A brick could be used to unite two long-lost brothers. They’ve been apart for six inches, and that’s entirely too long, and I think it’d be good to bring them back together.
A brick could be used to show support for your favorite team. They want to crush their opponents, and if you’ve got the arm strength and accuracy, you should do everything in your power to help them do just that.
A blanket could be used to deliver the darkness on a platter of light. But I’d eat my unborn children straight out of your uterus with a straw before I’d ever be a delivery guy again. Burned pizzas burned me out on that.
A blanket could be used to rob a bank. Guns are so Bonnie and Clyde, but a blanket bank robbery has a certain amount of seduction involved. A blanket has a lot more banging involved than the bang-bang of a gun.
A blanket could be used to make people smile. But the blanket won’t make just anyone smile—it will make people with no mouths smile. I plan on showing a live audience how it works at the next Helen Keller Convention.
A blanket could be used to trap and contain love. I’ve tried other stuff, like a Ziploc bag, a can of tuna, and even a dead cat’s stomach, but nothing seems to be able to hold it for very long.
A brick could be used to say hello in a foreign language. Like most great words, it’d also have synonyms. One such synonym would be the word “Duck!” Not a Feathery Quack Maker, but Get down!
A blanket could be used to offset things likely to set you off. When you start to get hot, just wrap yourself in a warm blanket until you’re comforted and you cool down.
A blanket could be used to teach geography to a sleeping man. Better do it quick, before he wakes up and finds himself in the middle of World War III with no idea where he stands ideologically or territorially.
In 1998, Vanity Fair asked me to write a big piece for them on the 50th anniversary of the New York City Ballet. My life, to a great extent, had been spent at and with the New York City Ballet, and I decided to try it. It was very scary, writing abou...
Yet for quixotic reasons--namely, that I enjoyed writing obits--I had decided to scale back on articles about city life in order to write exclusively about the city's dead. For even less money. It was a strange and inexplicable career move.
What to one person is common courtesy is to another tender words of life - and by the same token, what one person intends to show as great affection may be to his beloved an irrelevant show of frivolousness compared to the kindness of simply doing th...
Hello, I'm Shellie's new boyfriend and I'm out of my mind. If you so much as talk to her or even think her name, I'll cut you in ways that'll make you useless to a woman.
Some cities, like wrapped boxes under Christmas trees, conceal unexpected gifts, secret delights. Some cities will always remain wrapped boxes, containers of riddles never to be solved, nor even to be seen by vacationing visitors, or, for that matter...
Moreover the present abundance3 of private cars is nothing other than the result of the non-stop propaganda through which capitalist production persuades the mob--and in this case is one of its most confounding successes--that the possession of a car...
8. Conditions of Dialogue The functional is what is practical. The only practical thing is the resolution of our fundamental problem: the realization of ourselves (our uncoupling from the system of isolation). This is useful and utilitarian. Nothing ...
But how many chose to ignore the direct attack they laid on what is fed to all of us as 'life,' with its well-defined roads to factory and pool-hall, to work and pleasure, both organized, both shells, both a continuation of existence by forced means,...
City of Wizards is normally quite a GOOD thing, since only Good WIZARDS seem able to live together. . . .There have been cities of EVIL Wizards in the past. You will occasionally come across the sites of these, reduced to a glassy slag during the ult...
I guess it goes to show that you just never know where life will take you. You search for answers. You wonder what it all means. You stumble, and you soar. And, if you’re lucky, you make it to Paris for a while.
But for now, the future, like the past, means nothing. For now, there is only a homestead built of trash and scraps, at the edge of a broken city, just beyond a towering city dump; and our arrival-hungry, and half-frozen, to a place of food and water...
Ferranti's thoughts had been his. As before he had understood his remorse so now he understood the mental chains that had imprisoned him. The poor wretch could not move. Misery had become apathy and apathy had brought the inevitable paralysis of the ...
