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May 30, 2002 tinkerbell dying "Keep a diary and one day it'll keep you."             --Mae West I hate this goddam journal.  It is to me what a hooker is to an impotent john.  It should be serviced, but I'm unable to perform.  Beastmaster is "Pretty Woman" and I'm Richard Gere on saltpeter. Why am I unable to write?  Perhaps there is only so much self-absorbed confessional bullshit that can be spewed before the reservoir runs dry.  Maybe everything has been "humorously observed" and it's time to close my eyes and shut my mouth. But then I watch the Miss Universe Pageant and I wonder why it's being hosted by Phil Simms.  In the entire universe, you can't find a better emcee than a former NY Giants quarterback who, if memory serves, won exactly one Super Bowl?  They may as well get Terry Bradshaw.  He won four Super Bowls. Then I realize that life on earth ain't nothing but a pageant.  We dress up and sashay around, pausing periodically to say something stupid and scripted.  And the first time we refuse to tape our tits together, the first time we fail to grease our bleached teeth with Vaseline, out comes the hook. God, I'm tired.  I feel like Tinkerbell dying. Wait.  I've got it!  Lean forward toward your computer monitor, close your eyes....  and believe.

©  2002 by the beastmaster