Archive for the ‘Literature’ Category

I knew this was coming.  This blitzkrieg of all things Sarah.  I knew the book was coming.  I understood that no matter the political wisdom of every move she’s made from quitting as governor to tragically inserting herself in the district NY 23 race, that her intentions and decisions are far from nuanced.  She’s an attention whore.  A high school cheerleader with an insatiable thirst for fame or even infamy.  The nature of the attention we pay is as unimportant as the truth to her.

She milks us with tremendous success.

What confounds and disgusts me so much is that she is able to do this.  To do this to us.  That we are apparently so complicit.  That we are so willing to afford her audience.  To command our attention despite such a voluminous cornucopia of lies and empty rhetoric, absent policy, minus substance and with such prurient intentions.  Americans, at least some of us, adore idiots.

I know I do.

It’s true, I can’t help it.

But I can’t stand that she’s getting over on us.  Nixon fled the office of the Presidency with a near 25% approval rating.  So did Dumbya.  That proves that about one of four of every person I encounter is a dipshit.  So be it.  I hate that but what can I do?  She’s on Oprah, talking to Barbara Walters, being discussed on the network news and obsessed over by cable news.  She is literally fucking everywhere.  She’s selling mad books to all of us.

Or is she?

The Human Shitsmear declared her book one of the most substantiative on policy he’s ever read.  I don’t doubt that for obvious and numerous reasons.

Wallmart has her book at $8.98 and the right wing rag Newsmax, is offering it for five bucks and throwing in a four month prescription er, subscription.  Way off the $28 cover price.

Hmmm.

Let me tell you something, the fact that she has allegedly written a book (sans index), is proof that she has written more books than she has read.

What I want to know is why do so many of us pay attention?  Is it because we consider her to be compelling or is it the spectacle?  Is she interesting or is she a multi car pileup with flames and blood and sirens, highway flairs and stuff?

That she is already at odds over the facts with the McCain campaign staffers and personnel, belies her version of events at the very least, and her assertion that she was billed $50k for being vetted gives me pause.  Given what we now know and understand about her character and personality, the sudden and abrupt nature of the of the selection and glaring lack of process, it’s difficult for me to believe that any more than a few hundred bucks was thrown at the entire thing.

Gimme a break.  I doubt that much was even spent.  I think McCain woke up with his first piss hard on in months or even years and picked up the phone.  Two or three days later it was a done deal and they had a press conference that left us asking who?

She’s a one hit wonder.  She’s got no legs as we used to say in the music business.  She may yet exist in our periphery as some sort of pundit or talk show host but she will never again run for office, she has not the fortitude.  By 2012 she’ll be a mere memory of spoiled Alaskan fish on the palates of the intelligent or empty competition for the great unwashed on daytime television.  Probably both, but she’ll be a bigger threat to Springer than to Oprah or Martha or Ellen.  It is where she belongs.  I don’t think she’s dumb, just obviously intellectually lazy.  I can spot a person that hasn’t had their ass kicked in life and that’s because I have had mine own kicked up and down the block.  I’m here to tell you she hasn’t.  What is worse and potentially far more dangerous is that she has had her ass handed to her and she refuses to accept or even recognize it.

The latter is the truth and that makes her crazy and perhaps destructive, but only to the GOP.  Ha!  Good stuff.  Methinks disasters like hurricanes may be on the horizon for the party of “no”.

We’re just about the same age and she is as naive and arrogant as I have ever seen.  Not talking about a river in Egypt here, know what I’m sayin’?

It speaks volumes about the Republican party that she remains their most impressive marquee, their most convincing and visceral star.  I admit, this does excite me.  That their tank is still this empty…….do the math.  Romney?  Guy Smiley, seriously?

Sheezus.

My brother in law was the first person I ever heard describe George W. Bush as an “empty suit”.  I’ll happily co-opt that term in describing Sarah Palin.  Um, pantsuit though.

