Tuesday, December 27, 2005

The window sees trees cry from cold, And claw the moon

Jesus in a lemonade stand. We were sitting around Casa Borracho last night getting our tipsy on, watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force and Season 3 of Mr. Show on the crazy new big screen flat pannel TV Miles brought home as Xmas loot, and we were almost tempted to put poetry on this thing. Can you imagine that? We were going to write a poem about going to the bus stop in the morning. We would have so regretted it. We do occasionally write poetry around OGFP, but certainly not for public consumption.

We will write a poem and post it here if 300 people visit us in one day. How about that? Wordsworthian we are not, but if so demanded, we will try our best.

Anyway, so new TV. This will be interesting. Basically we've spent the last few months without one, and haven't missed it much. Coast to Coast AM and ESPN Radio 1000 have fed our souls the media we require. How many TV shows cover the phenomenon of remote viewing and the life work of the quiet prophet Edgar Cayce? John and Ed got us through the playoffs and World Series. Additionally, the internet is good enough these days for serious global citizenry, we have found. We do remember the days when we were Josh's manservant, and he basically bought us cable. And oh, how we watched the cable. C-Span! CNN! Charlie Rose! HBO! Deadwood! Baseball Tonight! Lou Dobbs! Little bits of us miss those moments, drooling at 3 AM, in the pale blue light of the boob.

We were talking to our associate Chris at the Bottle the other night and he was telling us some very strange drug tales, the veracity of which we'd like to double check with all of you. He was telling us about psychedelic drugs designed to make you hallucinate about very specific phenomena. Like greek gods. Like you would take a hit of acid (??) and then talk to Athena and her posse. Or Zeus would come to you as the swan, and try to anally seduce you. Or something.

He told us about two friends of his who live very far apart who both took the same drug at the same time, so that they might converse with Yahweh, the god of the Old Testament, as that was the drug's design. Both apparently did, and independently reported back to Chris that Yahweh, in fact, looks and sounds very much like Woody Allen. He told them he doesn't really run things here anymore, and he also told them that the key to the universe was in three or four numbers, which neither friend could remember exactly. Plans to converse with Yahweh again are imminent, apparently. We sense a steaming pile of horse hockey has been fed to us, but we are reserving judgement. Maybe we'll send a drunken text message to Apollo someday in a drugged out fog and he will tell us that love is like a rock to be thrown at a wall, repeatedly.

By the way, we have divined from reading Morgan's blog (look to the right side for the link) that her Moroccan adventure is beginning. We are v. proud and excited for her, and are sorry that we could not bid her a fond farewell in person. Morgan is, in a world filled with far too much asshat-ery, very excellent. Take care Morgan, and may the wind always be at your back.

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1 comment:

margaret said...

*chant*: poem!