Brando in “Viva Zapata”, Texas 1951
Emily Dickinson, they say, rarely left the house --
She preferred to be alone in there, doing poet stuff--
She hung out oftentimes with Death --
For her, that was enough.
Photos of her are few, and old --
I'm not her biggest fan --
But when she does pick up the phone --
I say, Girl, you got a man?
Loner Party is also a band.
Since I was not aware of this until one second ago, I am no less of a genius. Just so we’re clear.
Ralph Waldo Emerson is such a secret-sexy loner. The old-school mutton chops, the wise brow, the steamy lonerporn “Self Reliance.” I want to invite RWE over for some fuckin’ appetizers and crank out some jams on the gramophone.
Waldo was the original sexy loner. Not a loner, you say? C’mon man, he’s a flaneur. The odd man out. The observer, who sees but never belongs. A flaneur, you know, with one of those titillating accents over the “a” to emphasize that it stands for All Alone.
Would you be angry if I told you that you look devastatingly attractive sitting on that bear? I would like to buy you a latte, and buy that bear a latte and then tell him to get lost so we can be alone — you know — how you like. Then I’d challenge you to a pepperoncini-eating contest and rub you down with tuna fish, but you’d still want to live in that shitty studio in Koreatown by yourself, right?
