A BROMIDE FOR THE SOUL

"As grim wet dawn broke over the salt flats, Robert became aware of his surroundings. And was cognizant that last nights dinner was, possibly, still alive. He had masticated firmly and decisively, and the hot sauce should have taken care of any further problems, but, never the less, it lived."

"It had been a dark and stormy night."


Actually, I had a quiet evening yesterday. I took a nap which lasted till about seven thirty this morning, despite intending to have coffee and a last smoke. And the nearest salt flats are in Marin, nowhere near my apartment.
I am just imagining some of the cigar smokers I know.
Their lives are sometimes strange.


"He remembered the writhing on the wall."

"It was a large and thick wall, with a broad walking space on top, and parapets. It circled the estate, and the captain of industry that owned it frequently arranged orgies on top, velvetly roping off the machine gun emplacements so that the teenage girls would not spontaneously murder the peasants after all the sugary umbrella cocktails."

"They writhed in sprightly dance; a frenzy."

"Grashoppers. And cherry bourbon."


One of the sanest people yesterday was a school teacher who enjoys a cigar away the wife and teenage boys in his charge. A friendly and very rational man, unlike many of the other cigar smokers (for which see previous essay underneath), whose company he does not seek.
We discussed literature while he lit his cheroot, before he went back out onto the patio to continue reading.
He's still on the novel from last week.
It's a bit of a slog.


BOB HONEY: MASTURBATORY GLEE

One book, which I am determined to acquire second hand (NOT new!) is 'Bob Honey Who Just Do Stuff', by noted auteur Sean Penn, famous for marrying Madonna.

Everyone who has been exposed to it already waxes lyrical. To quote from a recent review: "(it is) repellent on one level, but stupid on so many others".
And: "Penn doesn’t just swing and miss with his ambitious vocabulary; he swings and cracks a hole in reality as we know it, leaving us all unsure of the concept of a good sentence, how a novel should be structured and generally what makes sense any more. Words are not just misused, they are misplaced, to the point that Penn’s prose is more reminiscent of bot than man" (source: Sian Cain, in The Guardian, March 29).

It sounds epic.

'Surreptitious soupçon?' What does that even mean?


"Never one for psychosexual infantilism or paedophilic fantasy, after their sex he said, ‘Good vagina.
Maybe more Vietnam.’"

[Sean Penn, somewhere in his opus, quoted by Sian Cain.]


My first cigar of the day is burning lopsidedly, and keeps going out while writing this. I need to touch it up often with the lighter to correct that.
Sean Penn should have dealt similarly with his manuscript.
I shall enjoy every rotten moment reading it.
When I finally possess a copy.
Spizzerinctious.


It's lonely out in the salt flats, gringo.




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