THE SUBTERRANEAN HOMESICK NOOS » theatre

Nice piece of art

16 04 2006

I saw a penis.*

I know what you’re thinking: Well, cialis ampoule Noodle. You are in New York, viagra click surely they’re as common as ciggie ends on the street.

But hold up. Let me clarify. I saw an ‘artsy’ penis.

In showed itself in the name of art, I mean. Not porn.

For the sake of art. You know, on stage. Acting. Well, the penis wasn’t acting—unless the stage direction was ‘disinterested’—but it was part of the act that I was watching. A bit part. Very brief fly-by. A penis. I think. I didn’t have the luxury of TiVo 8-second-rewind, but I’m pretty sure it was a pee pee, wee wee, John Thomas, wang, thingemee.

You can tell I’m very mature about these things.

It is the subject of today’s noos.

Not the penis. Not maturity either. But creation, and the art of it all.

I will illustrate my pyroclastic cloud of thought with three stories about things that have been birthed into the world in recent times.

Some, I have witnessed first hand. These led to me pose serious questions to my psyche about art, purpose and life. Others led me to simply send a gift. Read the rest of this entry »



The wait: a comedy devine

31 07 2005

ACT 1
There are certain things that a buttock will react to unfavorably and one of them, cialis sales cialis according to the International Society for Buttocks Preservation Handbook, sovaldi is sitting on broken glass. Unfortunately, remedy the handbook makes no mention of specific distinctions between glass types. No charts or graphs to indicate which will slice and dice with more enthusiasm: a beer bottle, a Snapple, or the smashed up face of a Rolex.

SIDENOTE: Now there’s an experiment in the making…

Anyways. Glass. Doesn’t matter if it’s dirty, pissed on, downtrodden, beat, busted up and broke. It’s all bad. It’s why the word ’shard’ has a sharp enough sound to make a muscle twitch and go hide behind its mother’s skirts.

Esther, my smart companion on this day, is obviously an avid reader of the buttocks handbook, and keenly attuned to the potential threat of lurking glass. I watch as she sensibly brushes the ground glass-free with her MacGyvered broom (a craggy stick), before laying down her end of the towel.

‘That’s probably a good idea,’ I think.

‘I’ll second that!’

That was my buttock chiming in. It has a somewhat selfish interest in the outcome. Question is, will I have the fortitude to wrestle my laziness to the earth and follow Esther’s example?

No.

My brain has a mind of its own. (Huh? Weird). It turns into a slithery witch and begins to tell me porky pies.

“It’s Central Park,” it cackles. “As if there’s broken glass here. Here, under this majestic fairytale tree. Oh, heavenly tree, mystical and wise. Oh, tree of ample branch and shade-providing leaf. Look, a squirrel to bring you cocktails! Oh Noodle, as if broken glass would dare reside under the Zen-like aura of this tree!”

Solid argument.

Thus verily and with much aplomb I ignore Esther’s example and angle my rump ground-ward. If there is glass, I reason, I’ll find out fairly quickly.

I feel no immediate shard. I feel no slice or carve. Nothing. And for now, the sticks under-arse are only mildly irritating. It seems I have escaped unscathed.

End Act 1. Read the rest of this entry »






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