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Thursday, September 04, 2014

Wonder Boys



You can't spend what you ain't got; you can't lose some little girl that you ain't never had

I don't read books like other people do.

I didn't listen to music like other people did, either. When I was a little kid, I did, I guess. But pretty soon I was casting a longing eye at things that came out of the radio instead of simply listening to them. When you play music for money, songs are just oxen pulling your plough, or in my case, ground beef on the plate. Farmers don't fall in love with pigs.

Had money in the bank; I got busted, people, ain't that bad?

I read all the time when I was little. All. The. Time. A whisker came out of my chin and I entered the world of men. I no longer read books for entertainment. I didn't read books for amusement. I read books looking for fellow travelers.

Had a sweet little home, it got burned down; people, ain't that bad? My own fault, people: ain't that bad?

There is dynamism in life always. It's not generally where you think it might be. I believe that most forms of culture and commerce have a trajectory. They are born, mature, and die. I have been subjected to the death throes of so many modes of commerce and art forms that I've become jaded. I don't know why everything that has ever presented itself to me as an avenue from poverty and obscurity has been croaking its death rattle by the time it got around to me, or why it has always chosen me from among all the other fools to hug while it pitched itself headlong into the grave, but I'm not dumb enough not to notice the pattern.
"Wonder Boy." "That man," he said, "has offered me unsolicited advice every day for six years, all of it bad."
Oh, what battalions and legions of Wonder Boys, what phlanxes of Wonder Boys I've encountered over the years. The schiltrons of Wonder Boys with the pointy ends of their ideas always facing out. Listen to me: I won't charge at the machine guns anymore while you cower in the trench lobbing only advice that wanly hits the ground around me.

Well you know you can't spend what you ain't got: you can't lose some blues you ain't never had

Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ? Why don't you just... ?

I don't know. Why don't I just... ?  Because I'm Spengler's little brother, that's why.

3 comments:

Casey Klahn said...

I fear Oswald's turning over in his grave. And giving you the thumbs up sign.

Me? I keeping looking for something new. You? Your flash prose is a shiny ingot.

Sam L. said...

I had never run across the word, schiltrons, before; I have learned a new word today, and I thank you, Mr. Sippi!

Johnny Glendale said...

Schiltrons? Really? Your lovely prose is veering into Dennis-Miller-obscure-reference territory. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Carry on.