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Showing posts from August 29, 2007

Uncle Russian Cowboy...

You're going home Second City.
Gonna be a princess...
That's right, pretty little tsarevna. That's you Second City.
The purple flocked poster over the urinal is tattered with staples and dry gobahgoo. There's a big ol' smiley face in the middle. Puff, puff, puff goes the nose. My fingernails feel like they're slipping off a little bit. My foot's bent up underneath me and its filling with sand. The girl in the stall beside me is throwing up. That or she's talking to some really deep deep sheep.
What's that Second City, Second City, if it can't be done then it can't be done yeah no... That's so not so here in New York, New York, New York. The place where Crocodile Dundee slept and Washington ran away from. See my I-Heart-Tee-Shirt Second City, Second City. Now Get the fuck out. Uncle Russian Cowboy stuffs his cotton shirt back in his pants.
blahblah, blah, blah, blah... Uncle Russian Cowboy talks some more and then slaps mah face square b…

The Way Home From Mars

I liked the tin music from my flat speakers, it sounded like rolling fuzz on a fat sleeve. My record player was as old as my oldest sister and as orange as a plastic sock. It was on my desk beside the bowl of shells and the odd bits of glass that I found in the field behind our school. No one ever liked being inside as much as I did but if they did it must have been '66 and they were reading, The Way Home from Mars.
They were lost. They needed to make a difference and Buzz the Johnson was going to set them straight. "This is a democracy for leaders Mary," his eyes glinted. "There's no lip gloss where we're going." My ball glove was on the bed beside me. The leather smelled warm and fragrant like it had been hiding under cornflower. It rained during the day so dad called our usual game early.
There was a Gainsborough hanging over my desk, it was all tobacco and cool silk that made me hate horses and spindly ankles for a life time. Mom liked that stuff, …