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("Nothing Left..." / Page 5 of 5)

“For me this is going to be ‘The Year of the Driveway’". That’s the first little NOVEL. It’s the story of my quest for a driveway with a view. If I can’t find a whole driveway, then I’ll hoard a nice little parking space at the mall. I’ll spray paint my name on the ground in glow-in-the-dark paint so no one parks on top of me while I’m sleeping.

During the day, I’ll sit back in a lawn chair and wear Kris’s suicide shoes. Instead of being content to PAINT scenes from the parking space, I’ll holler at mall kids.

“The end.”

And this is my second new book : “My Big, Country-Mad Fried Chicken Book.”

In the front I have an APoLOgia about how I’m not mad at the really NICE baby boomers who made nice pottery, and forgot when they lent a friend five bucks, and still get sad over the perennial John Lennon “Where Are They Now” specials. The ones who accepted Yoko Ono regardless of how annoying or creepy she was.

The few baby boomers who STILL believe--in the present tense, I might add-- that all we really need is love--the few who didn't bail early from the college sit-ins to go to business class.

But the ones who made it to business class? Whoa. Jackals trained to go out and eat everything--dead or alive--down to the bone. The nub.

Blink once if you want some water; twice if you want to be put out of your misery.

They're the ones who bought their first houses back when they made as much as we still do NOW, but back then, they walked to school barefoot through snow, uphill, both ways; bread cost a nickel; and brownstones and Victorians just cost 39-cents. So they bought 'em ALL up, grabbing, hoarding, and trading property deeds like baseball cards, jamming stuffed shoeboxes of them under their Swedish dux beds...

... and everyone marveled at the SUDDEN housing shortage. [GASP!]

Ka--ching!!! Ladies and gentlemen, let the games begin!

And they paid science to shove old sperm up to the last egg leaning against the wall of a faded pink ovary decorated like an old casino in Cuba, so that 9 months later, two middle-aged parents can careen down Noe Valley sidewalks crashing baby strollers through crowds of people yelling, "Move it! Move it! The future's coming through!"

There is no future!--Even their kids know there's nothing left.

And unlike their folks, They won't need to pound any pillows and pay some '70s therapist thousands of dollars to convince them it was all their parents' fault. They already KNOW it is! They were raised like those experimental monkeys with wire mothers and they don't give a rat's ass about their inability to "love" as much as they care about their inability to DRINK the water / SWIM in the water /even SEE the water without some McMansion covering their fucking view.

They're in great shape from decades of “Jane Fonda” and now “Sit-and-be-Fit” videos. WE'RE gonna be old and grey and diabetic because we're the ones sitting down all day polishing THEIR silver.

The only things they fear are cigarette smoke, brain tumors from cell phones, fecal germs from elevator buttons, and MSG.

I’m telling you, cull out the herd, or we'll have to wait FOREVER.

And when they sense us getting restless like this, they dangle their good silverware in front of us, and treat us like maids they've promised to put in their will. I don't wanna see it in your WILL! Hand it over now! Because they always end up leaving it to their dogs or some foundation.

But what about the ones who accepted Yoko Ono and forgot to ask for their five bucks back? Some people might want to grab torches and chase them through the streets for the Yoko Ono part alone, but we need them to teach us how to cook with textured vegetable protein.

TVP : Find out what it means to me. Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me!

Yeah, everything in America seems to be going backwards. My mom used to tell me how the pendulum swings, but I think someone must’ve jammed it with gum and a quarter like a filthy parking meter. If it doesn’t get un-jammed and at least swing a little bit the OTHER direction, we'll ALL be going through temp agencies to work overtime in meat packing plants by the end of the week, then going back to Ellis Island and waiting for a boat to Europe while wearing fur loin cloths and dragging clubs.

I'm gonna get on board and go backwards TOO! Back to the fun part where I'm a has-been even though I'm a never-been. Why?

