This; And also that

Reflection number 1.
It’s just a matter of time before “Happy Feet: The Musical” hits Broadway. So if, like me, your chest starts to constrict at the thought of 100 people tap dancing their hearts out while wearing penguin suits, just consider this fair warning. The time to implant that cyanide capsule in molar #32 is now.
Reflection number 2.
Although I certainly enjoyed the movie and I laughed and laughed when the birdies bumped into each other and went falling down, I was left with the nagging feeling I’d just seen an exceptionally deviant film. (spoiler alert) The message appeared to be that humanity would stop destroying nature if only animals were more…entertaining. Even weirder than that — it’s not enough that the animals sing really well. They need to dance. So dance my fluffy friends! Dance or die!

(It’s not every day that someone asks you to write a short poem about Carl Sandburg.)
Carl Sandburg
was a dangerous man
always creeping around
on little cat feet infecting
people with
TB.

You gotta
let it fly
spread it around
your community
like spilling blue coffee
on your neighbors, the family
a cup of the “things I’m bummed about” grind.
After all,
if everyone has a
blue coffee stain on their shirt
who’s going to get all in your face about
that blue coffee stain
on your shirt?

I just told my kids that Scooby-Doo has a speech defect. But now I’m not sure.
Even though the dog speaks and functions in a very human way, is he not still essentially a dog? And given that, should we not therefore judge him as some sort of super-freak dog speech genius, relative to the dog-normal-speaking-ability curve???
If I spoke Chinese as well as Scooby speaks English, compared to how most dogs speak English (eg: not at all), let’s just say: I’d speak really good Chinese.
Perhaps the so-called “defect” lies not in Scooby’s speech, but in our hearts and their collective inability to judge things relative to a dog-normal-speaking-ability curve.

The deer liked to race around this particular meadow. Maybe it was the grass. Or the smell of the grass. Or the smell of last year’s deer. Whatever the pull, the meadow was packed with deer, and they were running.
Across the lake, Spencer sat against a hard rock that didn’t quite fit against his back and shoulders. Squinting he could make out individual deer as they sparked in and out of the herd. The echoing roar of their hooves pushed out over the lake surface. He kept waiting for a warm rain to fall. The air was heavy that way. Cozy.
It all reminded him why he’d parachuted down to this lake in the first place. Better to bleed to death hundreds miles from nowhere with a sack of money at your side than to slump your way into old age, clanking trays around some prison messhall.
Of course, that would be great if he actually had a bag of money instead of stolen laundry. Or if he was bleeding instead of just a little bruised on both thighs from where he’d squeezed his way out that window. What a surprise — to find it so small. It hadn’t looked that small.
As it was, no one was hunting for him. And odds were he had several years of hard living ahead. Plenty of time to relax, sort through his bag of clothes, wait for the rain, and listen to the thunder of the deer.

I am the just fy
the optional information
the only information
you do not need
to act on me.
Have no fear old friend.
No change no motion
no response
required.
Remain as you were
more or less
absorb me and
roll on.

and really might well do if I left him alone in the house for twenty minutes, a partial list:

• turn on the burner, light things on fire.
• shave off all his hair, put it in the sink to clog it up. a trick that’s not funny, never been funny, never will be funny.
• put physical pressure on the cat — just put both his hands on the side of the cat and sort of gently press in until the cat says “meew.”

And that’s why I won’t be leaving him alone in the house while I go to get coffee this morning.
Anything you fear he might do?

Steer clear of the drunk barber. His
blade sways. He shaves shapes
in the air.

Putting on the ritz everlasting.
Broad headed. Forever young.
Frankenstein.

Most of the press requests I get nowadays have to do with my ongoing “Bands-I’ve-Seen Project.” I’m sure you’ve stumbled on coverage of it while clicking past Entertainment Tonight, or read articles about it in The New Yorker. Well, everything you’ve seen, or read, or perhaps first saw as letters and then subsequently read — it’s all true.
“The Bands-I’ve-Seen Project” is a three-phase effort to paralyze time by recalling bands that I’ve seen and then focusing on those shows with both my eyes closed.
The first phase was taking a crack at compiling this list for myself. That was the part that got all the press interest.
The second phase has just kicked in — earlier today I posted a draft of the list as a stripe down the left side of the site. I’m leaving out opening acts that angered me, but including shameful moments from my youth because why have shameful moments in your youth if you can’t display them in public later in life?
The third phase is the really innovative piece, and as such I’m sure it will be completely ignored by the mainstream media. In this stage, you are an active participant. Here’s how it works:
If you and I have seen one or more shows together, please give the list a skim. Then, if you spot anything missing, drop me an email or post a comment here. For example: what was the name of that choral robe-flowing band that opened for Bowie? UPDATE: Thank you e! (“Polyphonic Spree”)
Once I have what looks like a complete list, I will return to focusing on these shows with both my eyes closed. And if I’m successful, we may well stop time, at least for a moment. Although what it would mean to stop time for a period of time I’m not quite sure.
Good luck to us all!