Gimme a grip, make me love me
Suckin’ ‘em down, I’m happy man
Can feel it inside, makin’ me smile…
Gimme that z o l o f t
No longer pissed and if you don’t bother me
I’m makin’ it through, I’m givin’ my all
When bases are loaded, I’m whacking the ball"
- Ween, Zoloft
I’ve been plowing the fields of my imagination with a flea comb and can’t find a thing to talk about without using more profanity that I have a grasp of at the moment. And believe me, I have a substantial grasp of profanity. Or would it be more accurate to say that I have a white-knuckled grasp of a substantial store of profanity?
See? This is why I haven’t blogged in a while. To paraphrase Claude Levi-Strauss, my inability to form a coherent thought is matched by the deficiency of my imagination. And yet, I can still paraphrase Claude, so I’ve got that questionable accomplishment to reassure me.
But I’ll be back, like a case of herpes, just when you began to think I might be gone for good.