Television needs interesting shows. Something based on the naughty cheesecake sensibility of the 1940-1960 era, roughly, for example. I’d eventually watch that.

Or a series of makeovers. Here are some ideas:

• Black Eye for the White Guy: Non-white consultants punch white people in the face.

• Plain Eye for the Hochmut Guy: Amish consultants help flashy subjects be more down-to-earth.
• Rich Eye for the White Trash Guy: Wealthy consultants teach subjects how to play golf, how to insider trade, etc.
• Poor Eye for the Rich Guy: Consultants from poor countries teach subjects from rich countries how to cope with contaminated drinking water and mine fields, how to decorate for Christmas when your hamlet is being bombarded.
• Zen Eye for the Something Guy: Consultants in long robes hit kneeling subjects with bamboo rods every time one of their cell phones goes off and oh shut up, Mig.

I set the alarm for five-thirty and snuck out of bed and ate breakfast quietly but my wife got up and came down to keep me company before I could sneak out of the house. I had a second bowl of Special-K and another mug of coffee and we chatted amiably. Then I showered and shaved; drying my hair I once again had to ask myself what my hair stylist was thinking; she gave me this stylish cut this time that reminds me of nothing except a baby mullet. Oh well. It’ll grow out. Then, bye wife, drive careful Mig, and there I was. In the car. On the way to work. Adieu, holidays.

Sometimes a man needs to go to work, you know? Listen to Sepultura, for example the CD he got himself for Xmas, Against, without anyone telling him to turn it down or put something else in. Without having to go on about what a nice baritone their lead singer has on some of their songs – not on this particular album, but when he slows down and stops screaming, seriously, nice baritone. Without having to feel bad when they just rock out.

Take the tenth cut on Against, for example. Reza, it’s called. Their singer sounds like he’s in the trunk of a Cadillac on that one, with someone sticking a mop into his mouth. Only instead of a mop on the end of the handle, there’s a live sable. I mean this in a good way. Do you ever think this – that Orcs would listen to AC/DC and Uruk-Hai would listen to Sepultura? Listening to Reza, one tends to envision two young Uruk-Hai gals on American Bandstand, leaning against the podium, sort of bouncing as it plays; their hair up and strings of stinking rotting human heads garlanded around their thick necks, medallions around their necks of screaming faces, hammered out of pitchblende. And the song ends and the one says, “I like it, Dick, it’s got a good steady beat and… where are you sneaking off to, Dick?” And Dick Clark, smile frozen on his face, goes “gack” as she grabs him by the throat and the second Uruk-Hai teen says, “oh, great, Ginger, now look what you’ve done, like they’re going to let us on any more teevee shows after this.”

Sometimes you need a holiday, and sometimes you need to go to work, is all I’m saying.

Try publishing your poems in book form, rather than on the internet.

See, it’s simple. You have to do the math. If something inspired, say,

Why was he naked? Who
tucked a Pennysaver
between his buttocks?
Who circled the snow blower
ad on page seventeen?

is available for virtually free on my PC, why should I buy books of poetry? This is good for me, but I was just thinking, you poets would get more money if you’d put this stuff into book form instead.

The problem is, however, you’d all have to do it. If one good poet keeps publishing his or her poems online instead of in book form, then everyone would read that instead of buying the other poets’ books probably.

Also, it would make reading poetry in the tub safer. Like, only the sheer inspiration of words would shock you.