How to skin a lamb.

Another swig of whisky,
Another gleam in the collective eye,
Another rumble as the clouds part expectantly like the lips of her vagina,
Another drunkard trying to squint at the streetlight,
Another rodent scrambling for the safety of its home,
Another prostitute wrapping her mink stole tightly around her bruised body,
Another tramp chokes on his ale,
Another bartender wipes his hands on his trousers,
Another starstruck couple exchange work anecdotes,
Another pickpocket eyes his next victim surreptitiously,
Another urchin finds a furry mint in his shirt pocket,
Another general beats his wife in his condominium,
Another philosopher reads a Confucian text,
Another husband makes angry love to his tired wife,
Another thief pockets the opal he stole from a fellow man,
Another star processes the hydrogen,
While you regale me with stories of your incomparable incompetence.

Alphabetry and other juvenilia.

For me, the transmutation of thoughts into words has always been a tedious albeit intensely pleasurable one. It is because the thoughts in my head are too based in jocularity to have any actual significance when they are converted to ink or to a harmless pixel. But, what's burdening me for quite some time now is the burgeoning growth and availability of New-Age literature that most literary experts would consider 'bad writing'. Let me try and address this issue both heuristically and analytically. Lets see if I can be sardonic enough.

Most of us have been aware that bad grammar has been a symptom of ignorance of the English language for centuries. There can be very few collective efforts to directly influence this symptom in an apt, positive manner without adverse effects. What I have been noticing though, is the unprecedented growth of a lot of sloppy prose and puffed-up text so full of alliterations and metaphors, that it becomes impossible to decipher what the writer really means, although the writer never intended his prose to be cryptic and undecipherable. And the sad part about it is that the writer is absolutely convinced of the importance of his work and is so keen on generating more lugubrious scandals , that he keeps on writing and forcing his way into the literary consciousness.

Personally, I have always avoided reading the blogs of a few of my friends because their writings are so entrenched in colloquial intonations, it becomes a chore to read them after a few paragraphs. Academics will, perhaps, agree with me when I say this observation is not only limited to the Internet, it extends to the works in print, even. Literary richness is soon becoming a thing of the past. And while I have been practising the 'Out of sight,out of mind' maxim, I know it will not cause these elements to disappear entirely.

I have no problems with rookie writers. Thoughts can be expressed in the coarsest of language and yet be significant to a certain number of people. But, for the sake of the English language, don't post to the public domain. We don't want to hear about your criticism of David Fincher's next (or the untimely praise you heap on some unsuspecting fashion model)in a language that leaves us at the mercy of Neanderthal communication.

As long as the human mind is convinced of the potency of its thought, such literary debacles will continue to proliferate. I just hope the cancer doesn't metastasize to the collective consciousness.

The lovely wives of Tutankhamun.

I think it was a compliment when my acting coach confided in me that I had the emotional diversification of sand. I really love acting. I guess it's not too high-handed to throw words like 'love' around while I'm at it, but 'love' isn't really a word I have used in any of my recent relationships. I think when the proper pill-goddess comes along, I WILL say it.

Anyway, I did a decent job with the play. Acting is a fuckin' harrowing job. And Jean Anouilih drives me crazy with his dictated emotion. Makes me want to dig holes in the director's shirt with a scalpel. And my ongoing romance with his daughter isn't helping. Every time I reach across to pat her back or to share a pretzel with her, I imagine his ratty eyes goring my back like cheddar in a cheese factory. Yesterday, as I was having a quick lunch with daddy dearest, and he reached over to grab the salt-shaker, he told me something I will never forget - The pen is mightier than the sword,because it evolves and can be refilled. Not like the sword which always remains a blade and nothing more. As I opened my mouth to protest,he silenced me by saying,'Be a doll, and don't speak of the katana-toting samurai'. Trust my old man to pull words out of my mouth.

I guess it's hard being a douchebag when you have two pieces of salmon in your mouth. I leave you with a disturbing, all-seeing apron.