Buoyed by your words of wisdom this week, I shall strive to remain somewhere in the eternal abyss between aspirational hope & hopeless despair.
Ahem. Thanks to your delightfully poetic descriptions, I am chuckling, smirking, & nodding, while what’s left of my mind attempts to churn out “alternative descriptions” at an alarmingly slow rate.
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am incapable of any successful action involving a trapeze, so I am substituting an alternative description of “traipses down the sunlit lane, periodically tripping & plummeting into the putrid sewage system below via a series of unexpected uncovered manholes.”
Or (in a last ditch effort of hope): “The crowd watched in horror, as the limping, unsteady woman reached for the trapeze bar, missed, & plummeted to her death with a blood curdling scream that rivaled the trumpeting of the stampeding circus elephants below. Which explains why her crippled corpse had to be excavated from a massive pile of pachydermal dung.”
My favorite is your flawed meat puppet romance analogy which has left me contemplating:
A. What kind of meat? (Prime rib or leftover chicken parts blended into chicken goo for nuggets?)
B. What constitutes flawed meat? (Maggot-infested? Or just a slightly undercooked pork chop?)
C. When Meat Puppet Meatloaf sings “I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that,” is he extolling the virtues of ketchup & expressing his disdain of alternative condiments in his meatloaf recipe? If so, the answer THAT has eluded us for decades has finally been unearthed!
D. While “every rose has its thorn” remains a valid depiction of the duality of life, the whole verse falls apart when you follow up with “just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.” Not true. Why cowboys? What songs? What an extremely lazy approach for coming up with the extra syllable needed. Sad sad?! WTF is that? Which is why I no longer follow life coaching philosophies from 80s hairbands.
As usual good sir, you leave me with much to ponder. And I am here to humbly point out that when naming your Substack “The Attention Of Fools,” you are bound to attract a certain caliber of fools, of which I am one. In fact if there is a spectrum of fools, I have checked all the boxes at either end & likely every one in between.
Yes. I'd like to think we are better off just admitting it.
I just read minutes ago, that one of my musical heroes, Brian Wilson has died at the age of 82. I knew I would hear it one day & sadly today is that day. All I can do is thank him for all that his music & his sensitive, troubled, resilient soul means to me.
Brian, if there's a place after life where you can meet your brothers, may you find them awaiting your voice to solidify the Wilson harmonies in eternity. You have given much to our world & to me. I thank you beyond my capacity for words. Sing in peace, brother Brian.
I continuously rely on you not to sugarcoat, pussyfoot, or beat around the bush, all euphemisms that interestingly, but not intentionally sound vulgar, now that I see them typed out…
Buoyed by your words of wisdom this week, I shall strive to remain somewhere in the eternal abyss between aspirational hope & hopeless despair.
Ahem. Thanks to your delightfully poetic descriptions, I am chuckling, smirking, & nodding, while what’s left of my mind attempts to churn out “alternative descriptions” at an alarmingly slow rate.
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am incapable of any successful action involving a trapeze, so I am substituting an alternative description of “traipses down the sunlit lane, periodically tripping & plummeting into the putrid sewage system below via a series of unexpected uncovered manholes.”
Or (in a last ditch effort of hope): “The crowd watched in horror, as the limping, unsteady woman reached for the trapeze bar, missed, & plummeted to her death with a blood curdling scream that rivaled the trumpeting of the stampeding circus elephants below. Which explains why her crippled corpse had to be excavated from a massive pile of pachydermal dung.”
My favorite is your flawed meat puppet romance analogy which has left me contemplating:
A. What kind of meat? (Prime rib or leftover chicken parts blended into chicken goo for nuggets?)
B. What constitutes flawed meat? (Maggot-infested? Or just a slightly undercooked pork chop?)
C. When Meat Puppet Meatloaf sings “I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that,” is he extolling the virtues of ketchup & expressing his disdain of alternative condiments in his meatloaf recipe? If so, the answer THAT has eluded us for decades has finally been unearthed!
D. While “every rose has its thorn” remains a valid depiction of the duality of life, the whole verse falls apart when you follow up with “just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.” Not true. Why cowboys? What songs? What an extremely lazy approach for coming up with the extra syllable needed. Sad sad?! WTF is that? Which is why I no longer follow life coaching philosophies from 80s hairbands.
As usual good sir, you leave me with much to ponder. And I am here to humbly point out that when naming your Substack “The Attention Of Fools,” you are bound to attract a certain caliber of fools, of which I am one. In fact if there is a spectrum of fools, I have checked all the boxes at either end & likely every one in between.
We're all fools in one way or another. Nobody escapes it.
Yes. I'd like to think we are better off just admitting it.
I just read minutes ago, that one of my musical heroes, Brian Wilson has died at the age of 82. I knew I would hear it one day & sadly today is that day. All I can do is thank him for all that his music & his sensitive, troubled, resilient soul means to me.
Brian, if there's a place after life where you can meet your brothers, may you find them awaiting your voice to solidify the Wilson harmonies in eternity. You have given much to our world & to me. I thank you beyond my capacity for words. Sing in peace, brother Brian.
Music is one of the very few true magics in life...imo.
Expectations are evil.
Digital 'connection' is bullshit. (There is no connection without touch.)
Simplicity—if you can actually find it—is heaven.
Romance is the best drug ever—if you can actually find the real deal.
Cynicism is fake protection from real life.
Having a good week is possible...hope you're there!
😂
I continuously rely on you not to sugarcoat, pussyfoot, or beat around the bush, all euphemisms that interestingly, but not intentionally sound vulgar, now that I see them typed out…
Huge thanks! I attribute it to being a Newarker no matter where I live...