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musta bin sumthin i hate
i just spoke to new york. i hate new york. i hate that i am not in new
york.
harvey gantt worked the room at my restaurant on sat. ate with lo-cal big
lawyers. made money. went, as he came. still, and all, a pol, as is jesse,
but a pol who professes more like me, so i, like him.
his hair struck me more than anything. all like a diamond in grey at his
widow's peak, and a smattering of the same 'round his ears.
sunday i saw him on teevee (can'tsay whether it was live or
recorded) and his hair was _all_ a-grey. coulda been the lighting. but my
money's on a stylist, and some fuking spin-weenie who said, 'harv, that
grey's gotta go. jesse's old; you're young. old v. young, ya know. you
gotta look the part.'
shoulda seen him work the room.
hate fukin pols, i do.
hate red wine when it spoils my keyboard. hate its stains.
hate dead pipe and lack of love.
hate that 3.2.3 is more handsome than me, and that women fall at his feat.
hate teevee.
i hate that all these leaking top 5 lists are so insipid; that i
played "shrek" once to a house-full and no-one noticed; that tful is less
than a house-hold word.
that xyc traded the horseflies cd mca debut for schoolkids credit.
i hate interruption.
and i hate being referenced.
-ri