Old age is different from anything you’ll ever encounter in your life. Your head will lie to you, your heart will lie to you, and your pecker will lie to you. You’ll see something just sitting there that you used to handle with one hand, just pick it up and sling it, and your head will tell you, “Are you kidding, man? You’ve lifted twice that much.” Then you’ll grab ahold of it and find out that it’s more than you can handle. Those golden years they talk about, they’re bullshit…
I’ve had my trials and tribulations, but I’ve been doing my extreme best to enjoy the life I have now. Even if I’m just sitting on my porch in the sunshine and smoking a cigarette, I believe I’m as happy as God can make any man. Happy, appreciative, and thankful. I can envy some of ‘em, the ones that drive the Hummers and Rolls-Royces, even the air-cooled Franklins, but I have everything I need or want.
Well, except maybe a Harley. I’d like to have a small Harley, where I could put both feet on the ground at a light. I don’t want one where you have to let it lean and hold it up with one foot. I don’t want one of them at all, but I’d like to have a small Harley.
A girl I went to high school/college with was an extra in the big concert scene (filmed in the Alamodome but SET in the Astrodome) that bookends "Selena" and she always claimed that you could "hear her scream" among the thousands of other screams because it "sounded different."
Foerster’s syndrome is the name…of the compulsive punning first described by the German neurosurgeon Otfrid Foerster.
In 1929 Foerster was operating on a patient suffering from a tumor in the third ventricle – a small cavity deep down in the phylogenetically ancient regions of the midbrain, adjacent to structures intimately concerned with the arousal of emotions. When the surgeon began to manipulate the tumor, affecting those sensitive structures, the (conscious) patient burst into a manic flight of puns. He exhibited typical sound associations, and with every word of the operator broke into a flight of ideas. The sound of one word swiftly echoed in the sound of the next, and all of the words had something to do with knives and butchery. This gruesome humour, Koestler noted, all came “from a man tied face down to the operating table with his skull open.”
While my roommates are gone seeing The Hunger Games, what if I listened to Flo Rida/Sia's "The Wild Ones"
on repeat for the remainder of the night and danced around in my apartment while getting completely smashed on the bottle of whiskey I bought with the failed intention of becoming one of those People Who Sip Whiskey and then when they get home I’ll be half naked on the couch playing Draw Something and still listening to “Wild Ones” and screaming, “HAVE YOU NOT HEARD THAT I’M ONE OF THE WILD ONES NOW?”