At some point, neuropathologist I will be in some institution with pastel painted cinderblock walls and it will smell like urine and I’ll be so zonked on anti-depressants because of the many suicide attempts in the bathroom… so many, they won’t let me lock the door to poop, much to the consternation of my roommate who, coincidentally, was the fey boy on that show with the robot daughter that I hated so much.


I’ll be lying there, at 94, cursing medical science for being so fucking good and keeping me alive for so long, and cursing myself for buying into the libertarian ideal for so long and trying to take care of myself and voting for me taking care of myself and not the state.

I’ll be there… Feeling the warmth of yet another badger bursting open… Or was that me pissing the bed again and that will spark a memory of the tool song where he says “god damn. Shit the bed!” and I will tell my poor blind, diabetic foot amputated fey former child star also ran pathetic fuck that I was in a band that played on the same bill with tool and he’ll scream “you told me that story 8 minutes ago, asshole. Is that why you’re still bleaching your hair? you only have that one patch, dumbass!!! you gonna get a record deal on myspace records? Let me know when the meet and greet is. I wanna bang some of those myspace sluts”

And i’ll scream that the SAG appointed shrink Dr. Tam, said that if it makes me happy, I should bleach it. it will remind me of when i was married to that beautiful academy award winning director, Jessie Hawkins.

And when i turn away, eyes brimming with tears, all I will be able to think about is how I would go to Gameworks in Minneapolis when I was doing some bomb show in 2006 and play the Nascar Pinball machine for 2-4 hours with one swipe of my Gameworks card. I will remember that instead of exploring the museums and art, I spent hours upon hours upon hours upon hours wasting my precious life playing god damned Nascar Pinball at Gameworks as the gangbangers shouted around me in their star trek uniforms.

“whatsyerface… did I ever tell you about that comedian who said that wearing a sports jersey of your favorite player is the same thing as…”

“shut up, you loser. you pissed your fucking bed. you bed pissing fucker. you fucking pissed the fucking bed. fuck you. why don’t you die already, bed pisser?”

i’ll look at the pattern in the annually painted cinder blocks and wonder the same thing. “he’s got a point: why don’t I die already? I got the high score but wrote ASS instead of my real initials DCE which i did for the #2 position. Why did I think that was funny? Was it funny? I can’t feel my left foot. Oh. Yes I can. It itches. But… didn’t they amputate it two months ago?” i’ll look down at the sticky, bandaged foot. it itches. But it’s not there. The feeling is present, but the actual thing isn’t.

on the gauze, someone has scrawled “METAPHOR”.

“Jessie… At least Jessie’s not seeing me like this.”

Four days later, he will have his own room for two days, until they find him a new roommate; the guy who wrote “Defending The Caveman” and then lost the millions he made when he opened “Defending the Racist” at the Eugene O’Neill Theater (now the Angelou Performance & Art Center) in New York City, July 8, 2009.

It had played quite well at it’s 3 day run in Pittsburg and 2 week run in Princeton.