IS THIS HOW YOU WANTED IT TO END?

The corpse of Albert Anastasia. Yet another theft from Tom Sutpen. I just can’t help myself. His shit is so cool.

I have to finally admit that I think I’m gangstered out for a while. Last night’s Sopranos, took some thinking about and then some writing about and finally a period of decompression while I watched that really fucking dumb Star Trek movie about Kirk’s bunch coming back to the 20th century to mess with time and kidnap a couple humpbacked whales. I finally got to bed at 8.00am and today I’m doing nothing except facing the frustration that, in all the discussion, my brilliant 10 cents'-worth won’t come out until Thursday, but that’s the cross the print writer has to bear. Fortunately there’s four reruns of The X-Files tonight (it’s replaced Law & Order as my comfort TV). Plus there’s some epic on the History Channel about Mayan doom prophesies which will get me started back on 12.21.12 even though I don’t believe in it and am only trying to start a gratuitous mass panic.

Or I could watch Lawrence Welk play “Sister Ray”

And also, while I rest my weary hands we have a fortuitous and highly insightful missive from HCB…

Forgive me Mick for soundboarding you here. I knew you were writing about the Sopranos and it got me thinking a little with you in mind. Thing is, we know where to look for the hidden faces and all that--that's our heritage--we're professionals--you more than I--you're a fucking expert. But not many people out there are likely to relate it to the greatest sport of the sixties, conspiracy theorizing, just before Frisbees. So this is what I wrote thinking about you and T, a couple of lines of random shit mostly.
Where's the acid? Sopranos has turned the nation or the internet anyway into the greatest conspiracy-hunting machine ever. Tony buries Paul. Staggering numbers, all with theories. A nation of academic deconstructionalists, Funny though that one of the principle waste products of psychedelics, all that 3-D holographic connect-the-dots stuff, is happening without any substance more foreign than TV. Chase may be as clever a punning cryptic as Dylan. Think we saw his thought dreams as the plastic was melting and the chromium too. I knew it was a comedy when I heard Vanilla Fudge, but Phil's crushed head was as funny as any great seinfeld moment. I think what I liked best was how directly Chase was addressing the audience with that same combination of seduction and contempt that Dylan had--. Someday people are going to be looking at Chase and Milch (after Oliver Stone) as the neo-psychedelicists.

The secret word is Vig