Saturday, April 08, 2006

WHERE CRISPY SAT FOR HOURS AND WHO KEPT HIM COMPANY


I sat for hours on the dock near the ocean, with only the barnacles to keep me company.




Parenthetical note to readers: remember, if you read this, you simply must write me

all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006

Friday, April 07, 2006

LETTER TO A FRIEND, A CRISPY FRIEND


Dear Belovèd Whomever,

I meant to remind myself to write you with a post-it note. I am sorry that I didn't write you yet. I lost my last post-it today before I had my Classic Angus Steak Sandwich Hold The Mushrooms. That's right: mushrooms. Hold them. I know what you are thinking: John Cage liked mushrooms. He held them in his hands. That's true. Believe me though, he liked all sorts of mushrooms and was very open to liking mushrooms as he found them all over the world but if he were alive today–and if he were I think he would be 112–he would have said, "Crispy, I think you should hold the mushrooms here. They are not worthy of our contemplation." He really talked like that. He was so kindly, and his eyes twinkled mischievously. Do you like the word avuncular? I do too. I like to wear no shoes at all when I play the spinet.

All of this is off the point. The point is, I have no post-its. And were I to have post-its, I would like them to be near my thinking shower, where I do my best thinking. In fact, I have considered changing the name of my shower to My Best Thinking Shower, but I was concerned about the grammar. So then I thought perhaps My Best Shower (For Thinking) but that was too much like one of the Blue Note Vinyl Discs. Besides, I thought perhaps the if I said My Best Shower (For Thinking) that I might be tempted to add 'of' at which point all Hell would burst forth unabated as it is wont to do, often and abundantly and fruitfully so.

Back to the post-It note that I don't have anymore. I am not fond of them, but they are handy.

• I like every color I have ever found of post-It notes.

• I hear that there is a purple post-It note, but I think that is an urban legend, like when Charlie Chaplin entered into a Charlie Chaplin look-alike contest and came in third.

• I know that there is a sex scene in a movie where someone is covered in post-it notes but I forget what it is called.

• Short Break for a phone call: I asked Gelato if he knew about that movie and he said, "You're thinking about the sex scene with the woman that was covered in lobsters the color of Post-It notes." He's probably right. I think it ends with some kind of a bonfire and a lot of clubbing with big clubs.

• Anyone who likes Easter eggs likes post-it notes. This might not always be true, but so far it is. Ask anybody. I mean, anybody who is a Christian.

• If I had had a post-it note I would have considered writing down my Best Thought about the novelization of a particularly great episode of–well, it would sound cheeky and kitchy if I said it so I won't. I am certain that it will be fantastic. It's a cartoon. Can you guess? Yes, I really love you. It will have the word "Bull", like the animal bull, in the title, and it will have a good subtitle, I am thinking, at least now in my shower, "A Tale of Angry Love."

• I wish that lady next door would stop smoking all the time.

I am writing this down and then I will see what I remember later. Off to the post office!


Love,

Crispy


One other thing: if that lady next door keeps smoking cigarettes and keeps blowing the smoke into my apartment, I am going to buy one round trip ticket to NYC and one one-way ticket to NYC and put her in one of those large steamer trunks that they used to make and then put the large steamer trunk (I think it is sound-proof) into the overhead compartment if it will fit and then after I arrive I will flag down a taxi and tell him to "Take me to the Empire State Building" and then I'll (we'll) go to the observatory lookout with my steamer trunk and have a nice look at the breathtaking vistas for a few minutes and then take the elevator down to the ground floor all by myself, without my steamer trunk, if you know what I mean. Love, Again, C.F.

all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

CRISPY JOURNEYS INTO, I THINK, THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTFUL FUTURE PAST

We are close, but I fear when we become too close. Thank God for the inter-punct ( • ) which was invented so many centuries ago that you start to spin when you think about it. Not you, I mean. Anyone.

(What’s so special about you is that anytime one says “you” they mean “anyone” but if they knew you they would say “anybody but you.” That can be good, or that cannot be. P.S. I love "you." Thee.)

You look at things so differently that people cannot expect anything from you. What I mean is they cannot expect the typical things that people expect from others. They really CAN expect ANYTHING from you. They can’t expect anything from everybody else. Just you. Usually people don’t want anything from, well, you. It’s no joke that they are really not looking for it. They want just a little something. Not a lot of anything. Tiny bits. More can be a problem. I’ve seen people run really fast. "Hey, everything's ginchy!" I cry, "Come back!"

It’s fun to be afraid!

And so as you walk down the crowded street and people are bumping and jostling about you can tell that no one is running into you. The interpunct • saves you. It is a little black iota of space that separates you from everyone else. That can be good. It is not, however, a punctuation mark that I care for. It makes our true love grammatical, and impossible. But thank God, at least, we are still alive. And thank God we have our space. I thank Grammar for that. Anyone would. But not you. You thank you. I like the way you defy. Please come home.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

CRISPY CONSIDERS A JOURNEY

I could go to Singapore. I could go to Aukland.
I could go to Vietnam. I could go to London.

I couldn’t go to Singapore. I couldn’t go to Aukland.
I couldn’t go to Vietnam. I couldn’t go to London.

Maybe I could go to London. To London, I could go.

