That's it. I'm finally convinced. My next girlfriend is going to be a circus performer. I can't wait till Barnum and Bailey come to town again.
With this in mind, I can't believe there are three of them, that they can sing, and that they can turn themselves into one giant wheel. What more can you ask for in a woman?
And so, it is with great sadness with noticing that, if these women are still alive, they are probably in diapers at a retirement home. Fate, why dost thou mock me?
There is still hope, though. Hopefully, in some Romanian village there lurks a gumby-limbed cutie with a beautiful voice. Thus, the search continues for me.
I realized a few years ago that I'm not punk rock — I'm just cranky. I'm not cranky in a good way either. I'm nearing Travis Bickle at times: a tightly wound, solitary man who has one foot in the grave. Working late at night and staying up even later will do that to you. It will turn you into a machine who is working a machine.
But that isn't punk rock. That's just being neurotic — and you wouldn't say Woody Allen is punk rock, would you? I thought not.
Punk rock is what you see in this montage. The song, by the way, is "We're desperate" by X. This pretty much showcases what is punk rock. It's alcoholic girls who piss in an alleyway then offer you sex right then and there. It's strung out sons of guns who thrash uncontrollably and get their faces bashed in by a flailing fist. It's Listerine and dirty needles littered in a condemned apartment, acknowledging that your life is a mess — and yet confronted by a hope that there's something greater. That, my friends, is punk rock.
I realized long ago that it's not for me. There is no chance in hell that my nocturnal caffeinated twitches will ever meet the fury of raw and real punk rock. Yes, I may be on the cusp of a blow-out at times, but I definitely am not punk rock.
There's not very much punk rock nowadays. Every so often, though, you'll see it in some decrepit concert hall in skid row.
While everyone else may be thinking about how ugly or nasty that toddlerpede is, the first thing that comes into my mind is, "What kind of pregnancy must his mother have gone through? And what kind of birth experience was that?" That is, if there ever will be a real life toddlerpede. I can tell this fellow is a mean little guy. Perhaps he should take up a career in wrestling. He'd do one hell of a figure four leglock.
Jon Beinart has done one hell of a job with this sculpture. Not only does it titillate me, but it provokes my Kafkaesque imagination. I can picture this little fellow crawling under tables, getting behind the couch, and having one hell of a time in the sandbox. In fact, I picture toddlerpede to be some kind of supertoddler.