I know women like her.  Personally.  They exist in my own family with all the vindictiveness, jealousy and capacity for baseless recrimination.  They are loathed, feared or laughed at.  Those that are closest to them are the most disgusted or confused.  Occasionally they get punched down from above by those that are merely weary of their shit.  We do like that.

Drinks for my friends.

I rocked at Jeopardy tonight.  Even nailed the final Jeopardy question.  Rock of Gibraltar.

Shall we do a little politics?

First up, the alleged war between FOX and the White House.  Here’s my take:  FOX lies egregiously and irresponsibly.  Consistently.  They are shameless propagandists.    Therefore, they lose.  This President or any other has every right to neglect them, ignore them or even cast the occasional aspersion their way.  FOX is full of shit and any thinking, attentive American knows it.  It’s Obama’s prerogative.  It’s just that simple.  I kinda like that he’s dismissing them while saying he’s not losing any sleep over it.

Um, looks like the public option is alive once again.  Harry Reid says as much.  He told us yesterday he has the votes.  Turns out he probably doesn’t.  Olympia Snowe is blanching, or posturing as though she will, as I can’t imagine her blanching any more.  That bitch is pale.  Translucent.  Then there’s Lieberman.  Benedict Fliptop.  The little droopy eyed cartoon jowled prick announced he’d get behind a Republican filibuster on the public option.  You know he’s a former Democrat, now an Independent, allowed to retain his chairmanship of the Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs by virtue of tacit agreement between he and Mr. Reid that he would play ball on domestic policy.  Just so happens he’s the junior Senator from Connecticut, the finest and most luxurious mall in the country for health insurance corporations.  He’s taken over a million bucks in the last five years from the medical plutocracy.

Without even a conversation, not so much as a memo, Benedict Fliptop should be stripped of his chairmanship and barred from even caucusing with the Democrats.  This should happen yesterday.  He should be made to eat peanut butter and jelly on the steps or dine with his stinky Republican abominogs.  If possible, he should be ejected from his DC residence, have his single payer health care revoked and be issued a shopping cart, a hoodie and fingerless gloves, maybe a few cans of Sterno.  This fucker needs to understand that it’s politicians like him what cause unrest.  His own goddamn state favors a public option by some 68%.  What an asshole.

Let the asshat obstructionists filibuster if the Democrats can’t get their house in order enough to vote for cloture.  Force their hand and make them embarrass themselves and their party on C-Span.  Mr. Reid, you boxed.  You’re tough.  I know because you signed and inscribed your book for me at the respectful behest of my mother.  Bring in the cots, order pizza and throw Senate decorum out the goddamn window, at the same time throw tomatoes and rotten fruit.  Roll up your sleeves Harry, get a nurse for the elderly members.  Make the Republicans actually filibuster.  This is one one of the most important issues of our time.  Popcorn and porn for the junior members and Geritol, sponge baths and plasma for the senior ones.  Do I need to remind you that what happens here is not at your convenience but quite possibly at our abrupt financial inconvenience and physical well being?

I joke but I’m serious.  If it comes down to it and the Republicans aren’t forced onto the floor for days and weeks to read from their favorite children’s books, we will be justifiably far beyond angry.  Shame them.  Make them pay for attempting to prevent what every citizen of the richest country in history deserves.  For five fucking percent of our defense budget this would be a done deal.  Get this done.  How long did you want to be Senate majority leader anyway?  This is a cruel joke.  The debate is for and by the stupid.

If we can pay for these ridiculous wars we can pay for the health and welfare of our people and that’s right out of my mothers mouth.  The very first campaign I ever worked in was for you as Lt. Governor, I think I was seven and you were a “Goldust Twin” along with Dick Bryan.  You simply must do everything you can and give this everything you have, or I will campaign against you next year.

Let’s talk about the war.  You know, that one in Afghanistan where more of our men and women have been killed this year than any of the other seven?  The one Darth Cheney has the prunes to accuse Obama of “dithering” over.  The one he and Dumbya dithered over for seven years and ultimately bequeathed this mess of way too much technicolor that mother Cheney made for us?  Darth Cheney has my vote for most evil, most ineffective, most dishonest and most destructive President never elected in the 21st century.  The epoch is young but we should pray he prevails.

