My Brain Itches

Happy morning.

Oh, happy day.

So I’m experiencing some synchronicity with the Wachowski Brothers. Watched The Matrix for the first time. Then, V for Vendetta. Now there’s some Matrix sequel on. Keanu Reeves usually blows but they don’t seem to be burdening him too much with dialog in the Matrix franchise.

Clever stuff, imaginitive and the production is amazing. I’m a sucker for good science fiction. It’s puzzling to me that everyone in the movie can fight with a precision hitherto unseen but they can’t hit shit with an automatic weapon. There’s only so much kung fu without gravity I can take.

Is it just me or were William Gibson and Clive Barker way better fifteen or twenty years ago?

Everything excretes. All beings you’ve ever seen or can imagine, even stars, solar systems, galaxies and the universe itself, takes a dump.

Everytime I go in the kitchen after the sun sets, my youngest, a sleek black very petite feline who goes by the name of Beddy Beddy, follows me and yells at me for a treat. As I look down, her mouth opens and she looks at me and hollers right at me. When she visits me on the couch or bed, she likes to think it’s a suprise. She announces her arrival with a little pigeon trill. She slays me.

My oldest, a beautiful lazily quixotic calico, goes by the name of Swirly Girl or The Gurry, likes to leave the occasional steaming tootsie roll next to the shower when she’s not completely satisfied with current shitbox conditions. At her advanced age, it’s all she cares about. By the way, I only have two. With cat’s, you must have more than one.

I no longer give them three names. Turns out that was a curse.

Did you see the comment left by my friend about the end of my book?

“Nice Everclear reference at the end.
The world you created and lived in for your story is so claustrophobic, so evil, and so real. I feel like I’ve been bent over and stuffed into a box with one little air-hole stabbed into it by a rusty screwdriver. Just enough air and space to live, but not enough to thrive. Or escape.

That made my fucking day.

Maybe now the the first draft of the novel is done I’ll start reading again. Books. Not just periodicals and blogs. Three weeks ago I bought Bugliosi’s book and McClellan’s and I haven’t cracked either one.

I live across the street from one of the better sushi joints in the Los Angeles Basin. I dropped thirty bucks today stuffing myself with albacore, salmon and Kirin. I went by myself so I read while I ate. I noticed a tiny, pale, nearly translucent bug doing erratic elipses on the bar. I studied it for a minute. Tiny. It’s eyes were the darkest thing on it’s body. Like a microscopic crustacean.

I flicked it and wiped my finger.

I can’t ever seem to figure out why shit goes wrong for certain people. My closest group of friends are all in the same shitstorm these days and they all seem to be complicit to one degree or another. I was a big part of the storm until we agreed it would be a good time for me to leave it.

I did it. I left. It was the smart thing to do.

I have chronic sleep apnea.

I’ve been thinking a lot about fresh tomatos, cottage cheese and avacados with sea salt and ground pepper.

I’ve pretty much stopped checking my mail.

Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen but I doubt mine is worse than anyone else still breathing.

I adore Barney Fife.

George W. Bush is a punk ass bitch.

Drinks for my friends.

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