Saturday, September 09, 2006



“Burro”, as you know, is colloquial for ‘donkey.’ Donkey, or Equus Asinus, is a fine animal, almost always furry. They are loud, like Ethel Merman, but not fat, like Ethel Merman. Rather, they are slim, like a thin person, and they can eat anything, even vegetation that would kill you or me. And if they could hold a pistol, they could shoot you or me, and we would be dead, even without eating vegetation of any sort, even that which is healthy and good for the digestive system. And lucky for the gun-wielding burro, the The Wild Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act of 1971 permits them to roam freely, although of late drought has presented a problem for them in their favored habitats. Now they can kill without fear unfettered until they die of thirst alas.

Look at the smiling burro! Look at his smile! Does he remind you of someone, of Ethel Merman? And speaking of roam, did you know that the ancient Syrians associated the common donkey, burro, Equus Asinus or whatever, with Dionysus, the god of good times living and drinking? As I speak to you of all these things, you do not notice that I have put you atop a burro and said giddyap.


Once the burro has administred the anti-memory vapor, you will no longer remember anything of the burro. “Who the hell are you?” you will ask. He knows what he is doing. Yep, he is one brainy burro.

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

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

A PENSIVE MOMENT FOR THE LIKES OF CRISPY, noted in a pensive period

If I were the sort of man who would give up my job and family in order to travel the world and say “God Bless You” to everything (“God Bless You Jerusalem Artichoke”, “God Bless You Adriatic Sea”, “God Bless You Funny Indonesian Man with Big Straw Hat”) then I would start my God Bless Yous with my Stainless Steel Soap Dish On The Top Floor Bathroom Sink.

“This is something I could really bless,” God would probably say, gazing at its gleeming steel soapy surface (bright, but not like you would go blind) and gazing with great affection, and probably thinking to himself, “Why couldn’t I think up something like that?”

And who wouldn’t say that it is truly a sight to behold and not because it is stainless steel, or because it in an attractive, bosomy-oval like shape, or that it is so light that sometimes you wonder if it is equipped secretly with angel wings that will assist it into a state of aerial locomotion at first like a helicopter going straight up without moving forward and then like an aeroplane going forward very fast like an angel that might do that if provoked, no

It really is none of those things: it is not the gleeming surface or the structure or the possible locomotion someday of the vessel so much as it is the accessories. They are very simple: one scuba diver who attaches himself to the left outside railing of the dish (he is wearing blue* goggles), and kitty cornered to the blue goggled scuba diver are the sharks: one is pink, like the color of a kind lady’s parosol, and the other is a flinty grey, the color of an authentic shark, in the water. Now by water I mean the ocean, not the sink, or not a lake, where sharks fear to tread.

These sharks are traveling in a clockwise direction all, with the diver banking on the upper left side (close to the moisturizing soap) while the pink shark, who I believe is a lady shark closing in on him, is practically nipping at his heels. Where, you might, exactly, or where exactly might you ask, is the grey shark?

The grey shark is parallel to the driver, on the other side. There is no joy in the grey shark, only flintiness, which is often grey in color, and it is that lack of joy and abundance of flintiness that fills me with awe and wonder. What is he saying? Why, it sounds like:”But I am a shark! A shark! A shark!” or perhaps “Let’s go to the park! The park! The park!”–perhaps even: “I believe it was a meadowlark! After dark! After dark!”

I think he probably was saying But I Am A Shark.

Why would he say such a thing? The pink shark is mute (but ambitious) and the diver merely indifferent, in spite of the fact that he is about to lose his left foot *plastique* to an ambitious pink shark. I think that that have a routine and that they like it and it goes in circles and is comfortable like an old shoe, one that could be improved upon by replacing it with a new shoe, but one you don’t replace because, well, it is comfortable, and yet, somehow, frighteningly so.

All I I can imagine about the verbose grey shark is that he is saying But I Am A Shark because he really IS a shark. Who knows how he got into that cockamamie soap dish. And Lord knows he wouldn’t mind chewing on a foot as long as it was a little more, well, fleshy? Still,

distressing as his plight might be, it is nice to know that this shark has found life after death, and that he did not have to relinquish his being: he is still a shark. That is, if he was one before. You notice that he say But I Am A Shark and not But I Was A Shark And Still Am One. After all, he might have been almost anything else. For example, in an earlier passage, I alluded to a Funny Indonesian Man In A Straw Hat. Or perhaps less materially, he could have been a Question Mark. Or perhaps even the air that transpires from the mouth of An Indonesian Man as he asks a question. I like cowboys, too. And the theme from The Untouchables. He could be anyone or anything. Even you or me, if that’s alright with you. It’s OK with me.

Which brings me back to my original point: if you are going to offer blessings, quit your job so that you can cover more territory. It can and often does entail significant acreage. And as endless as it may appear, you should be glad that it is only as endless as it appears now, for after a while, it gets even endlesslier. And even after you have blessed the increasingly endless cosmos of stuff, everything changes and should be blessed again.

