Kate and Cate

Kate Winslet and I are rolling around in bed, a little bit of slip and dip. It’s nice. She’s very beautiful you know. And easy. Not in a slutty way, but in a to-hang-out-with way. She’s always got some sort of craft activity to do or she’ll bring up the desert island again and my favorite three albums are scrutinized a new. She powers our relationship, like a little lustful ball of fission she shines surely. Without her we’d sit around in silence, drinking beer and whiskey and watching TV on the internet. There wouldn’t be a relationship. Just two people sitting around in relatively close proximity to one another.

Kate Winslet likes a good pint of beer. Stouts mostly, but she’ll settle for a porter. She pulls hardier than I on a pint glass held high, frothy head all over her lips.

Then one day all drunk up, who should I see but Cate Blanchette. “Hello Matthew, long time. How have you been?”

“Very good Cate, very good. I’ve been seeing Kate Winslet. She really is a peach. How’s Andrew?”

Sounding like Kate Hepburn: “Well he’s fine, just swell. With the kids right now in the south of France.”

“That’s nice. I really must be going now, too-ta-loo!”

“Too-ta-loo to you too Matthew!”

But just then I remember that I wanted to ask her about London this time of year so I shout: “Kate! KATE!”

But there’s Kate Winslet, standing behind me a few feet to the left of my right shoulder. Where the hell did she come from? “I heard that you son of a bitch.” Her whole humming body a deep dark frequency. “You thought she was me. You thought that I was Cate Blanchett. You thought she was Kate Winslet. Well she’s not. And I’m not. I’m Kate Winslet. She may have nicer tits than me, but I’m a far better actor than that no-good bow-riding cunt of a slut! Do you hear me Cate? DO YOU HEAR ME YOU FUCKING DYKE!”

Without thinking the following escaped my lips: “She’s also much more beautiful than you are. In the face and what not. Maybe. It’s actually hard to tell you’re both so damn beautiful. And the tits, sure, the tits too. But your ass is spot on honey. Really fucking spot on.”

“Don’t ‘spot on’ me you lousy fuck. You’ve got a tiny little prick. Ha. Hahahahahahaaha.”

The bottom line of this story is that I have a hard time with the difference between Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett.

Wolf Run

Wolf Run is a special place for all sorts of reasons. This little creek is a tributary to the west branch of the Clarion River in Elk County. It was early January and I went fishing with my brother, father, and cousin Ricky.

the now slightly more common double posting: a fairy tale of new york

Like a giant cock, the Lincoln Tunnel is stroked by a river. Manhattan meiosis feeds gametes to spew from the tube all over New Jersey. Once a fertile Garden State, ready for the receiving, now she’s small and cold and old and wizened and overflowing with sperm.

I left Ryan somewhere in the East Village. Half liters of dark lager at a small mysterious German beer hall where loud near-Asian pop music tumbled from the walls. Graduate school took a toll on my teeth. You know, lack of dental insurance and all that chewing tobacco.

“I would take care of his daughter’s wedding on his deathbed he made me promise. My brother. Now I’m broke. I was in Pakistan for 8 days and paid for the wedding myself. But a promise is important to me. A promise this is everything.”

“What do you think of Musharraf?”

“Good for the army, no good for Pakistan.”

This guy had insights. I had to take advantage.

He stomped through the streets in his cab like a madman, ducking and dashing through traffic and crashing, finally, into the back of big black as we approached the tunnel. The car behind crashed into us. It registered a 3.0 on the Oeschle scale. I saw it coming so I braced myself. Made it through without a scratch. The black BMW M3 convertible fared slightly worse. Dented the bumper. A long yellow line like Zorro’s Z.

BLKICE66 on the license plate, he struggled from the car with both arms raised yelling “WHAT THE FUCK MAN!” He was a very large man but not particularly athletic. A tangle of three foot long dreadlocks fell drapingly over his spherical shape from under his dark blue corduroy bucket hat.

I sat in the back while the cop did his paper work. Unfortunately this was no place to catch another cab and regardless, I don’t think my new Pakistani friend was in any mood for me to skip out on the fare. So I sat tight.

Like so much ejaculate we hurtled from the tunnel at one hundred and three miles per hour, a yellow blur in the night. I was scared for my life. I should have buckled my seat belt. But at this point I was very reluctant to move freely about the taxicab.

my roots

My great great grandfather John Dunn was born in Tidioute PA in the early 1860s. His family settled an area about 10 miles north on the Allegheny River. It was called Dunn's Eddy. It's still there. I went to check it out.









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