L.O.L. … Yeah, right.

phantom-tollbooth

Monday. October. 2015. I’m on
my front porch step with my red pen and spiral
blue notebook … Achoo! My nose itched and I went
inside to get a tissue before I sneezed.
As I blew my schnozz, the phrase “blue book” echoed
in my noggin. I glanced down at the shelf and
sure enough, I see The Phantom Tollbooth by
Norton Juster with its Carolina blue
dust jacket of a man staring down a dog
with a clock on its stomach that reads what time?
Five oh five. El oh el, back in the saddle
again, just like Aerosmith and Tom Hanks on
S.N.L. “Check. Check. Sibilance. Sibilance.”
Remember that joke from the Superfreak sketch
On Chapelle Show? The one where Dave is Rick James?
What did the five fingers say to the face? Slap!
Napoleon and George Washington? They were
pals, just like Tommy, Charlie and Billy the
Kid. That’s Captain Kidd, if you know history.
His number two is a French Maiden of Arc.
It’s like in Top Gun: Her name’s Charlotte. Call sign
Charlie. She’s a civilian, so you do not
salute her, but you better listen to her.
That lady. That woman. That singer. That blue
j-bird. Like Ice Cube said, “Don’t say the J-word.”
You ask if I’m a five percenter? No sir,
but still, I can go where the brothers go. Know
what I mean? All right. Anyway, on the back
of the blue book there’s a white horse and the word
Yearling, a publishing company based in
New York City. It was published in 19

sixty one. At the bottom of page one-one
nine, the text reads, “There were at least a thousand
musicians ranged in a great arc before them.
To the left and right were the violins and
cellos, whose bows moved in great waves.” Speaking
of which, I keep hearing people complain that
there’s too many violins on TV and
cello? I loved Bill Cosby when I was a
teenager, but now? Who knows, man. People lie.
People play games. People cheat and steal, then blame
it on demons or the devil. That’s nonsense.
It’s like Marcellus Wallace tells Butch in Pulp
Fiction, “That’s Pride fucking with you.” Let go of
the thoughts and ideas that don’t seem like your
own. Maniacs, crazies and psychopaths hear
voices. The Son of Sam’s dog told him to kill
people, so he did. Why? Most lunatics don’t
understand the notion of free will. If a
man told you to leap from a bridge, would you? No?
So if a voice in your head tells you to steal
a man’s wife or wallet, why would you listen?
Because that’s something you want to do. Some folks
just can’t keep their eyes on the prize. They’re busy
thinking about sex. Look at Jimi Hendrix
on some talk show saying he’s all about the
music while he points at his dick twenty times.
It’s like John Mayer playing the blues to get
laid by swooning soccer moms and dive bar rats
who are all just “waiting for the world to change.”
Waiting on what, exactly? The next guy to
come along? What if the next guy is Kanye?

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