Don't Put On Any Polesmoking Airs When You're Down On Rue Morgue Avenue.

July 4 2000, Los Angeles CA:

God damn it if we didn't get into the fucking Whiskey, man. Bloody red sun of fantastic L.A., man.

Ohhhh, oh, you're going to bitch about me again now. You're going to bitch about me and my fuckin' thing because I talk the way I do and write smooth and dirty and you're going to lean against that wall and call me on stuff because man you're so pragmatic. But I'm not going to pull rank at a party and I'm not going to command th' room when you've got baby pictures to show. See, I'm wanting to be left alone. I'm wanting to be at home. Now I am, anyway.

See how it fucking works? I'm not going to do any of that shit just because my failure was so picturesque or pretty. And so lengthy. And there were so many moments when it seemed like such a fuckin' shoe-in. So many pretty meetings at Capitol and PolyGram and A&M. So many 4 AMs drivin' south on th' Pacific Coast Highway and hitting Dana Point when the sun was soaking th' Sierras and it was so good to be going somewhere for fucking once. You know how that fucking feels.

See, I'm not going to assume that you don't just because you suffer from Pragmatizm. You know the fuck how it feels when sunrise meets motion. I wish I could give you what they scripted me for my Pragmatitis. It feels weird going in but man it's really good and when you start to come on to it you're thinking Dana Point, CA. You're thinking Venice motherfucking Italy, dearie.



April 28 1982, Venice Italy:

They let us off th' ferry from the train station and it's that jetty right on San Marcos. We get a pernod in th' square and Erica is high and goes and lies out in the square until she disappears under a carpet of pigeons. And the bill comes and it's a zillion lire so we just up and leg it. That's usually how I get my best sense of a city when I'm seventeen is getting chased through it.

I catch up with the other students and Monica Brinton and ask her to have tea with me and she does and it's fuckin'-A great but the girl mixes th' lemon and the cream and you know that's not a pretty outcome.

And I never forget the way it looks in her teacup, like jizz in a punchbowl, yeah. And those little strands, swimming around with a weird animus that you can't figure out what th' engine is. I can see them huge, I can see them up in the sky like bigass clouds fixing to open up and rain dna the fuck on your parade. That's what it looks like, yeah you've seen it.

Yeah, that's right, Mssr. Pragmatique. Into every life a little dna must fall and if you don't listen don't come back to me later. And you can't avoid it doing what you're doing, man. It's not going to work. Their are no clear guidelines to who gets fucked and who doesn't but I always walk around feeling like the other exceeeedingly large shoe is goin' ta fix ta comin' down.

And three days later when I'm looking at that knife in La Spezie and trying to get my watch off I'm looking over the dudes's shoulder and his head is blocking out the sun and I can see, yes, off to th' west. I can see 'em moving in. It's like Jesus poured the fucking tea and Zeus pissed in it all over the sky.

That's what it looks like, man. Do I really have to tell you? You've put th' lemon in the cream. It's how you learn. And to even have the chance to stand at a window in the early fall and watch your babies play in th' yard is one in a zillion. There's so many other ways it could have been.

And that's the odds of fuckin' everything. Don't give me any of this 7 to 10 nonsense. The Chance Of Anything is one in a fuckin' zillion. One in a zillion that the dice are dice and not primordial crustaceans on planet De3eihg. One in a zillion that you're driving a car to the casino and not gleurding a truxkll. Follow? One in a zillion that I'm sitting here well you get what I'm gleurding at.

Th' odds aren't important. Only th' outcome is important and there's always an outcome and when you think about it, on a cosmic scale, well, that's pretty generous. Generous.