Communication is fraught with challenges. For some people it’s the talking, being asked to share their feelings. It bonks them straight on the head and empties ‘em right out. For others, it’s the listening. I, I, I, me, me, me, they can’t shut their fucking holes. (Not to be confused with their fucking holes which may or may not be shut.) Then there are guys like me, those who struggle with interpretation. The radio dial is set to FEAR and the signal’s coming in loud and clear: I’m about to get fucked (and not in my fucking hole) and it’s bad and probably even worse and I won’t be able to handle the avalanche of pain I’ll soon suffocate under. And christ, even if you don’t carry around such a distorted view of life there’s still the issue of plain old jargon to contend with. Like my leftie girlfriend’s friends and how they’re all in relation with one another, or how me and my jazz buddies hang out with some heavy cats, some of whom are jive asses, or like when I caught my kid digging around in his pants pocket the other day and I asked him if he was playing pocket pool and he said no, only to lean in and whisper “There’s a hole in my pocket so I can touch my penis.” Anyways, I’m not sure what this one’s all about, but thanks for joining us.

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