“Plastic wrap,” said Dr. Finkel, a bearded man in his early forties. “I’d suggest using it for not only cunnilingus, but even just your standard tongue kiss.”
Josh bit down on the tiny canker sore on the tip of his tongue. He felt a tangy pain from the one on his lower gum. He’d suffered cruel outbreaks since as long as he could remember. Chocolate, salsa, lack of sleep, too many cigarettes, and stress were major culprits, as was new love, which generally included all the above.
“What am I supposed to, like, carry a box of Saran Wrap in my pocket? ‘Hang on baby, let me just rip off a piece…’”
“That or you tear it off beforehand, and keep it in your wallet, or next to your bed.”
“Sounds like a real libido killer.”
“No, the libido killer would be to not use anything and transmit aphthous stomatitis to your partner, which, trust me, gets a hell of a lot more messy.”
May 30, 2011
Keeping things simple.
I work at home, and if I wanted to, I could have a computer right by my bed, and I’d never have to leave it. But I use a typewriter, and afterwards I mark up the pages with a pencil. Then I call up this woman named Carol out in Woodstock and say, “Are you still doing typing?” Sure she is, and her husband is trying to track bluebirds out there and not having much luck, and so we chitchat back and forth, and I say, “OK, I’ll send you the pages.” Then I’m going down the steps, and my wife calls up, “Where are you going?” I say, “Well, I’m going to go buy an envelope.” And she says, “You’re not a poor man. Why don’t you buy a thousand envelopes? They’ll deliver them, and you can put them in a closet.” And I say, “Hush.” So I go down the steps here, and I go out to this newsstand across the street where they sell magazines and lottery tickets and stationery. I have to get in line because there are people buying candy and all that sort of thing, and I talk to them. The woman behind the counter has a jewel between her eyes, and when it’s my turn, I ask her if there have been any big winners lately. I get my envelope and seal it up and go to the postal convenience center down the block at the corner of 47th Street and 2nd Avenue, where I’m secretly in love with the woman behind the counter. I keep absolutely pokerfaced; I never let her know how I feel about her. One time I had my pocket picked in there and got to meet a cop and tell him about it. Anyway, I address the envelope to Carol in Woodstock. I stamp the envelope and mail it in a mailbox in front of the post office, and I go home. And I’ve had a hell of a good time. And I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don’t let anybody tell you any different.
Electronic communities build nothing. You wind up with nothing. We’re dancing animals. How beautiful it is to get up and go do something.
"Art is a world of opposites in dynamic relationships, like an atom. I think of electrons and protons going around the nucleus. You have to, as (Francis) Bacon would say, trigger the valves of sensation. You have to learn how to play your nervous system so you get results that you didn't count on. It's a huge gamble, it's an unknown thing. It's not what any of us have ever thought. Life isn't."
In 1985 I had a ’66 powder blue Karmann Ghia, a graphite Dunlop tennis racket, a warrant out for my arrest for stealing a double scoop of chocolate fudge ice cream from Baskin Robbins, a custom-size Rip Curl fullsuit with hot pink-to-fluoro yellow tequila sunrise gussets, a tremendous amount of guilt and regret after bailing out last second on an Isla Natividad run with Surfing magazine (Karmann Ghia broke down on the 101), a tetracycline prescription (chlamydia picked up from sex in a jacuzzi — who’d have thought?), a white cat called Ninkerstinker, involuntary semi-erections that my Quiksilver ST Comps did nothing to hide –
a much-anticipated date with a Material Girl –
a decent backside snap –
a really great pal named Rick Brown who coached and mentored me (and lived in a badass house overlooking Little Dume in Malibu) –
and not the slightest inkling that (a) technology would evolve in such a way that I’d be able to turn this shit into blogposts, and (b) I’d become so pathetic that I would actually do so.
Like herpes, my midlife crisis will lie dormant for months at a time, then flare up uncontrollably without warning. This video, Dawes covering Blake Mills’s ‘Hey Lover’ (a song that, like herpes again, seems permanently etched into my inner radio), fills me with joy, elation, and the sense that I’ve gotten it all wrong. If I could do it all over again I’d happily trade my 6’3″ Channel Islands thruster for an acoustic guitar and a band. Watch, and you’ll see what I mean –