Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Cafe Bizarre

I spent hours trying to sell roses in a fish market here: 106 West 3rd Street, Greenwich Village
Below you will see an advertisement taken from the Columbia Daily Spectator in 1965 for my performances at this rat hole that transformed into a veritable Taj Mahal when I took the stage.

Tears From a Glass Eye With a Tongue of Madness


This album was recorded at Midnight on May 21st, 1955 at Carnegie Hall.  Enjoy my rendition of Ambrose Bierce's "Oil of Dog."  Most of you won't have the slightest idea of what I'm talking about and that fills me with overwhelming pride and satisfaction. 
BUY THIS RECORDING NOW!
(He who runs this blog does not own the rights to this recording, he encourages all to purchase the recording by following the above link as the samples provided are of inferior quality.  It is also available as a download on ITUNES)

Friday, March 14, 2014

My Theodora...Where Art Thou?



Am I never going to be your little yum yum, your schnootzy pootzy, your schnappsie wapsie?  Are you never going to molest me? Are you never going to invade my bed and abuse me carnally?  YOU SHALL BE MINE, COME HELL OR HOLY WATER! Then  I will call the tune to which you will dance and the tune will be the dance of death.  Yes Siree.  That should finish you off, you betchya ALLELUIA!

Death to the young
 death to the strong
 death to the happy
 long live death!

Thursday, February 27, 2014

They want me, can you blame them?


Lately I’ve been a very busy man; I wake up with the birds and lie down with the pigs.  You invented me.  Ever since, things have gone from pillar to post, from Sodom to Gamorrah.  We all now I’m an escapee from the galloping senility ward and yet females all over town make passes at me.  Kind of a hot ticket.  They molest me from one end to the other.  

A small grain of sanity on a beach of madness.



My future is in the past.  That’s okay with me because only what we have lost forever may we possess forever.  Only where there are graves are there resurrections.  Only when we have drunk from the river of darkness shall we truly see.  Only when our legs have rotted off shall we truly dance.  As long as there is death, there is hope.  All our great spiritual leaders are dead; Moses is dead, Muhammad is dead, Buddha is dead, the Reverend Jim Jones is dead, and I’m not feeling so hot myself.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

The Perfection of Failure



There are those of us who dwell in darkness.  There are those of us who walk in light whatever we aim at with all our might that we shall surely achieve.  I have always aimed at nothing and I have always hit it.  Now my day is over and the night draws near.  I have nowhere to go and no one to go with me.  I roll in the gutter alone, unshaven, with a coated tongue and a bloodshot eye.  I have no dough left for dope.  I hallucinate on tap water.  I find it hard to sit still in one spot and impossible to sit still in two spots.  My sleeping pills are messing up my horoscope and when I listen to rock n’ roll my eardrums bleed.  I detest everything I stand for, to be Brother Theodore is no bed of roses.  I’m the bride at every funeral.  I am the corpse at every wedding.  Each time I look in the mirror, I burst into tears; the mature beauty of my riper days…carcass disease.  There is no mail in the mailbox, the telephone never rings, the party is over.  Thank God I’m a Scorpio with the moon in my twelfth house.  That’s always been a great consolation to me in my hours of distress. 

FOOD: THE MADNESS MUST STOP



http://www.mydoorsign.com/img/lg/S/No-Food-Cafeteria-Lunchroom-Sign-S-1939.gif
My friends, I’m here to tell you what needs to be told.  I feel an itch for public service and I’ve got to scratch it.  I’ve just completed my book, Health through Nutrition: its Prevention and Cure.  According to Pitznein Bokanovsky, four distinct races proceeded man on this planet; the Fire Mist People, the Potato Bug People, The Yokel People, and the Kissable Chitterlings.  They all had corporeal bodies and propagated by means of profligation and they all ate food.  Where are they now?  Unfortunately, the desire to eat is widespread; an evil instinct a feverish impulse to polish off nutrition, a vestal urge to fill your bellies and the bellies of loved ones with eatables and edibles with paraphernalia and cadaverous things, a world teaming with paunches filled to the brim, or half to the brim, or three quarters to the brim, or seven eighths to the brim, or nine tenths to the brim with that vile, that obscene, tragic substance called food.  The digesting that’s going on right now in this lovely place here is enough to turn my stomach.  Food filthifies the saliva of your spittle.  Food sends you staggering to the bathroom.  The food industry of life is lunacy.  It is filling what is empty and emptying what is full.  It is berserkery and a mockery punctuated by the clattering of dishes and the flushing of water closets.  Ladies and gentlemen, in spite of my excellent health, I have been ailing all of my life.  Can’t you see what eating does to us?  This morning, this very morning, I found a picture of myself when I was three years old.  What a change!  Frightening.  Now you say, “Life without eating is bunk.”  I say, your sin eating butcherous notions…that’s bunk!  You say “nutrition is essential to your diet, it gives you zest and zeal and a coat of healthy flesh.”  I say, it gives you diarrhea and constipation!  I say it gives you pimple popples and slushy pips!  Just punch a finger.  That’s right; just punch your pinky into that healthy flesh you talk about.  The dent will stay there until the cows come home to roost.  And they won’t come home.  They can’t come home, they have no legs.  You tore them off and ate them remember?  You are corpse eaters, you are goulash ghouls, you are foodlums, you are belly bums.  The human race, to which so many of you belong, looks to me like a bad joke, like a boo-boo of nature, like a miscarriage of the primal mother.  STOP EATING TONIGHT!  You want health.  Do you have it?  You long for love.  Do you have it?  You yearn for peace.  Do you have it?  Your way of life my friends, your way of life has failed you time and again.  Might it not be wise to try another way?  My way, the Brother Theodore way.  I don’t eat; I inhale the light of the sun and the beams of the moon and the breath of the wind.  I live on the smell of daffodils.  Wont’ you try it?  I need fellow crusaders.  I need you my friends with your splendid intellects the world needs you.  Your loved ones need you.  Wont’ you help me help you help them?  I can’t do it alone.  I am not the reincarnated Joan of Arc or something, I’m just plain folks.  This world of yours, this beautiful wide wide world of yours…you have turned it into a vomitorium.  You have turned it a slaughterhouse.  You have turned it into a supermarket, a super morgue for helpless trusting fellow creatures; the animals and the vegitales, carnage on the assembly line wherever man sets foot.  Billions of good fat chickens…decapitated and their embryos served sunny side up.  You crush the grape and drink her blood.  You lap up the gore of the tomato. The breath of cabbage, the fumes of French fries, the ooze of kidneys sautéed hang heavily over the lands.  There is doom in the air and the reek of cooked goose.  You eat death, how can you hope to live?  Have you ever considered in the quiet cesspool of your minds where you are going?  Lower the knife and fork before they lower you to your grave.  Thank you.