I was trying to write something funny tonight. Something about socks and printer ink. At some point, though, melancholy set in. Maybe it's "Sunset Boulevard" on TCM, or John Lennon's, "Imagine." Earlier tonight I had a seizure that set the room rolling back and forth, cold sweats, and blinking lights. Like Times Square breaking to pieces during an earthquake. But the bulbs never broke. They settled into the rubble burning bright.
It's passing now, so I'm going to take a couple of pain pills, snack on corn chips, and watch "Sid and Nancy" with Nancy.
They didn't have to shoot John Lennon, did they? No, they didn't. Chapman didn't. The world is jam-packed with awfulness, perpetrated by people who didn't have a reason. Not one that satisfies anyone but them. Earlier today, a news report informed me of Chapman's living situation for the last 30 years. Attica. Somehow it doesn't satisfy, does it? He could be the King of Siam for all I care, it still wouldn't bring Mr. John Lennon back.
I'm of a mind to post a video of what I consider to be the greatest song of the 20th century (and the the first 10 years of the 21st). Cheers.
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