Things that keep and do not change

Brief -- the murderous sun is out now and I just got back from delivering Doc to Miami Lakes. This is an all-county shuffle that started in West Kendall with Chris L. and Ed-assisted shenanigans, caught up with Jesse and Mike R. at The Bar in the Gables, reinforced with the sweetness of the wonder twins, Jackie and Caro and their über-sweet friends Mels and Sarah (über-sweet? Hell no, completely delicious...) and was taken a wee-bit down the road to Kiki's formidable Transit Lounge... then the rain came and the phone got started on d-dials for which I will make no apologies. It is the summer of love. If you can't take a joke, then you can go and get fucked. Humorless humans mean as much to me as deceiving whores and loyalty-less friends. May the kingdom of Heaven descend upon your carcasses twice and sevenfold. Or if you're tsetse fucking fly about it, die of cancer assholes. All bitterchides aside -- for our initial waitress had the word "bitter" fonted in MS Sans Serif across her boobs -- another good slow turn went down tonight with a severe welcoming into the fold for Doc and Mike R. Where Christ erred boys, don't forget Chinaski won. I love the way rain pummels asphalt and finaggles its way into my window... I am but a blue-butted ape who's been occasionally known to trip twice upon isles of paradise; a jovial fool whose only resource is honesty and self-awareness... but seriously now, Missy baby, let's get that coffee tomorrow during the bake hours of the day! Our burgeoning friendship will only last if we slow turn it at least once with a certain degree of sobriety on my behalf. I will play tennis on Sunday. I will sleep. I never cared for current events or the way catsup seems to clog near the neck. I find that fighting the demon is harder work than embracing its stronger points. I do this, because if I don't, there's a better chance of an obit about me. The great stuckist artist and punk rock enfant terrible "Wild" Billy Childish once said "if an artist didn't paint, then they wouldn't be an artist" (sic). If that lorry-gunner on the Palmetto had kept it within the confines of his solid white lines, I'd remember better the closer I had originally intended for this... but get a little comfort from the following: it would've been devastatingly painful and crucial for your existence to have read. So with all that flowering guilt guiding the brilliant makings of everything else I'll say this much: New Castle Brown Ales are better than going to work... can a brother get a frothy "South African" here? Ooh, but I skirmished on the briefness, didn't I? So much for signing off journals in 1993. This is gonna keep and shit baby, it ain't gonna change cuz quite frankly, I ain't got no time.