My money is on him and I can only hope it’s how history judges him and his little dog too.

I have to tell you I don’t envy our President.  He inherited a shitstorm of clusterfucks.  The electorate is flirting with disappointment.  The village folk grow restless.  The goddamn unscrupulous Republicans are pouncing on anything that moves even if it’s in the throes of death.  They’re stockpiling pitchforks and fagots (no, like torches).  I admit my own handful of discouragements.

We would do well to remember however, that a mess this size took eight long years to manufacture and the public was complicit for at least five or six.  Most of you have just woken up and are still rubbing the shit dust from your eyes.  We may not be all about a rose garden economically but the entire worldwide system is no longer staring into the mouth of the dragon and withering from it’s breath.  Jobs is what we need but jobs is always the last to appear.  It’s dicey yet, but we are closer to some modicum of meaningful healthcare reform than we have ever, ever been in an effort nearly a century old.  Troops are coming out of Iraq and he’s doing his damnedest to figure out Afghanistan.  There is legitimate effort in Gitmo and I’m not sure we’re done torturing or wiretapping but I know we’re up to far less of it these days.  He’s reaffirmed his promises to the the Gay, Lesbian and Transgender community and I believe he will follow through.

You can’t always govern with the President you’d want, you have to govern with the President you have.  I for one am still absolutely confident we picked the very best man.  There is not a doubt in my mind.

Drinks for my friends.

I suspect we’d all be a lot happier if they could.

Oh, I don’t know. Merry Xmas. Yeah, Xmas.

I hate it when people don’t understand me. It’s worse when they think they understand me. Christmas. Man, whatever. My ass is broke and even the idea of it is daunting and depressing.

I’m anxious for family and friends. I just talked to my Mom. I needed for her to remind me what Cristmas is about for us, for our family. I needed to hear her say it. It worked. It helped. I’ll book a flight tomorrow.

Why do I still dream of going over a cliff in a motorhome? Giant waves and sinking ships? We debate until the end. Conflict is thick and before you know it, all is lost. Family and friends and me over a thousand foot drop. The bottom rushes at me. I lay in bed an extra half hour for that shit movie. Perverse nightmare lunacy. Why?

I’m a mess. This is a mess. I’m flirting with the wind and the very edge. Closest I’ve ever been. The gusts dictate my balance. We all fall down. That’s why. That’s the rumpus.

Broke for Christmas. Fucking awful. I have a reputation for generosity. I will bring wine and my etchings. That will be enough. Mom said so.

I just want to see and touch them all. My family, my friends.

My definition of crazy: Not Boring.

My definition of insanity: Sometimes blue is purple…………look at that truck.

Celery and grapefruit. Red cherries on green slices of melon.

Dive in headfirst and get water all up in your face. Like snorting horseradish.

Then there’s the ghosts. They move everywhere and beneath everything. They are on your side and then not. No way to schmooze them. They don’t care at all.

Drinks for my friends.

I’ve got to tell you how strange my life has become.

I don’t work anymore. Car and apartment dirty. Filthy. Full of unnecessary things, copious refuse and random detritus. Grime. Disgusting. Can’t bring myself to care. Keeping an eye out for bugs.

They knock at the door all day. They knock and check the knob. All goddamn day. They rattle it. In the afternoon, they pound. They hammer and that upsets me. It suprises me. I’m startled and so I have to clean up. Clean myself up. I shave and shower. Bag some trash.

Sometimes I dust and vacuum.

I leave my toilet a mess.

When I look through the hole it’s always at the instant they are turning away.

I hate them.

Short blonde women, tall dark men.

Short blond men. Tall dark women.

I get angry.

At night they wear hoodies up.

Many wear a blue apron but I can’t read the logo or the slogan. I think there’s a pig on it.

