Wednesday, November 25, 2009


Today that I wondered if it was too late for me to have a child and name it Crostini (if it was a girl)

Crostino if it were a boy. Or maybe Crostina if it were a girl. Crostini if I couldn’t decide.

Today I walked by the dead possum on the street and said, underneath my breath, “Crostini” – What else could I say? Not “Possum.” Everybody already knows that.

Today I wondered if I would ever be brave enough to walk from the White Truffles of Alba all the way to Crostini, Italy.

I can’t decide if I want to do that. Crostini.

Today I admired the stealth, sleek, outlaw timbres of the Stratocaster Guitar. It’s sounds like a Crostini that has been lit on fire by someone on Death Row.

Today I thought that if I ever visited Russia, would I be able to find Krostinis in the local Kaffes. In St.Petersburg, perhaps, but it is doubtful that I would find them in Moscow.

Did you know that Woodrow Wilson’s dog was named Crostini? Speaking of strokes,

No Tuscan meal would ever be complete without a crostini, a rinse of Grappa, and someone having a heart attack afterwards

I remember that the bubble gum that you used to get in Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum was shaped just like a minature Crostini that was pink and sweet and nothing like Crostini

I remember that the first time I saw the Shroud of Turin it made me really hungry because it looked like a Crostini, although I hadn’t had a Crostini yet.

I think that the Crostini is something that you always know, even before you do know it.

My favorite part of ‘Crostini’ has to be the ‘tini’ part

Tuscan Kale, Ricotta Salata, Sweet and Hot Pickled Peppers Rapini, Sweet Italian Sausage, Roasted Garlic, Asiago Fresca. It’s a no brainer: Crostini Rules!

I have a friend who always says: Kurt Cobain rules!

Which is stupid; Kurt Cobain doesn’t rule.

My favorite part of ‘tini’ is, I think, ‘ini’

Thursday, November 19, 2009


When believing in yourself would render the holy spirit, made manifest, swiftly traveling to your mind, via your nostrils

Tuesday, November 17, 2009


Deadly, active little boys with tomahawks in full ceremonial headress without digestive problems and the sisters that love them who are also quite regular and the fathers that chop down things for them with shiny axes who also have digestive tracts that are clean as a whistle in spring as the autumn leaves float away in sensual flight never to be seen again, probably


English-speaking Cows that married formally-attired angry bulls accompanied by their semi to fully-naked children from previous marriages or assignations, garnished simply and beautifully by sweet, everlasting daisies.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009


Today I realized that after all these years there is only one thing I wish that Richard Brautigan hadn’t told me about himself and that is that he is hairy. Was hairy.

Today I said Wow! That’s really something but I wasn’t really thinking about anything.

Today I received a letter that said: Where’d you go, Mister?

Today a scary old smelly man said HEY, I LIKE your bowtie and then started picking his teeth with a paper clip.

Today I concluded: No one can write about having your picture taken with a chicken in Maui, feeding hot dogs to crows, watching old Japanese women weep while looking at horror movie posters, getting angry at a little red spider trying to weave a web on your arm, or missing your daughter, quite like Richard Brautigan, who is hairy.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009


Today I learned that a woman who
invents something is called “an inventress.”
Well, don’t think me terrible, but I have
never met a woman who invented anything.
I also have never met a man who invented
anything. Again, please don’t think me terrible.


Today I was riding a bicycle
and humming “Back Street Girl”
by the Rolling Stones and a squirrel
darted out into the road and tried to
kill me. When it did, I said, and this
is the truth: eep.

LIONS: He had a delicious laugh, bittersweet as a fine Amantillado. Anyway,

Yesterday, on the front page
of the newspaper,

there was an amazing article
about how over thirty one people

had been mauled to death
by lions–

In 1898! I am glad that they didn’t
tell my great grandfather this.

He hated lions, with a passion.

And he was alive in 1898.

He tended to be a little ornery.

He would have oiled up his Winchester
and gone out into the Savannah and

that would have been the end of that,
in terms of lions.

Think how different our lives would be
if that had been the end of that! Can you

even imagine a life without lions or books
about lions? Or my great grandfather?

What about mauling?

It’s something

I would rather not even think about.

It will make me sad if I do.

I am telling you this because I do not want
to be sad. Not at all. I want to be happy.

Damn it, I miss my Pappy.

And I have always wanted to write
the following words on a page:



“Oiling up his Winchester”

Now that I have done that, presto!

Now I am happy.
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