Because I like it.
I like to party.
Somebody play some music. John Cage, quit playing the toaster. Go and dance. Buckminster Fuller is tattooing my thigh, explaining to me what he is drawing as it burns, up up up. Erte is snorting cocaine off of the table, where Angelina Jolie dances around, wearing a bedsheet with bloodstains, and Alan Turing has broken into our safe. He counts the bills, and gives us the secret code, that unlocks everyone’s heart.
Stiv Bators comes in, with clean laundry for everyone, and we all put on a slip. Someone has brought us a bottle of Early Times, but it is balanced up there on top a large rusted piece of metal. Impaled up there is a homeless man who plays harmonica, and this does not slow down the music, but his drool is slippery, and people are slipping and tripping, and running down the stairs. I lay my head back and way up there on the ceiling is a sticker that says chicken, and indeed, chicken would be a great idea.
In walks Tim Gunn, with a bucket of KFC and we eat and smile and our faces are greasy. Tim Gunn has a hanky and Shepard Smith will tell us the news. His hat blows away, and we write on his head with Sharpie markers. He looks at my toes, and I look at my toes, and I am standing on this geodesic dome, and there is some clanking away, and we are all spinning and spinning, and wondering when the hell Johnny Cash is going to show up.
Add comment November 14th, 2007