Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Blah, blah

When I was a kid I knew that movie stars all saw psychiatrists. I suppose I knew that from all the time that I spent behind movie magazines. My conclusion, of course, was that all movie stars were nuts. I was aware that they all married and divorced regularly, too. The only divorce that I knew of in real life was my mom's.

By the time that my third wife dragged me to a therapist for corroboration of my mental deficiency I was ready for help. It was great. Of course she told us that I was nuts. When she suggested that #3 could use a good tuneup, as well, the tears flowed. It became clear to me that movie stars have therapists because they can afford it. We all need help. Turns out that it's not such an exclusive club.

Well, I went for a checkup yesterday. I'm still nuts but I seem to know a lot more about it. I get along well with those folks. I'll tell anybody anything. As you know.

While I'm rambling, please allow me to skip around a bit here. I just came from my neighborhood diner and realized that I'm not the worst out there. You'll never see me using a toothpick, blowing my nose or checking my e-mail. Not in a diner.

Only one of my records is out of print. Poisonville. If you've got four hundred bucks, though, you can get a shrink-wrapped copy on Amazon. I always knew that dying advice was a good career move. Too late now.

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