I am appreciating the new Eat Skull as I know Lindsey Buckingham would

Naked Lunch, to these brains, is the great American novel of the modern era. H threw it across the room as a reaction to how queezey it made him. It's not for the faint of stomach, but the humor is immortal. Here's a description of him in the Paris Review by whom sadly I shant recall:

William Burroughs, met in Paris,

is an absolutely astonishing personage, with the grim mad face of Savonarola and a hideously tailored 1925 shit-colored overcoat and scarf to match and a gray fedora pulled down tight around his ears. He reminded me of nothing so much as a mean old Lesbian and is a fantastic reactionary, very prim and tight-lipped and proper who spoke of our present Republican administration as that “dirty group of Reds.”

The Beats live on. James Franco's impersonation of Ginsberg in the Howl film is terrific. What a well-made film! The language of Howl and Naked Lunch are outstandingly well-suited to each other.

McGuane salutes Kerouauc in his essay Roping, From A to B.

There has been a great effort to discredit Kerouac, but i won't hear a word against him. He trained us in the epic idea that the region was America, and that you don't necessarily have to take it in Penciltucky forever just because you were there when your hour had come round at last. It was called On the Road. Kerouac set me out there with my own key to the highway...

My time in Australia told me that there was a lot I didn't know about the U.S. I talk to the nifty Navajo about sunrise puberty ceremonies and appreciable tears of wonder flood my eyes. I've been at the Holiday Inn for a few weeks now. Once again, I am contentedly surrounded by kooks. You meet interesting people coming and going, but the staff themselves are hilarious. This just in: the lone sausage fixed my high school basketball coach's oven today and l.s. reports back coach says I was too slow and still owe him laps.

LB and friends' Tusk is the album I have listened to with the greatest scrutiny in 2013. A candied ear thing of prismatic wonder.

Margarita party tonight. Guests are instructed to bring anything but Jimmy Buffett records. There is enough Jimmy Buffett in me to spare us his muzik. Thank you.