Tuesday, June 3, 2003

Trapped in Rosemary Woodhouse's Kitchen

12:21 p.m.

Waiting for Godot. Go-dough. Go-DOUGH. Go go. Gogo. He’s a mimic. Estragon is Gogo too. Vivi? Dodo. They’re extinct. Go dot. God ot. God ought. God dot. Goad ought. Goat odd. An odd goat.

Turnips. (And sprouts.) Talking around something. Talking in circles. What is a turnip? Turn up? Tur-NIP? Like pars-NIP? Language can’t define anything. Language just talks around something, without getting you there. Like this play. Circular. Repetitive. Boring. Cory says funny. Sigrid says funny too. Why is her name Sigrid? An odd name. An odd goat. Is Sigrid God? No, that would be lame.

Für Elise. Fur Elise. Not “for” — Für. With an umlaut. A bagatelle by any other name. Again! Für Elise again? I wonder what the person who keeps butchering Für Elise looks like. She should practice more. Just not now. Where is Elise today?

I am trapped in Rosemary Woodhouse’s kitchen and I have less than twelve hours until I am an adult.

Sunday, June 1, 2003

Campfire Style

There’s this skillfully written article in the new Rolling Stone about this guy, Jonah Falcon, whose life sucks because he has a giant dick. Odd, yes. It’s 9.5 inches flaccid, 13.5 inches erect. The guy who wrote it, Robert Kurson, sure knows how to write about giant dicks.
Tense your forearm. Now wrap your hand around the middle of the muscle. That is the girth of the erection. Those who have witnessed it describe it as ‘grotesque,’ ‘gorgeous,’ ‘hideous,’ and ‘stunning’ … His balls are proportionately huge, each the size of a grade-A jumbo egg. When erect, Falcon’s penis generates enough heat to warm hands — campfire style — from a distance of six inches...

Along the route to the subway station this late Saturday afternoon, Falcon will need to pause every few blocks for an ‘adjustment’ — a reconciliation of penis and pants to facilitate comfortable locomotion. The move, performed over twenty years, is Houdini seamless; if you don’t know what to look for, you never see it.

As he walks, Falcon shifts his baseball glove from his left hand to under his right armpit, pivots so that he is facing a store window, pulls out the elastic waistband of his skintight baseball pants with his right hand, then uses his left to lift the penis back into its sideways position — it had drifted down his leg and was pointing earthward. Once his organ is securely wedged to the left, he releases his pants with a thwap, flips his glove back onto his catching hand and resumes his stride up New York’s Eight Avenue.