I'm not what anyone would call an easygoing guy. Maybe Udo Kier would, but nobody else. I'm not chill and I won't chill, don't ask me. I would like to but I cannot. I'm not a dude and I won't chill. I can, however, shatter a champagne flute merely by glaring at it. I mean I am a dude but I'm not a dude dude. I can't even hang with conviction. Do people still hang or do they mostly chill these days? I'm wound a little tight, I'm admitting this right up front. I like things to be a certain way, full disclosure here. This doesn't mean I'm outwardly frazzled or high strung. I pass in the chill world. It's mostly internal, in my guts and in my brain and sometimes in the extremely personal sphincter area. Just try to anally penetrate me when I'm expecting a very important call. Impossible! The way I like things to be makes perfect sense to me in the moment I want it, but not in other moments or to other people, ever. Who can explain it? I like to have a theory or a framework, it makes me feel better, i.e. barely functional. Otherwise I'm bobbing like driftwood on a roiling sea of events. The problem with events is that events occur at a pace that I would call overly ambitious. For the past five minutes (no wait, twenty years) I've been tinkering with a universal theory of subjectivity, based completely on an offhand remark Sigmund Freud made in an otherwise banal letter to Heidi Fleiss. My theory is nonsense but not only that it also seems to demand that all communication take the form of ventriloquism. I'm as baffled as you are. Theories sometimes have surprising implications, as Jean-Paul Sartre remarked to Simone de Beauvoir's dog as he was dressing it up in women's clothing. Everyone would need to be issued a dummy or doll, and be provided a certain amount of training, for minimal competence in the art of ventriloquism. And not only oral communication, written too. This theory is probably unworkable unless Willie Tyler and Lester come on board. Wayland Flowers is dead but I know Madame is still around, I saw her opening solo for Fred Travalena in Branson Missouri. No matter, I have other theories. Left to my own devices, without a theory or an operating principle however dubious, I would probably be found weeping, bent double.