I am not depressed.

Nothing bad has ever happened to me so for me to tell you (here in the verdant greenhouse that has a full-service bar café and rock stage) that I’m depressed would be “literally unconscionable.” I sometimes feel like “I can do anything.” My dreams are fully realizable. In fact, oh lucky jealous double of mine, resentfully chainsmoking Winstons and glaring at us from behind a giant bouganville, some of my dreams are already fully realized, or are in a state of constant realization, like the thirty-month extended orgasm that Steve Martin included in his list of things he would wish for in a funny Saturday Night Live sketch thirty-odd (and, Maurgueruethe, how very odd they’ve been, ¿no?) years ago. Last night was a chance to take a leap (one of those leaps from a standstill we did in middle school amid the other Presidential Fitness Test excercizes like the humiliating recording of the time one could manage to remain hanging from a horizontal metal pole) toward another (“professional”) dream. The difficulty with leaping toward dreams, especially from standstills, is that it’s hard and you will fail. At first, at least. And then it’s easy to rigorously don the turban of self-pity, the scrum [WORD CHOICE?] -kicking solo nightwalking Tenderloin pitywalk of the privileged, lazy, and fearful. Nothing bad has ever happened to me. They’ll make a movie about it, and there will be some big breasts in the movie. On my pseudomournful scuffly stroll through Nob Hill I looked up suddenly into the chest of a mannequin wearing a wool sweater. I had the urge to tumble into the mannequin’s perfect breasts and nuzzle them, and then extrude a cigarette from my anus. I did smoke a cigarette on the walk back, a kindly fellow traveler I had met that night, a man I was sure was going to be laid by a beautiful woman that very night, responded swiftly and MATERIALLY to my bogus bloviations about cigarettes. This is an annoying way of saying that a handsome man on a date gave me a cigarette after I mentioned wanting one. Waiting for the bus wasn’t fun. I should have stopped at a bar, but instead I went home, ate the food, watched the best of Soul Train. Billy Preston’s afro was soothing and encouraging.


I can do anything I want to, including write something that someone more intelligent, sensitive, and patient than I am will read and be enriched by. If you set my writing before a glass of pure soymilk for a few hours — wait for it — the milk will become enriched.

My saliva is bathed in nicotine, and carbohydrates are surging through my adorable corpulence. I’m writing this with you in mind. This is written for you. And for me. If I had a sedan with leather seats, would you eat until you were overweight and sit in my passenger seat, chainsmoking alternate Winstons and spliffs until we arrived at Santiago? Is that even possible? It doesn’t seem possible. Can one just drive south like that, beardless, helpless, terrified, with a huge amount of U.S. cash in the front pocket of fetid, stonewashed jeans until one arrives (by night in) Chile? And if your favorite and most talented filmmaker-uncle made a film about it, wouldn’t you smoke alternate fags and spliffs until you arrived at the Embarcadero to view it? Meet me at the high-end stationery in the mall and I’ll write your name in a leatherbound journal. I’ll press a pocket protector to your neck, smile (with adorable doublenecked corpulence) and say, “this will protect your neck” with a bogus knowingness, not breaking eye-contact for a moment. My tattoo, as you know, is of two flaccid and hyperelongated penises interlaced like snakes around the 8.5 English Towne emblem Stay Hungry.