You notice that I said “should” and not “must.” I do not wish to prostelitize: after all, it might not even matter, in case the cosmos end up being not particularly Judeo-Christian. But when I look at the flinty grey shark and his divine mortal form on my soapdish, I cannot help but think, well, maybe there is something to it after all. Although I doubt it. But you can never tell.

Best of all, it might.

I mean, if you can tell.

*by 'blue' I mean, of course, yellow.

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

Monday, September 04, 2006


from the Kunst Museum, Basil, Switzerland*


Senecio would be scary if:

1) he wasn’t orange

2) his nose wasn’t 4 squares put together

3) his eyebrows matched

4) his mouth existed

5) he wasn’t a painting

6) he wasn’t dead *

* not Paul Klee. Senecio. By that I mean, if he weren’t a painting, he would have been alive. If he were alive in the year he was painted (1922) and by that I mean a newborn baby in 1922, he would now be dead. Or he would be a very feeble 84 year old. (1) Besides all that, by now, he wouldn’t be so orange, and the eyelid–he has only one–would be fluttering. I for one am not going to spend a lot of time worrying about Senecio because

1) he sounds like a funny ancient Roman guy

2) or a zippy Japanese hatchback car

3) if he is either of the above he is either dead or a lot of fun to drive

4) I eat oranges for breakfast but fresh, ripe ones from Florida not old, depressing ones from 1922 because that would be

a) weird

(1) You know, I have always thought that ‘feeble’ and ‘84 year old’ go together really well.

* 'Kunst' is the Swiss German for 'peanut butter confection', although traditionalists tend to use a honeyed sesame paste and carry little derringers in their socks, or 'leiderhosen' *

* (leiderhosen: Swiss German for 'singing socks.')

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


When I was a child, it was not too terribly uncommon for grown ups to say “You must stop to smell the roses”–I always ignored them, can you blame me? Flowers, and the smelling of flowers, was an activity suited for girls; the pleasures of stealing and the quick getaway were more suited for boys. Especially little boys like me. You know, hooligans.

And I was just such a boy. My activities included but were not limited to stealing candy from the 5 & 10 store, to wit: Pixie Sticks, Twizzlers, Atomic Fireballs, Nil-L-Nips, Slo-Poks, Mary Janes, Butterum, Teaberry and Lemonheads. This activity, stealing, was both deeply satisfying and spiritually enriching, certainly every bit as enriching as smelling some dumb rose bush. Besides, all the grown ups who told me to stop and smell the roses and go to school and study hard and don’t play with your food and be sure to eat all your liverwurst and flush the toilet and don’t steal or hurt anybody especially Timmy because all of these things would show the world that I was a bad boy and should roast in Hell are now dead. And where is Timmy now? Timmy is *finis* now. And thus their message has lost its poignancy. And even though the 5 & 10 cent store had a rose bush outside and the roses were quite fragrant indeed, but I often ignored them because as I left the store and crossed the street, carefully looking both ways, I could see, as plain as day, naked ladies dancing and men shooting cannons into the sky as they sang The Internationale very loudly on the other side of the street; it was enchanting. Candy, thieving, naked ladies, cannons, loud noises and communism, I say yes; fragrant roses, liverwurst, Timmy, I say no, and if so, only briefly and in passing, and/or enroute to other things on the other side, over there.

Yet now I think, if only I had listened to them then–things would be so different today. Well, not really. for I realize now that they were speaking, then, in metaphor, and the rose bushes that lined the streets of my childhood near the 5 & 10 would not have held the key to a more inspired destiny. But then again–I am not one to shy away from metaphor, either. My Atomic Fireballs? Metaphor. Nik-L-Nips? Metaphor. Mary Janes, Butterum? Ditto. Why, even Lemonheads. In fact, it is all metaphor, meticulously chosen and crafted all, especially the 5 & 10, and except for the naked ladies and the cannons, which were real, in my dreams then, as they are, I think, today.

Still, I do hope that the grown ups of my past stopped and smelled the roses in some way or other as they suggested, as I hope the grown-ups of today do, too. But grown-ups rarely smell anything good; just like they say that you should get plenty of exercise, when they really mean that YOU should get plenty of exercise. THEY are comfortable in the hammock, under a lazy sun, drinking iced tea, with a sprig of mint in it. It’s like a metaphor–"where the sprig ends, and the mint begins"–that is what you will find there. You don’t even have to look.

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

Saturday, September 02, 2006



I never had a friend named Lemonhead.
I would like a friend named Lemonhead.
Lemonhead, I would say, you are not so
sour as your name might imply. And you
are smart. But I can’t help myself: your
smarts are one thing I love you is another
and my hunger yet the other. Let us realize
that one has nothing to do with the other
or either

If I had a friend named Lemonhead, he
would be smart enough to look at me
and see deep within my soul and
tremble in fear and say What are
you doing What are you doing but
also he would be smart enough to
realize that I loved him and that I
felt one thing and I did another and
that one has nothing to do
with the other, or either

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