...

so i don't know if anyone out there is reading this, because apparently i'm a fucking idiot.
not that idiocy has failed to clasp the ear-holes of the various, loosely concience-toting bi-peds of this fair globe on some several occations;
it's just that this sheltered life i lead has not versed me in the point-and-click nature of this often-bewildering,
sometimes-neet-o,
other-times
fuck-me-in-the-head-aren't-we-human-any-more
wee global-communication thing.
both the brothers i know anything about are knee-deep in knowlage concerning... well, i dunno... web...
Webbie-Stuff,
and here i sit at someone else's glowing think-box wondering if i'm talking to myself.

anyone know how to work one of these things?
lemme know.
i vaguely recall Duke telling me and a few million others that knowing is half the battle.

Friday, November 17, 2000


here's a little piece
of the wee jonny bradley
for all you sad bastards out there
with a little too much
time
on your hands.