Big stupid elixer

Twain hated opera and loathed Wagner as do I. Ride of the Valkyries is kind of a shit piece if you ask me. Twain sought to disabuse the people of nonsense. He did so. Eloquently. Old school Hunter S. Thompson style. Magicians both.

Then there was Poe. Madness and genius. Same as H. P. Lovecraft. A volatile mix. Most likely killed while voting. Seriously.

Capote, Steinbeck and Fitzgerald. Vonnegut, Irving, Bradbury, Banks, Updike and Robbins. Faulkner was always a little too deliberately obscure and symbolic for me. I did record his cousin though, Jason Falkner. Nice guy. Extraordinarily talented. Among the handful of Hollywood musicians I had reason to believe were were aliens. Extraterrestrial. No way could he be from this planet.

Not many female writers come to mind. Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea Trilogy was remarkable and Ann Rice was certainly firing on all pistons early on.

I have to wonder about the origin of genius. Can’t help it. I’ve certainly witnessed it. Right in front of me, mostly in recording studios and books. What impresses me is consistency. The good ones just keep doing it until their flame goes out. They produce art because they can’t help it. They are compelled. They simply must. Among all the things I don’t understand about brilliance, this is one thing I can relate to. It’s a compulsion. I can’t not. This I understand.

“Life is a comedy for those who think… and a tragedy for those who feel.” -Horace Walpole

We can’t all be geniuses. I’m sure the chances for divine inspiration are even more remote. Heh.

Two things I know. I’m no genius but I believe I can spot it. I’ve known a few geniuses I can’t like, I’d be just as happy to hit them in the face. Two more things: Despite years of service, my toilet plunger still wears it’s original price tag. Whomever is responsible for that adhesive might just be a genius. Life is huge. Um yeah, two things.

Let’s talk about the rest. A painting that hangs over the mantel. No matter how often I look, I still like. It’s why I hung it there. A melody, a solo or a bridge you can play over and over after years of playing it over and over. Movies and books. Al used to say there’s a fine line between clever and stupid. The line between crazy and brilliant is pretty thin as well.

I can’t remember breasts ever making a single sound. This, despite the time they spend in my mind.

Artistic geniuses always bring you to a profound place. Good or bad. They remind you while they move you. It’s that ability that is the hallmark. The ugly people know who they are. There’s a possibility it’s the rest of us that are out of are minds. I’m thinking it’s quite likely.

Perhaps the artists are sane.

I wondered about the creative process and thought about how I’ve often been able to see what I’m doing before I’m done. So I called two of my best artist friends to get their take on it. What they told me was consistent with what I already know. I can see it but not completely. I don’t see it finished. Sometimes I think I do but I’m lying. Often it changes almost completely. There were times though, that I saw it almost completely. Those occasions were really cool.

Dennys gave away free breakfasts yesterday. Had to be there by two. Missed it. Hmmm.

Kobe scored sixty one points the other night. Another art.

This guy Chris Hataway called me a little while ago. He’s a genius. One of the two I polled for this piece. He called to wish me a happy birthday. He missed it by three days but at least he was early. I was happy to talk to him. I bet he still hasn’t read my book. Prick.

The Fish did me a solid today. Thank you. Friend.

Drinks for my friends.

3 Responses to “Big stupid elixer”

  • Hey, fuck you dude, I did read it. but not before your wrote this. Fuckin’-A Prickzilla. Next time you call me a genius, I’m going to drive down there and shove a fist-full of snakes up your ass, remind them they are tread upon, and then steam clean your anus with a forked tong. Sorry I missed your birthday party. I’m sure you had a good time listening to Highway Star over and over again while masturbating to the glorious splendorous scraggle voice of Ian Gillan, the thin thunder of Richie Blackmore, the movie star, and the rest… here on Gilligans Inlet.
    CH

  • admin:

    I can only tell you there’s meat in my shoes. Marbled and pinkish. Pimientos, olives and sheared peppercorns. I walk around like this all day.

    Please do not speak of that song.

  • Out of context quote:
    “We can’t all be geniuses. I’m sure the chances for divine inspiration are even more remote.”

    That’s getting it exactly backwards, but its an easy mistake.

    See video link (youtube; 86x-u-tz0MA)

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