Oh, Andy

I continue to compile books in my head. I'm reading at a great clip from multiple sources, simultaneously studying seemingly everything. I don't know how much interested I am in the topics as the way the ideas are presented. I don't know what I am looking for. Everything, maybe.

Pudding. What is it with this stuff? It's like snot that tastes really good. I adore pudding. I feel like I'm slumming when I eat it. I love the dirtiness I feel with the little cups and the spoon. One day they are going to crack down on this stuff. Why doesn't it need to be refrigerated again?

I used to watch a lot of monster movies. Then I figured out that the monster was always my hero and I associated the destruction with what I would do if I wasn't always under someone's thumb. This led to the inevitable examination of my psyche and caused me to become prematurely enlightened, which causes swelling and tenderness. Once I recovered from that, I resumed watching monster movies again, this time adding pudding. So far, so good.

So I read a lot and while I read I frequently day dream. Sometimes I am attacking Tokyo while I read about physics, but just as often I attack random futuristic cities that are obviously models. Yesterday I was laying on the couch reading about Raymond Chandler's homophobia while I sensuously made love to a velvety soft spoonful of chocolate goo. Ooh it melted on my tongue as the discussion raged about why he would marry a woman so much older than himself. Later I looked at some pictures of pudding.

Who else is tired of the Fibonacci sequence? Hey look, a flower…does it remind me of a vagina, or does it make me want to get out a calculator? For some there is no difference. I'm just going to say that I'm not one of those people. I'm pretty sure I can tell the difference. They aren't spelled the same, and one of them is never where it's supposed to be. While neither of them needs refrigeration, only one of them feels like pudding on my tongue. If there was a woman here right now, I would get her to show me her calculator.

I don't read a lot of humor. I don't find things to be particularly funny when all around us raging monsters are tearing up cities by the roots and shaking their rubberized tails to neo-modern disco. That music is just not that funny. It wasn't funny when the BeeGee's were snorting coke and it's still not funny. I cried when Andy died. Curled right up on a couch with a four pack of chocolate/vanilla swirl and read about Simon Bolivar slowly dying in a sodden shithole town that no respecting monster would deign invade. The music died with Marvin, but Andy was special. I can still see him hosting Star Search in his leather unitard with his package jutting precariously out at the audience. He came and he gave without taking and we sent him away. Oh Andy.

Years ago I had a nymphomaniac dominatrix girlfriend who informed me that I'm a stimulant freak. One night we were just driving around in my old van and she was prattling on about one thing or another. She was an honor's student at Berkley so I figured she had to talk about something interesting sooner or later. Most of her psychology training was learned in the dungeon making guys eat her poo. We never got that intimate; she used to light me up in other ways. But she was right. I do love stimulants. My favorite form is the plastic coffee you get at gas stations. If only they put caffeine in pudding and I could pull off the sudden road and skip away from whoever I'm riding with and fill a slow cup with lovely snot textured, chocolate flavored, high octane gel, my life would somehow be different. Maybe then the golden ratio would be the size of the city being tormented divided by the anger of the monster bent on its destruction. Maybe then we could come to our senses about the truth of the number zero and the things that can or can't be divided by it's absence.