God Bless Danny Devito


God Bless Danny Devito

The couch is a lonely hideout but it’s cheaper than the Catacombs these
days and comes complete with blankets and pillows and dangly chrismas
lights on the ceiling and a fairly extensive video library and a working
tv. I’ve got a strange view of my creepy neighbor’s yard and a miniature
sized stove and a cat who likes to jump on my face when I’m not looking.
I’ve been sleeping on the couch for weeks now–I don’t go in the bedroom
that much anymore. The place is haunted probably–the thought of that
mattress gives me nightmares. The whole room: scares me. So I live on
the couch. It’s a great place to grow a beard and watch the news and
read The Count of Monte Cristo at four in the morning after writing
imaginary letters to real bullshit-life editors. I’ve got beefs to pick
with all the big shots: Entertainment Weekly, The New Yorker,
Scientific American, the producers of See No Evil, Rita Cosby, whoever
the jackass is that decided to move 30 Rock after Scrubs, I mean come on
already–fuck Scrubs–hell, my nerves are so shot that even something I
read in Stuff magazine this month managed to piss me off. I don’t know
what’s wrong with me. I’ve taken to weeping hysterically every time the
theme song for Buffy comes on and I’ve started leading my Myspace posts
to Rob Thomas on his website with the super respectful ‘dear sir,’.
Every day I learn brand new things, like Robert Altman died and Mattel
had to recall 4.4 million Polly Pocket Playsets. These two bits of
information were announced back to back, I mean I don’t think they were
supposed to be related, the one being a reaction to the other, but what
if they were? What if for some strange and deviously unpublicized reason
the death of Robert Altman created some sort of ripple effect that ended
up causing the recall of almost four and a half million Polly Pocket
Playsets? What does it all mean? Why would they have to do that? That
seems crazy to me. But also sort of fascinating. Like Helen’s habit of ordering cheeseburgers
whenever we ate out at a cheap Mexican restaurant. Okay, maybe it’s not
like that at all–but that still doesn’t change the fact that Helen loved
cheeseburgers and would order them whenever we went out to eat. It
didn’t matter if they were on the menu or not. Helen could talk the
coldest bastard in the world into making her a cheeseburger. She once
talked a kid working the counter at a Ben & Jerry’s to make her a
cheeseburger. He wanted to impress her, so he impressed her. Jesus.

I’m still not sure how he pulled that one off, but
he did.




(old notebook poem)

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