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Show Acting Alone Page 35 You know, like you excresced it from the side of your neck like a giant wart or something -" Sam was so proud of himself for not giving vent to that particular touchie-feelie hallucination that he sort of relaxed and set his mouth free for a few minutes. (Reporters and freelance writers and other such leeches who depend on other people for their sustenance will realize that this is fatal to do on the actual spot. Only let your mouth run free after you've firmed up the contract and you're alone in your Motel-6 room with your Sony Micro-Cassette Recorder and your typewriter, ready to slander and misrepresent your subject in the traditional retaliation of the parasite upon the host organism - justified, validated, and made critically respectable by the term Gonzo!) Sam said, "Oh, you grew this. I get it. But, isn't that supposed to be just for old people? I mean, not yams per se, but growing yams, and being proud of them. Isn't gardening what you're supposed to do after you've had your fling at becoming One with the Moon, Stars and Sky, and you're old and morally bankrupt and all you're trying to do now is finally reconcile yourself with becoming dirt, dust, ash, nitrogen nodules yourself in your immanent death? So you stand around and force yourself and your friends to be amazed at how the dirt in your backyard sometimes expels these fibrous tumor-like objects -" Sam reached out and wiggled an end of the yam. He gagged a little bit, in a purely Sartrean moment. He continued. "Aren't young people like us supposed to be sky-oriented?" (Spikey, as Sam would later find out, was a licensed pilot.) |