Because, close up, ambition's VERY boring. It’s also very exhausting-- I mean, you can’t just be a hotshot once, then sit down with a Henny and coke, and start paging through the clippings of your success...because it could be all over by the time you drive your parents back to the airport.

And it doesn't happen just once. You've got to get your little fannies back out there and do it again and again and again.

And it's never as easy as when you were young and thought the WHOLE world was YOUR oyster. Now you realize the world's somebody ELSE’S oyster, and you know what? WHO CARES? Let them have it! Having an oyster is so more work than you realize, and it’s a full time job just staying in front of the smell.

BUT, if you're gonna be ambitious ANYWAY, my advice is to pick something just off-center of your true bliss. Keep the real bliss pure, because even prostitutes keep things like armpits and kitchen cabinets off limits to customers.

There. That's the hierarchy of bliss : Protect your favorite; whore the second-color choice out like a mean stage mother; pay in cash; and live close to the ground.

And that's my personal, crusty story. Hey, don't gawk; YOU could be here, too. In fact, I'll save YOU a seat.

Hell, I've already taken up three plastic seats because if you can bogart three plastic chairs in a row in the waiting room, you can almost pretend it's a sofa, and that's even better than a pack of smokes in prison.

Those armrests in between ARE a little painful, but if you can get used to a little pain now, you'll be SOOOOO much better off later. It’s like a rite of passage, like bar mitzvahs or clitorectomies, and that’s how I got to be a welfare queen!

Yeah! Welfare Queens are the drag queens for the new millennium. A GOOD Welfare Queen should have just enough cellulite to make her interesting, and lots and lots of panty lines to spare; more than her fair share! She should also have a pair of cha-cha slippers. But for me, Kris's suicide shoes will have to do.

And speaking of panty lines, remember : don't PICK a writing career just because it fits nicely on a little kitchen counter. An orange-juice can full of scalding-hot BACON DRIPPINGS would be more fulfilling.

But everyone wants to be a writer. I just don't get it. It's so “John-boy.” It’s 6pm : do we even know where is his mole is NOW?

What the fuck's so great about writing, anyway? If someone's trying to kick our ass in a bar, we never think of any good comebacks until a week later WHEN WE’RE IN THE SHOWER. We've got alcohol and drug problems, and the LUCKY ones end up living with their moms and dying shortly after peeing all over the bed.

I think anyone who wants to be a writer should just sit down at a typewriter, pick up a fork and gouge their eyes out until the blood rusts the keys.

So do you STILL wanna go to a country cottage, look out the window at pretty green trees, watch the seasons turn green leaves from gold to red to brown, and write all about it?

Yeah? Well Hemingway had a little COUNTRY cottage.

It's where he BLEW HIS BRAINS out! A little drink, a little think about death....A LOT!

Oh, I understand, oh boy, do I understand. Look at me NOW! I was “something!” Had all that POTENTIAL! Now the word crumbles from my welfare lips like rancid foie gras and lands on my lap with a "PLOP."

SPEAKING OF PLOP, I hear that stupid white boys get drunk and stumble out into pastures late at night so’s they can tip cows over.

What's that called?

That's right, it's called Cow Tipping.

Well, I think they should try to come and tip over us Welfare Queens on our big platform cha-cha slippers.

And what would that be called?

That's right : It'd be called Welfare Queen Tipping.

Oh, you'd think it'd be easy, but it'd be harder than you think because we're too street savvy. You sneak up on us while we're in line and we'll slit your fucking throats and drain all 8pts of your blood for a #4 Value Meal.

Uh, huh. I know I would. I am A Welfare Queen and I can do anything--as long as it doesn't cost ME more than my $300 a month, that is.

Now let me sing you my welfare song before my suicide shoes convince me of the merits of killing myself first. However, my HARMONICA PLAYIN’ may cause YOU to kill yourself first, but if the welfare line's barnyard politics have taught me anything, better you than me.