Hockey games, unlike football or baseball or basketball or anything actually popular, have the best commercials. Not sure why, but if you wanna see funny weird commercials, sit through a hockey game. I love those commercials. And while I haven’t seen a He’s totally weirding out the Great One or a Soaked up Philly like sponge in a while, some come close. Anyway, I see those commercials and I think how I wish I could write commercials. That would be my dream gig. My dream gig dream gig even. The ultimate gig. I love commercials. I study the damn things. The way I write is very heavily influenced by commercials, the funny ones. (It was also heavily influenced by really well written sitcoms and French economic historian Fernand Braudel, but nevermind.) Oh well, let me dream if I want to, as Willy de Ville used to say. He’s dead now. All those New Yorkers keep dying. You wonder what the hell they were doing wrong. Well, I know what they were doing wrong, but we’d be getting off topic. Besides, none of you are reading any of this by now because this is Facebook [I wrote this on Facebook] and no one gets past the first sentence or two. It’s kind of like Twitter with baby pictures. In fact, this whole piece could have been done as a series of smiley face variations. Happy, sad, confused, surprised, angry, frustrated. Maybe even the one that giggles. Then I’d drop in the cow or that sheep because I have no idea how a cow or a sheep qualifies as an emoticon, or what they mean. Unless they pictographically represent a cow and a sheep. Then they’ll become ideograms that represent the concept of cows or sheep, then a phoneme which will represent the sound of anything that sounds like the word that represents the concept of sheep, and then into a morpheme which…well, forget it, that’ll be centuries from now, all knowledge will be reduced to some sonic spinny ring things and you can make love to Yvette Mimieux all you want. Maybe even get her to act.

If I got off topic, I apologize.

I have to stop writing essays on Facebook. I never mean to. I try to write only a sentence or two but look what happens. Now I’ll hit post and Mark Zuckerberg will own the thing, the way he owns all those pictures of big bosomed Facebook friends who find themselves in ads for untrustworthy home loan companies. Well, he can have this essay, tuck it into a christmas card, and fuck himself.