It’s a fisheye parallax view kinda thing. Can’t make it out.

I either make people like me or I don’t. It’s simple so I just do it. Whoever you are, I can make you like me.

What do you think of that? It’s totally true.

Really mad. I get super pissed.

I have a unique view from my balcony. I leased the place sight unseen. I saw that it had twenty five to thirty feet of uniterrupted tiled deck outside and signed the lease. I can see three stories up. It’s like a canyon. Everything reverberates. The click of my lighter. My foot steps even in slippers. At night sounds multiply.

From the balcony I see common areas, like where the elevator spills my neighbors. One of three jacuzzis. I got a letter on my door today about the jacuzzis telling me they were to be replastered this month. Great. Can’t wait.

Sometimes I see them from my balcony on the floors above me not really talking to each other. Their lips move. They touch a lot. It’s subtle. They never look at each other.

They always see me. Always. They look right fucking at me. They don’t exactly point with their fingers.

It begins. A clatter, some rustling and then some random knocks. After that, pounding, rapping and bell ringing. So loud! I get angry and charge the eyehole. Sometimes I yell at them as they turn away. Sometimes just one. Often groups. I feel better screaming at the groups.

I pound at my door as they scatter.

I never open it. That would be crazy.

Sometimes, I peer out the hole in the middle of the night and they go by in boats, the hallway a rushing river. Torches burning. Backs paddling away from me. Hoods up. The water is violent and green. My feet are wet and river water splashes the skin of my feet and ankles.

I dream of portals and portholes.

Morning, there is no evidence of a river, yet I wake with rashes on my feet.

They leave things at my door. Minature boxes of cereal, deflated balloons and wrinkled party favors. Glitter. Plastic champagne flutes. Soggy candy cigarettes. The hallway smells like leather and the sea.

Weeds and insects.

Everyone I encounter that day looks like they’ve been swimming. Dry skin, red eyes, wild hair.

Fucking grasshoppers careening, leaping abberantly in front of me wherever I walk.

People don’t know what I know. They can’t see what I see.

Every time I go to the 7-11 after sunset, one of the bastards opens the door for me. I recognize them all.

Crazy is everywhere you look. Color outside the lines. Be creative. Kill people.

This last one was old and chapped. His face was ruddy and he moved rheumatic. I usually try to give them something. Who knows what power they have. I hate when I’ve got no cash and say as much on the way in but they still ask again on the way out.

I’ve been avoiding it lately. Always bugs in the condiments at The Hot Dog Buffet. Only buy stuff that is prepackaged. Always bring home mayo packets.

They mingle by the elevators. They whisper. They always drop a few Crackerjack prizes when they gather. On the floor in the common areas. Little red striped envelopes with a semblance of a sailor in blue. Like where the mailboxes are. Sometimes I pick them up off my balcony. That spooks me. What bugs me most is when they’re beside my car. Sometimes all around my car.

Dozens. That spooks me.

There’s always a guy who’s balding wearing corduroy with bad teeth. Sometimes tall, sometimes not. An elegant redhead in black who maintains her youth by eating nothing but grains and raw vegetables. Children in costumes. An over perfumed elderly fat woman dressed immaculately. A guy I can only describe as Karl, The Mortition, and a handful of others. From the girl at the drycleaner to the hairy guy in a stupid shirt at the mall who kept walking in front of me.

I see the goats and hear the monkeys. I never see the monkeys and hear the goats. Never.

There’s a window outside of my apartment, in the hallway, that opens onto my balcony. That’s how they’re getting in. I close my shit up before I sleep no matter how hot it is.

A woman in the elevator the other night had what looked like a hamster cage. It looked heavy but she still held it high. Yellow plexiglass, the smell of woodchips and sour rodent turds. There were tiny frogs inside. They kept leaping against the sides, making me flinch. They slid down, leaving smears. It sounded awful. Smacks and whisper moist scrapes. She had a moustache. Sideburns. Her dress was a smock of burlap somewhere between lime green and pastel robins egg. It was morbid against her skin and the simian coating of black hair on her arms.

