Wait Just A Cotton Pickin' Minute Here

The Function of Reading

Frog Legs -- as you digest my free musing mood, wondering what monstrous scientific experiment is about to be performed next -- stop, read and know time is how you live life through the acute awareness of the here and now. Frog Legs is actually a track from Cakewalk. Reminiscing a recent summer night, sitting back with a margarita in my hand, listening to Voodoo Walters magically fill the air with the sound of blues rhythm, I’m mesmerized again. I want to yell “Play it again,” and rage like a mad Blue Jays fan who doesn’t remember the Yankees dynasty or when I was a weary lover unable to express feelings in prose (and I'm still pretty pissed off about that). I get up and walk away.

WEARY LOVER

Over time I've been

Hiding behind a naked maple tree,

A silly disguise, sliding down 

A steep hill to where it would lie.

Finding it every time without telling a soul,

Hoping you would discover me.

The birds would fly to southern skies

And you behind a branch or two,

So beautiful like a flower that faded before

As I arrange an array of roses,

Flowers in my heart where I silently cry;

The wood ages after years

But still I go looking not wearing my mask.

And I would find this place,

Running after dreams

That I would chase.

Chasing flowers turned into demons in my head, I stop everything. I just fucking stop, wondering, if time is how you live life, then why do I own a useless collection of cheap imported watches. A stop sign. I stop my idle constipated procrastination, looking in all directions before crossing the street, I move my old feet and walk through Kensington Market with a drunken swagger. With a heart of darkness, I'm finding myself deeper in the heart of Toronto. Buzzing about On The Road, it's a hot topic of discussion among sweaty locals. On The Road Again was a hit country song. I would review the book and talk about the Beat Generation, but I want to dig deeper and finish reading Naked Lunch and Mexico City Blues. Naked Lunch is staring in front of me. I open the book and I'm slowly reading. I sober up, but now intoxicating words are dancing in my head. As I order another water, it's so fucking hot and I'm uncomfortable reading about the bastard doctor in the book. I want to read on because the words are like music and medicine. Blues or country or anything with a heartbeat is pretty much on my playlist since I’m motivated to do nothing, other than read or drive on the Q.E.W. and imagine it’s the L.A. Freeway and I’m in the Hollywood of my mind. I would love to sign a book deal, knowing I’m too old to narrate the teen protagonist in Beyond The Blue Kite, I'm wondering if anybody would want to listen to the audiobook.

If We Die... It Will Be For Glory, Not Gold

Beowulf Monster Mash

Hwæt! Wé Gárdena in géardagum þéodcyninga þrym gefrúnon hú ðá æþelingas ellen fremedon. 

"Listen! We -- of the Spear-Danes in the days of yore, of those clan-kings -- heard of their glory." I'm not about to spew lines of Beowulf on you, but those clan-kings have heard about me and legendary radio on WRICH 109.9 FM, WOW 87.7 FM and AM 2200. But now, I wish my novel idea didn’t put me on the throne as the king of Lionheart’s failure. It started out nobly as The Lionheart Sound Network, but then Lionheart Leaks ruined everything. It started out as a bad joke, but there was nothing funny about Prime. 

I feel sorry for co-founding Lionheart Inc.™ and running the company into the ground. It was a mistake to accept responsibility. I tried everything. As a bad president, unqualified to run a network of radio stations, I’m sorry. Playing number one hit music after number one hit music, adding it up; and playing classic commercials, and then spending months trying to create an app, but nothing worked and I am sorry. The most common complaint about the network was its poor taste. It was offensive and recreating history was not a good idea for a company model. It was offensive, and although it might have been a home run if I pitched the idea in Cleveland, it was a cheap idea -- and my selfish quest to ruin the company trumped any chance of profit. I got out just in time, but now I'm apologizing and I’ll be sorry for at least the remainder of the decade. I'm so, so sorry.

All Apologies

The truth is that I've always controlled Lionheart Inc. and I've always participated in ceremonial duties. From food tours in Stratford to Mississauga, in the GTA and abroad, I've enjoyed the finest cuisine and all the best food from every culture. Just don't get me wrong. Slothful behaviour demonstrates how I'm wallowing in sorrow for wrongdoing to the company. Company expenses on great Mexican food is a fine example of how truly sorry I am -- that I want to do good, and better than good, by eating great.

Mississauga Food Tour

And I giveth you thou Burger King. May you eat plentiful and shame thyself by eating Whoppers. It sounds cruel, but in a cruel world, political correctness stifles free speech. Perhaps you’ve noticed that when the politically correct liberal rule-makers decide to name a group of humans they view as victims, they begin by creating a sense of shame to the group’s existing name. And so, somewhere over the years, the word Indian has been discarded. Nobody mentions Indians anymore. That’s because, in yet another stunning attempt to stand reality on its head, Indians have been assigned a new designation, the Indigenous people or Aboriginal people. This is an obvious attempt to make people feel better. The idea is, as long as we can’t help these people, let’s give the First Nations a positive name to distract everyone. I’m sorry, but it’s a way for government to say that’ll learn ‘em. And another thing, the closest anyone has ever gotten to the Star of David since biblical times occurred before Jim Morrison opened The Doors to Morrison Hotel. Blessed Jim looked up high into the dark sky and started singing Indian Summer. It was summertime, he'd checked out of his hotel and Indians and old cowboys surrounded him. They thought he was sick in the head, but he was just finding his way on the cross.

As a conspiracy theorist, I just don’t believe Jim Morrison is dead. He's risen for our sins. I don't believe in Juno or Man on the Moon. The closest we’ll ever get to Jupiter will be The Great Beyond. If you want to avoid 'The Great Beyond,' drink more water, and read my cat's new book, instead of trying to find water on a distant planet. They can’t even fix the water pipes in Flint, Michigan. Why not get a Juno to fly looking for water on Jupiter? Drink a cup of water and go to bed. And what does ‘Goodnight, sleep tight,’ mean? In Shakespeare’s time, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes, the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Goodnight, sleep tight. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, / That I shall say good night till it be morrow” when you visit Mattress King to get the best deal possible on a good night’s sleep. New products arrive in-store on a weekly basis at Mattress King. Visit Mattress King to view their whole selection of mattresses in stock. But this is not where I promote Mattress King. Get a better sleep by reading a good book. I'm here to promote Skedaddles' new book. As a writer, I'm here to promote literature -- so buy my cat's new book now. She (I mean me) would love her book to sell. STOP what you're doing and read cat books. Imagine a furry feline discovering if there will ever be a rainbow. Get it on Amazon.

The Happy New Novel By Skedaddles