WHERE'S JACKO?
I guess you'd have to know me a little better, than just by the videos I post and some of the morphs I do, and the YouTube Comment - eBay Smashup poems, and other graphomaniacal occupations that make me happy--but not much.
Like, that I was Director of an Outsider Art Gallery for ten years, where it was my job to dole out per Diem's and beer money to some of the most famous folk artists in the United States, almost all of whom fit the Outsider category of self-taught, being socially unfit for any type of normal existence for many reasons--the most prominent being their collective substance and alcohol abuse problems. Of course, it didn't stop with the artists and their constant babysitting. I also had to be the gibbeting referee for the Odd Couple partners who ran the gallery, and happened to be ex-cons, with, not surprisingly, many of the same qualities which described the artists. They also despised one another--not uncommon in the art world.
All of that to say this: I HAVE NEVER HAD A BETTER DAY ONLINE THAN THE ONE WHICH BEGAN JUST AN HOUR AGO, when because of my mildly obsessed preoccupation with chronicling the entire Internet, I was directed by one of my many, many Google Alerts to a special alert of mine containing two of my most beautifully wrought word juxtapositions thought up in the shower one day, which has now won the alert of the decade award.
I clicked, and for the next hour I enjoyed paroxysms of joy similar to those which I've read regarding Van Gogh and some of the effects that large amounts of thujone (the active ingredient in wormwood, the active psychotropic substance found in Absinthe which he actively drank to soporific rag ends) had on him, as well as those joys associated with idiot savantism and certain types of autistic individuals--one which apparently is a mix of dopamine (of which I am currently not in short supply), religious ideation and messianic self-appraisal, commingled with euphoria, time-space irregularity, and a host of other enjoyable chemically produced brainjuice which one generally only experiences a few times, if any, in their lives. (Think of having oral sodomy performed by your favorite movie star/rock star from under the tablecloth, while eating a filet mignon, medium rare (vegetables?) at Ruths Chris Steakhouse and sipping a glass of 1963 Petrus, and being told your stock went up.)
As I celebrate this feeling and nervously worry that it will certainly go away at some point, I am inspired to post a few SPECIAL PICTURES, which in the picture business, or rather, in the tabloid picture business, or perhaps in the Tabloid picture business practiced by those with an inordinately keen afforestation of SEX, DRUGS, AND ROCK 'N' ROLL, know no equal. If you have no low-meter, or are overly sincere and politically correct, I say leave now (and by the way, if that's you which I've just described and you're still reading this post after the fellatio under the table analogy, you might want to rethink your moral superiority).
The only problem with euphoria is that it burns calories, and that mixed with my hypoglycemia, necessitate my dining or becoming more incoherent than usual; and so dear reader, pray that I do not fall through some alteration in blood sugar, to a Coleridgeian busgirl of Kublah Khan proportions--one that either kills the joy completely or dampens it for me...however, knowing my blood sugar and its roller cantering better than anyone, I'd say that there is slightly better than a 75% chance that I will come back more excited than ever to share the booty of a lifetime with other...yeah, i need to eat.