socks

<mccutcheon> · Post by **<mccutcheon>** » Wed Jan 23, 2002 5:59 am

Ever since Sloth left for London I haven't had as many socks go missing. Hmm.

I'm lost and hanging out in no man's land. Lovely. Really.

Post by **Sloth** » Wed Jan 23, 2002 6:09 pm

Yes I've stolen all your socks and I'm not giving them back. No way. I use them for long walks in the woods as shown in this photo.

You can argue all you want, but sloths will be sloths.

martino · Post by **martino** » Wed Jan 23, 2002 7:31 pm

There's a track on Dan Nakamura's splendid new CD "Nathaniel Merriweather presents Lovage: Music to Make Love To Your Old Lady By" named "Herbs, Good Hygiene & Socks".

On it, Afrika Baambaataa clarifies how socks can be used for birth control. Totally daffy and hilarious. Not to be tried at home or in England.

<mccutcheon> · Post by **<mccutcheon>** » Wed Jan 23, 2002 9:26 pm

that is good music. white socks are for nutters and Sloths and American tourists.

Post by **Sloth** » Sun Jan 27, 2002 4:54 pm

I have not worn white socks in years. I admit my mother still dresses me, picks out (and buys) most of my clothing. Whatever. Her taste has improved slightly over the years but I would prefer a rich girlfriend to do it now. Any takers?

Mama's side of the family still gives me tan socks for Christmas and I give them back nothing of course because sloths don't believe in giving so I can't really complain. I bet Allen Ginsberg wore white socks. And Kerouac was chief king of the mama's boys.

Here is poem he wrote:

I keep falling in love
with my mother...

The doll-like way
she stands
Bowlegged in my dreams
Waiting to serve me.

-Jack Kerouac

Jack Chiefton · Post by **Jack Chiefton** » Sun Jan 27, 2002 9:01 pm

But yeah, he was king of the mamma's boys. I always have to wonder if that's how he wanted to die? In a house at the age of 47 with his mom, and boom, he starts hemhoraging(sp?) up blood and reaches for his side. He then yells for his mom and she comes racing in to see what the problem is. Kerouac is on the ground in a puddle of blood and vomit and he screams help to his mom. She can't help him though, she's practically 85 or something, and then his liver explodes. So here is this writer who wrote about retreating to the woods as a hermit and living out the rest of his life in a simple manner with no booze, no cigarettes, no women, lying on the floor dead in a vat of human waste and whatnot. Oh well, you think mother scrubbed up the mess afterwards? Probably.

Jack Chiefton · Post by **Jack Chiefton** » Mon Jan 28, 2002 3:40 am

Fuck, if i ever end up like that, i will know before i die that my life has been a complete unconsious trip, fucked up on booze and drugs, writing about the loveliness of things i see at the time. Does any of it matter if I end up puking my guts and squirting liver juice all over my mothers living room?

Post by **Sloth** » Mon Jan 28, 2002 4:33 am

Yeah better than Stings poem to his mom...

Well, the telephone is ringing
Is that my mother on the phone?
The telephone is ringing
Is that my mother on the phone?
The telephone is screaming
Won't she leave me alone
The telephone is ringing
Is that my mother on the phone?

Well, every girl I got out with
Becomes my mother in the end
Every girl I go out with
Becomes my mother in the end
Well, I hear my mother calling
But I don't need her as a friend
Every girl I go out with
Becomes my mother in the end

Oh Oh mother

Oh mother dear please listen
And don't devour me
Oh mother dear please listen
And don't devour me
Oh women please have mercy
Let this poor boy be
Oh mother dear please listen
And don't devour me

Jack Chiefton · Post by **Jack Chiefton** » Mon Jan 28, 2002 8:44 am

He thought of his mother as a saint. In Kerouac's eyes she was perfect, and she was alone. In a society where children leave their families at a young age, only to visit on ocasion up until the ripe old age of death, it's kind of refreshing to hear a big masculine writer like Kerouac shed his love through a poem to his mother. At least he had a mom.