I would drive to Singapore and get in a taxi to Aukland. In Aukland, I would take a nap, or as they say in Aukland, a “siesta.” Waking up refreshed from my Aukland siesta, I would bicycle to Vietnam, and, if I still had the energy to do it, I would go to London, probably by Le Zeppelin Nacional, which is really the only way to go to London.

If you are coming to London, from Vietnam via Aukland–Singapore.

SOON TO BE NOTES ON TRIP:

Singapore: filled with tales about Turtles Saving Fishermen. Lots of bunk.

Aukland: New Zealand is free of most animal diseases. Everything is really clean and the ice cream seems colder because it is so darn clean! Nobody eats more ice cream than the Auklanders! Nobody! Nobody! Nobody. God I am lonely.

Vietnam: was really the child of a huge dragon lord and mountain fairy. They were huge. That’s what everybody keeps telling me. Personally, I believe them. They seem very sincere. Everybody is sweating. It is too hot to eat ice cream. The bicycle was invented in Vietnam, as was the dragon lord, who rode a bicycle. He was extremely fierce and brandishing a broadsword exhibiting extraordinary cycling balance finesse!

London: I am thinking fondly of Singapore. When you miss the things you hate the most, you miss the most. I hate turtles. Where are the turtles? And soon I will hate ice cream. Where’s the ice cream? There’s the ice cream.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

CRISPY CONTEMPLATES SAFFRON

What I mean to say is: I used to like saffron. I liked its species, which is Crocus, from the family Iridaceae. I liked its stigmas, of which it had three. They are the distal ends of its carpels. I liked the style, the stalk, and the rest of the plant. 
I liked that it was expensive: a pound of it costs more than a brand new Cadillac. And a Cadillac full of it would cost more than a lunar rover. And if you were in a lunar rover, you wouldn’t be able to smell its pungent aroma, because there is no atmosphere–upon which aromatic molecules find transport–upon the moon–or at least very very little atmosphere–to be sure. And if you decided to try to smell it by removing your space helmet, you would die instantly as your blood boils and your lungs burst from the intense pressure and oxygen free environment. That is, assuming you were in a lunar rover on the moon. And that is, assuming there was saffron on the moon. However, if you were merely hijacking a lunar rover because you were fond of lunar rovers and it seemed like the best manner in which to make a speedy getaway from a particularly dull trip to the Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center, I would suggest that you ditch the lunar rover somewhere other than next to your Cadillac, since Caddys have notoriously bad getaway pick-up, and yours is filled with saffron which would slow down a slow big car, so pungently aromatic. And since you and your car stink of saffron, you would certainly be nabbed, for the association of car, aroma, and lunar rover would be a 2 +2 = 4 equation, a dead giveaway, as dead as Lyndon B. Johnson himself, a good but not a great President, and one who acted suspiciously upon occasion, and for good reason, in his oxygen rich environment, gazing at the moon, somewhat squinty, albeit commanding and aromatic–a poet of the thieving stars. 

PICTURE ME, CRISPY

as I look at a painting of Robert Banks Jenkinson, the 2nd Earl of Liverpool. He had nice, sandy hair and sideburns, peaches & cream complexion, and wore those great white silk scarves wrapped tightly around the neck. I bet you can tell we are in the 18th century.

There are two ways of looking at Robert Banks Jenkinson: one is to review his unquestionably distinguished accomplishments as a statesman in 18th century England, you know, the century with silk scarves and sideburns. The other way, and probably the better way, is to feel sorry for him, and say, “It wasn’t his fault.” It really wasn’t. It wasn’t his fault that his accomplishments were woven in a tapestry of lyricism. It wasn’t his fault that as you try to review his work, your mind wanders to the Elysian Fields, and sits down with a picnic basket and says “this is a good place for repose, or rest.” For if you were to go out for a stroll in the garden of verse, eager to pluck scented fleshy fruit for your heaven-sent picnic, you couldn’t do better than to go into the garden of the life of Robert Banks Jenkinson and commence to pluck. Or at the very least, you could do worse. And then, you could also not go on a picnic. But with Robert Banks Jenkinson by your side, can a picnic not be not far away? Since it is still early and warm on sunday before services, let’s try it and see what happens, shall we?

• Robert Banks Jenkinson entered the House of Commons for Rye

• Robert Banks Jenkinson quickly rose through the Tory ranks

• Robert Banks Jenkinson served as a Master of the Mint

• Robert Banks Jenkinson was summoned to the House of Lords through a Writ of Acceleration

• Wait. It gets better.

• Robert Banks Jenkinson was summoned to the House of Lords through a Writ of Acceleration in his father’s junior title of Baron Hawkesbury

• Robert Banks Jenkinson suspended Habeus Corpus in Britain

• Robert Banks Jenkinson imposed the repressive six acts after the Peterloo Massacre

• Robert Banks Jenkinson rose to the rank of Lord Liverpool

• Robert Banks Jenkinson had friends like William Wellesley Pole, Lord Sidmouth, and George Canning; he knew, though only distantly, George Child Villiers

• Robert Banks Jenkinson died of paralysis

• time to eat


Next week we will review the accomplishments of John Fane, Lord Privy Seal under Robert Banks Jenkinson, who was neither a Lord, nor a Privy, nor a Seal, and who, both coincidentally and lyrically, died on the 585th anniversary of Hulagu Khan capture and plundering of the Hashshashin stronghold at Alamut.
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