THE MATT FESTThe time has come to gather round “the found black box offering a plummeting curtain call†to honor Matthew Aaron Dyke.
The Eggie Memorial has been set!WHEN: Saturday, April 19th, 5-8pmWHERE: The Bayside Whitehouse (on the south side of Hwy. 98/
15th Street, behind Panama Café at the Howard Johnson
Motel, 2 miles east of the Hathaway Bridge).BRING: Your laughter and stories of warm or nefarious appealing
or appalling adventurous misdeeds with Menos.
Don’t forget to bring personal memorabilia for the
Matthau Display Table to be enjoyed by all.CONTACT: Jennie Hobbs by April 11th as attendance is requested by
The Whitehouse egg scramblers to seat and accommodate
everyone with food and beverages.
[email protected] or (865)201-0694 or
Dennis Dyke at (850)769-7720.Sunset will be at 7:13pm but no cannons will be fired,
just volleys of laughter and warm thoughts for Matt.Shirts, shoes and funny business required.Crumb snatchers and curtain climbers welcome.Cookie cutters prohibited!
At the behest of my spiritual advisor, I must insist that you not
read my profile until at least thirty minutes after eating: We don't
want anyone drowning out there. Now allow me to enlarge upon the meat
of the vital matters. When not spraying the geyser of exhilaration, or
dazzling the pursed snouts with my irrepressible brand of tricky
wordplay ballet, I delight in syphoning otherworldly sounds from
crouching nests, and scattering chrome smoke rings to curb
catastrophe's curfew in a stark to finish mode. For reasons which
shift, yet remain unplugged, I'm currently on the cusp of launching my
own
fragrance with hints of your mother's drive-in touch, and uber-redolent
of father's need to suitcase underthings (seconds away from isolating
the essence of the one who deflowered you). Peephole me tentatively
and without twitching as I employ hindered
voices as a vehicle for expensive stories in the evening: recording
them recite blistering passages queerly belied by their plodding tempos
and wooden deliveries. You wouldn't be spinning fibs to an audience
of grunts by claiming that I'm known in skewed circles to careen
alongside
apparitions in burgundy bullet trains - bracing only to foray into
their blanched, undulating shells, and coiling my beet vine beliefs
directly around their kiddie-pool-peeper, Sparkler retinas. Credit me
with the most spine-tingling rejoinder that you've ever heard, then abruptly
swivel and sequester yourself to a tranquility box - leaving no room
for penalty. When the mood shrinks, find me clearing the bleachers in
my own inimitable stylings with a recipe that produces a clavicle-shaped
casserole of seasoned rapture. Wink in my general direction as I
surrender to the gift of aching song on your private foyer - where I lay
supine, boldly stitching syllables into unlikely postcards and brittle
love letters, before opening veins of glittery change on marinated
sheets. With that, I recommend you alleviate every trifle concern in
your orbit by sending me an effigy of yourself ebbing in life's
thriving
imbalance; or a combination lock to the latest dream which politely
rattled you upon a shivering bed.
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