Burping amphibians with huge eyes. A woman named Halgromson, moles erupting with thick and ropy whiskers.

Sheezus!

Once in a while I smell crazy. Smells like dust. Smells like rocks and rotting flowers. Penetrates everything. Sweet but cloying and dense.

Smells like cabbage boiling with a fair amount of porkfat. Get used to it. Come to Daddy.

Drinks for my friends.

Nothing smells like a tire shop. I loved it. Always a chrome gumball machine. Newspapers, car magazines. Displays of motor oil, fascinating three dimensional cutaway presentations of tread and steel belts. All kinds of shit to look at and the coolest smell.

Kinda like the Barbershop behind Cactus Jack’s. It had it’s own vibe and there were comic books from Andy’s Smoke Shop around the corner on Main Street. A guy named Bob took care of me and the Old Man. Light blue smocks and the scent of Barbicide.

The tall jar of aquamarine disinfectant filled with combs is something that fascintes me to this day. I have an overwhelming compulsion to put red striped straws in with the combs.

Someday I’ll do that.

Dad always went first so I could get started reading a comic. I didn’t like getting my hair cut and I don’t know why. I’m not sure we’ve ever understood each other but he always understood what I needed.

The apparatus, gauges, hoses and tools at the tire shop set my imagination of fire. Pneumatic engines and hydraulic lifts leave a huge impression on a six year old. They lift the whole goddamn car! The sound and power of pneumatic wrenches. Every man’s hands were dirty but they were all friendly and smelled of hair tonic and aftershave. VO5, Tres Flores, Hi Karate, Brut, English Leather or Avon.

They all chewed gum. Some smoked cigarettes while chewing gum. They rarely removed the cigarette from their lips. They talked, smoked, chewed gum and worked on cars.

The Old Man was polite and talked to them with respect. They liked him. He liked them. They saw he was a man who made a living with his hands. Mutual all the way around. His Detroit muscle needed new rubber. Mercury Cyclone. Dirty snow steaming on the edges of the parking lot. Coffee in flimsy styrofoam.

I really like the sound of guns being cocked and loaded in the movies. Know what else? When the bartender in a movie slams the shot glass on the bar and fills it with whiskey. Great sound. There’s a reason musical instruments are made from wood.

I collect marbles. They fascinate me. I know the best glass blowers in America and I own their work. I keep them in large, shallow crystal bowls. The sound as I pick them up and put them back is sublime. I can barely stand it when somebody picks up a bowl and they roll in chaos against the side.

I have somewhere between two and three thousand comic books. I collected them from the age of eleven to sixteen or so. I read every single one. I haven’t looked at them since then. They’re in boxes in my closet.

Did you know that Ralph’s supermarket brand of SpaghettiOs is far superior to that of Franco-American? Not so sweet and much cheaper. Half the price. I bought five cans for five bucks not long ago. Off-brand Spaghettios should be a staple in any pantry. Cheap and nutritious. They’re best cold, straight out of the can. Trust me, I know. Use a soup spoon.

I’m really afraid of bees. Can’t help it. Took a barefoot walk through some clover when I was two. Don’t remember it but it’s a preternatural fear.

The last day before summer vacation in seventh grade was overcast. I don’t recall ever feeling lonelier.

I miss the eighties and the nineties. I’d go back.

I’ve done heroin. Twice. I smoked it and snorted it. I’d been around it enough, I was young. I was curious. I’d already done just about everything else.

The lead singer from a band named Dumpster indulged me. His girlfriend was a falling pornstar with the ugliest pussy I’d ever seen. She brought him his rig every night around seven. His name was Robert. She showed up with a black lacquered box that was somehow ceremonial. She was thin and white. Tall and sweet. Brunette.

One morning he was there before me, missing an eyebrow. He and told us an elaborate story about waking up and finding it intact on his pillow. Laid out perfectly, he told us with a sweep of his hand. An interesting and angry man. Compelling. He liked life.

