I woke to Billy Holiday crooning, “I’ve been down so long being down don’t worry me.” It was like slugs softly filling my full metal jacket. Then the JB whined, “Stay on the scene like a sex machine,” and I felt like a new man, risen from a Hammer Horror flick.
Today I feel like I’m on a continental drift, wedged between glacial ice, and the thaw and the anthropologists are a long way off. And when I do finally get exposed, everyone will yammer, “He’s a fraud. He has cobbled together a personality from hundreds of little bits. He maybe the most genuine and the most artificial person you will ever meet.”
I’ve just read that I’m in good company. Seems as though hot pink spiders and quartz-dwelling bacteria are prime examples of beneficial mutations, species able to adapt and evolve to fit their environment. And why do I think hot pink spiders and quartz-dwelling bacteria would have anything to do with me? Because I think being a writer is a another way to adapt to the environment. It’s a beneficial adaptation, improving my chances of survival. Writers are the “Wow” factor of society.
I’m hissing like a cat about the dandy Sebastian Horsley being denied entry in the pearly gates of America on account of his “moral turpitude.” Jesus, what a philistine country I live in. Have any of the immigration officers never heard of a certain governor from New York who, like the rake Horsley, paid for sex? No one seems to be deporting Spitzer for moral turpitude. And what about all the Weboffenders, stiff little fingers madly typing in “porn” and then rolling in their moral turpitude like kittens in an old aunt’s lap. I don’t see the immigration officials breaking down doors, opening drawn curtains, turning down the animal grunts and groans. Or what about all those reality shows, encasing the mind in a deep freeze of intellectual turpitude?
Instead of security check points at airports, there should be confessionals and priests. The damn countries been thrown to the Christians and the moralizing pontiffs of piety.