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The following is an excerpt of my commencement speech at The Hamlin Refrigeration Vocational Institute. Although I am NOT terminally ill, in all honesty, I haven’t been feeling all that great since, I would say, around April…
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Camper Stacks arrived at the offices of BURN magazine on January 14, 1989 in a state of unaccustomed joy: Lou Reed was going down.
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which consisted of me being shoved down a flight of stairs. Thanks to a PELL grant in 1996, I was triumphantly run-over by a family Winnebago in the critically acclaimed, Run-Over. This lead to a series of “happenings” I conducted in alternative space
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Serbs and Croats? Hutus and Tutsis? The east coast/west coast thing in hip hop? Lou Lou and more Lou.
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Mine reads: Continued involvement of a discreditable nature with civilian and military authorities. I was nineteen years old when I watched the Yeoman First Class type those words, and all I could think to say was, “Oh, come on now.”
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There's only one road out of here. It goes straight north for a while, then starts veering off toward the west. You and Horace Greeley can get all dreamy-eyed if you want, but I know which side of the river the Egyptians buried their dead on.
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MY JANES: If I were like Tarzan & could tame this jungle in which I live I wouldn't waste my time prowling neighborhood shrubbery & treetops in my loincloth looking for squirrels to hypnotize. I've kept up with my beastly ex-wives …
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Chasing invaders out of their trees and keeping hidden stores of food hidden is exhausting work that leaves city squirrels too tired and nervous to really relax.
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Do not shake the baby. Shake the martini. That’s what martinis are for.
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I lay naked on the floor, feet toward the door, so that when my wife entered she would immediately see that leggy thoroughfare, ending at deflated buttocks and chicken-skinned scrotum, and in her repulsion repel me from her life. How wrong I was.
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I realize most automatonical authors stick to non-fiction, but if my work bears any resemblance to real automatons or events, I assure you it is purely coincidental.
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Given the nature of the events that were to follow I'm pretty sure that no one sane could have been equipped to comprehend, much less deal with, the coming weirdness any better than I was.
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I thought I could achieve roadside salvation via a popular confection, but I was fooled.
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My wife’s voice behind me says, “Where did you get that godawful tee shirt?”
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Macro-Microbe parked his car and proceeded on foot, which was a misnomer because he had no feet. Typical for Manhattan, no one gave him a second glance except for a homeless woman who tried to sell him hand-sanitizer. Macro-Microbe locomoted himself insid
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