We were happy to be there.

He told me about getting hit in the head with a full beer can from a speeding car while walking down a highway in the South. He said he thought he had it coming because he was just some punk.

His left front tooth was broken, he shaved his head and had brilliant blue eyes. He reminded me somehow of Anton LaVey. Very, very smart. Confrontational by nature, aggressive if you happened to be stupid.

He hid behind being a hick sometimes.

The drummer showed me some porn Robert’s girlfriend starred in. That’s how I know she had beef curtains like aging cold cuts.

I wondered how ugly a pussy could be and I found out.

One night she brings his rig and we’re finishing early. He’s ready to use the lounge to tie off, boil it in a spoon and slam it in his veins. He’s done his best to abstain during the daytime for the sake of performance. I respect this. He already understands I’m curious and we get along very well.

He starts by telling me he refuses to take responsibility for what will probably happen next. I tell him a big boy and not to worry. I can take care of myself and I own my actions. He prepares brown powder on aluminium foil for me. He hands me a glass tube and lights the foil from underneath with a Zippo.

I chase the dragon.

He goes to the lounge.

It is bliss. I walk the halls of the studio and eat an orange. I drop the peels on the floor. Everything I see is gorgeous. Each step starts like thunder at my toes and ends as pillows in my head. I drive my piece of shit Bug home and sleep like an infant.

I get home by feel. Instinct.

The next night he chops it for me. Razor blades not hard to come by in recording studios. It’s brown, like cinnamon and sugar. I snort it and so does he. He takes me for a walk. Sunset and La Brea. He takes time to point things out, people and situations. I’m higher this time. Everything is so much bigger. Lights and sounds and smells are grandiose.

Hoy’s Wok mixed with Burger King, Wendy’s, a 50’s Diner and a Mexican joint named Acapulco. A gas station, a couple dry cleaners and an El Pollo Loco.

So content. So happy. Inspired by the largesse of a warm and swarming evening.

I would be fine walking with this volatile bastard all night.

I consider pissing myself because it sounds like a pleasant idea in my head.

I understood then. I could never, ever do it again. It is the best drug I’ve ever tried. That was fifteen years ago.

Never did it again.

Another in a long series of brilliant bands that the record company either didn’t get or didn’t have the stones to sign.

See, when you work with a band in a recording studio, you can’t help but become a member of that band to one degree or another. Almost without exception, you become an advocate of their vision. When you make an actual record, if a bond somehow doesn’t form, something is wrong. It is by no means a normal enviroment. At least twelve hours a day, sometimes twenty four. An intensely creative and challenging atmosphere. Often a pressure cooker of conflict over vision, the big picture or the very small.

I was a producer/engineer. I came to know and understand people better in weeks than people who’d known them for years. In different ways for different reasons. The archetype of the dumb musician rarely applied. As a group, they are very bright and intellectually curious. Almost always more politically aware and better informed that the average shopper.

Robert was no exception. Axl Rose was, he was a complete moron. Tina Turner was pure class, elegance and talent. Mel Torme was as cool as a man that age can be. Bono and the band turned out to be very nice people. Annie Lennox endured a ride to her hotel in my shitbox VW Bug. We talked politics while she had a spring up her ass.

Art Alexakis is very difficult to describe. He’s very bright and knows exactly what he’s doing. At the same time he’s volatile, cranky and unpredictable. We definitely had fun but he’s a handful. Excellent songwriter and brilliant lyricist. He may just be a miserable man with a big heart.

I would have been happy to beat C.C. DeVille into a coma.

Chrissie Hynde threw a sausage at my head and I made sure Tom Petersson from Cheap Trick didn’t get the shit beat out of him in a titty bar.

Kenny Aranoff used to get pissed at me for playing his kit at night but Jeff Porcaro (R.I.P.) never said a word. I played just about every kit that came through. Dean Castronova and Terry Bozzio. Jim Keltner, Steve Gadd and Stewart Copeland. Vinnie, Omar and Manu Katché.

