There are the weak.

Two are named Justin and Jose. It’s a story in itself. They worked in the warehouse. I reached out to both of them. Tried to help. They were shit before I met them and I’m not sure it was their fault. Nonetheless, they were shit.

I understand that one or both of them abused my cat. The Swirly Girl. For eight years or so she was the warehouse cat, until I brought her home. I am the most trusted entity in her life. We know each other very well. I’ve always been her dad. Still, she sometimes ducks my hand. My hand, that is never extended or even opened unless to pet or feed her. occasionally she cowers a little.

She’s been struck by a human hand. They never forget that. It would have been Justin or Jose.

I imagine it was Justin and if I ever lay eyes I will hit him in the face with all that I have because I know. Swirly Girl is beautiful, soft and sweet but she is scarred. Some dickless angry human abused her. Hello Justin. How are you? Miserable bastards always meet their fate. We reap what we sow.

Ever notice the way the grass yellows underneath a child’s pool or an overturned wheelbarrow?

“I heard the news today, oh boy.”

I stood next to Paul Stanley today at the 7-11. I reminded him I’d been an engineer on Kiss Alive III. What I didn’t tell him was that I faked not knowing the lyrics to “Detroit Rock City” and was therefore able to get him to hand write them for me so I could punch in and out of record in order to replace the live vocal. I still have it somewhere. Both he and Gene were fun to work with. Nice guys. Very smart. I did tell him that.

His teeth were pristine.

Pretty cool. I got that record, “Destroyer”, and a skateboard for Christmas when I was twelve. Best record KISS ever made. Probably because Bob Ezrin (Pink Floyd The Wall) produced.

I worked with Garth Richardson (Rage Against The Machine) and Eddie Kramer. Eddie Kramer was the single most incompetent producer I’d ever worked with. I spent my time on that record cleaning up his mistakes, propping him up and keeping him from looking like the idiot he was in front of his clients. He had no ears and zero facility with the technology in front of him.

His claim to fame was Hendrix. Listen to his Hendrix records. The playing is brilliant but they sound like shit. The production and engineering is amateur hour. I despise imposters. Eddie Kramer was an imposter. He fucking sucked.

By the way, Garth was and is a sweet talented man who fathered me through it. He made me an honorary Canadian. A class act. He kept me from swinging on the pretentious English prick and likely saved my job and career. You’re a good man Garth.

“Same as it ever was.”

I gotta tell you, I don’t like most people. Some I used to love, I now hate. Even the very best ones end up disappointing me in the end. Their hearts blackened by their own fears and jealousy. They walk under our sun feeling they are justified and righteous. They reek, as they are no longer whole. The tragedy is not that they are unaware of what they’ve become, but rather, that they are. They have succumbed. All energy is devoted to maintaining the facade for what they believe is their own sake.

They rot and it stinks.

Callow, spineless and almost always aspiring towards Machiavellian.

“I never promised you a rose garden.”

Sometimes I’m amazed that I can walk into a store on any given day and find fresh untainted bread on the shelves. Of course, things aren’t always what they seem. Maybe that bread isn’t fresh or untainted. It just might be that it’s slowly poisoning me. Were I to discover as much, it would no longer suprise me.

“Who are these men of lust, greed and glory? Rip off the mask and let’s see. Oh no, but that’s not right, what’s the story? There’s you and there’s me.”

I’m not here to hold myself as some example. I’m as flawed as anyone on any sidewalk anywhere. I do my best however, to take stock. To be honest with myself. I try. I attempt to avoid being the biggest douchebag I know.

Good men die and bad men live every goddamn day. The only thing we have is to do the best we can. That’s all there is.

“Who the fuck are you?”

My Uncle Larry had surgery yesterday to remove a mass of cancer. He’s already very sick. I didn’t hear from my Mother. That worries me. She was supposed to call. My plan is to get drunker.

I really can’t stand most of this. It’s all way too much. There are times, and they are increasingly more frequent, I resent the idea that I’m supposed to carry on in light of it all. Despite it all. It makes me very angry. I feel like a five year old on a merry-go-round and I just want off.

I know I just turned fourty four, but inside, I’m still barely thirteen.

“So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.”

There were times. Very rare. Fog would envelope my desert neighborhood. Only in the dead of winter. I was comforted by the quiet and isolation. Today, I long for it.

As always, the Swirly Girl rests at my side. This moment, as good as moments get. No creature do I adore more.

She is the end of my nightmare.

“You can always judge the distance by the company you keep.”

Drinks for my friends.

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