I Am the Keeper of the Strange

In the space of eight minutes today, I received two text messages from two different people.

No. 1, from Lula. 2:38:

“Do you think [radio show I’ve worked for] would be interested in a Lord of the Rings themed wedding between a sixty year old monarchist and his fat twenty year old woman?”

No. 2, from the Welder/Octopus Eater (name still in progress). 2:46:

“Vroom.kaboom.Burning rubber! Gasoline! Blood, checkered flags and sluts”

(What, you want context on that second one? Well, hell. I’ll only say he was being literal. Suck it.)

And now this missive from OMiB, who is in New York these days:

“The world needs more women — they are the only good thing about the place. this could solve many problems. This could reverse gravity or produce limitless energy from garden rocks — anything we need. trust me.”

I’m going to have to remember that line: “produce limitless energy from garden rocks.” I’m totally pleased with the use of “garden” to modify “rocks.”

And finally, the Beastie Boys really make work go faster. The Welder recently played me “An Open Letter to NYC,” which was written after Sept. 11: “Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and Staten, from the Bat-ter-y to the top of Manhattan…” It takes me down into the subway, shooting past Cortlandt Street station on the 1/9 (still closed after its total collapse five years ago.) The lightning pain of seeing wood boards blocking off wreckage; orange netting; trains slowing down as if in mourning. Still.

My skin leaps and teems, both, when I listen to it.