Over the years I met, worked with and came to understand some of the most interesting people there are, famous or not. I paid my dues but understood I was lucky. Hindsight tells me just how lucky. For a few years I was A&M’s Demo King. Sometimes a different band everyday. One day it was cellos and woodwinds, the next it was banjos stand up bass and concertinas. Wind up the week with a hardcore punk band.

I want to squeeze my nose with a pair of pliers so that it bursts like a cherry tomato and the pain enters my head in the sweetest and most delicious way.

Seems like it rained more back then.

Always direct the pyroclastic flow towards the ocean.

Drinks for my friends.

My girls sit on each arm of my couch, grooming. Benevolence. They could not be more opposite. Physically, temperamentally, even how we interact and the ways they tell me what they need or want. You’re never alone if you have pets.

I’ve let the nail on my left thumb grow. It weighs an outrageous amount. Subject to subtle surges of gravity. I can’t wait to clip it but I understand exactly why I’ve let it go this long. It offends me. I hate it. I can’t help it. My arm tingles with the anticipation of eliminating it. Sometimes at night, the thumb aches from it’s weight.

I must do it now. Right now. I loathe it. The need for relief from the mass I’ve allowed for has reached past solvency. One compulsion usurps another.

Giant, pastel green grasshoppers suddenly suffer mass abdominal explosions, yielding orange flavored Tick Tacks as soft and sticky shrapnel. Barely any sound.

I’ve done it. I’m lighter. Didn’t wait until I got outside. Sheared it off over the kitchen sink with giant steel toe incisors. Not sure the nail is short enough but I’m relieved. It was a wet fish I stuffed into my pants on purpose. Ocular organs of grasshoppers crisping and popping underneath my eye teeth. Ants and mosquitos mingle in my gullet sharing heartburn. They dance in my colon and I shit like a goose.

I need a shower.

Cindy Stepford McCain is creepy. She’s powered by yellowcake uranium. Just look at her eyes. She trips the lights fantastic with Lucifer hisownself.

The roof of my mouth bothers me. I could feel that nail in my mouth and nose. It made the tops of my feet itch; I almost wore a hole in one last night.

I lean back to discover The Gurry right next to me. She is flawless and wise. I rub her head just how she likes. If I’m afforded an afterlife she will be there. I’m hoping she’ll finally talk to me, I want to ask her about her moods and if she really was watching TV all those times. Beddy will tell me really bad jokes about latin homosexuals. The Bean will moderate while wearing those half glasses. Can’t wait to see her.

Men and women are so different it’s often tragic.

I wonder how far I could leave life behind while still being able to stay connected. I ask myself this question and realize I’m halfway there.

I just need cable, high speed internet and groceries conveniently accessible, all from a lower than alpine region. The side of a not too steep mountain. Ideally, a fresh source of water within a walkable distance. A well. A generator. Some solar panels. Plenty of tools. Morphine. Lots of beans and pickled vegetables.

Sometimes, I understand the need to surrender to certain things to be at peace.

I should go to bed but my dreams will have their way with me.

A fix of apathy is needed. It’s usually pretty easy to come by. Not today.

I know why I’m in this mood but I’m not gonna tell you about it. Nothing I can’t solve, get over or get through.

Bitches can’t hold they smoke, that’s what it is.

“I tell them there’s no hurry, I’m just sitting here doing time.
I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round.
I really love to watch them roll.
No longer riding on the marry-go-round.
I just had to let it go.
I just had to let it go.
I just had to let it goooooo.” -John Lennon

A chihuahua has dominated the box office for two weekends and that Russian rocket is way cooler than our Saturn Five. Russian rockets are way cooler and more sinister than American rockets.

Fall is here, it’s my favorite season. Candles, fireplaces and deciduous trees in the San Fernando Valley.

Clarity is a commodity in every grand prize. At least it should be.

I think I need to walk it back a little.

Drinks for my friends.