Today marks the fourth anniversary of Poor Impulse Control as a blog Paulie Gonzalez set up in self-defense. Well, sort of.
Paulie: It’s called blogging and you should do it.
Tata: I don’t know. It’s a new medium. I can’t write anymore.
Paulie: You’re going to write again because when you don’t you go crazy.
Tata: It’s that bad, huh?
Paulie: I priced a woodchipper.
Domestic violence is no joke but the mental picture of smiling Paulie returning rented equipment dripping with blood and a hearty, “I had to compost a wildebeest” is hilarious. I gave in and agreed to blog, but I had no idea what I was doing.
Ever get so sick of yourself you think ‘If I don’t start doing something new and different there’s going to be an Unfortunate Incident at the Kentucky Fried Chicken, with film at 11’? Yeah, me too. If we pass one another on the way to making this terrible mess, let’s double-park on Easton Avenue, exit our vehicles and incite onlookers to riot. But with music, so technically it’s dancing.
Fortunately, the Kentucky Fried Chicken burned down and took two businesses with it, then I moved back across the river to the town that hugs Route 27 like a swollen prostate. Decorative pear trees line the main drag and today I’m soaking up sunshine at the family business as the pear trees snow white petals on traffic. It looks like a sunny blizzard out there. That guy driving the Lexis convertible looked a little perturbed.
I still don’t know what I’m doing but check out the archives. I sure have done a lot of whatever it is.