The PK 27 -- The Last Song

If PK were a fantasy sport, I'd be a deadbeat manager. I haven't been in the zone for a long damn time, but rest assured that it hasn't been over some bullshit like last year (Are you dead or are you sleeping? God, I hope that you are dead). New life, new job, new Wii, new woma/en; all add up -- along with Lost, Stephen King's Duma Key, and Japanese erotic films/adult pictures -- to little ProKlivity.

And I wish I could say things will turn around starting now, but who would I be kidding? PK is funny for me -- it's a very manic thing. I post when I'm elated (and when I can't I wish I could), when I'm pissed off about something (Crystal Skull IS a good movie), and when I'm drunk -- mostly when I'm drunk -- and feel like espousing dumb-ass pseudo-psychology (you should thank me for not writing an essay on Monday about how pathetic it is that drama, from Shakespeare to Scorsese, can't be effective without someone dying*).

These days, however, I just don't feel that itch. I thought it would come a-callin' after I took one of my frequent hiatuses, but it didn't. I'm a firm believer that

(I have enough sperm for every woman on this planet)

conflict and torment breed art, so perhaps contentedness has crushed my creativity, but, at the end of the day, fuck it, I'm happy (except when I'm not).

You can't squeeze blood from a stone. I can't lick your funky emotions with my tongue in some pussy.

But if I ever need an IV of inspiration, if only for a short time, it comes in the form of the above song. It's a song to drink flat beer to at 8:30 a.m. after a night of hard drinking and BK lounge exploits; it's a song -- word to Jimmy McNulty -- to kick your car to; and it's a song that never fails to get those juices flowing. The creative ones and the nostalgic ones.

And the basketball ones. Fuck the Lakers**.





* All I could come up with at the time was the film Ghost World, which isn't fucking dramatic at all (though it is a good movie). Someone should make a list...

** I hope no one remembers me writing after the Gasol "trade" that LA can't beat the Spurs. Or that NO would finish first in the West. Or that I was once married.