Sunday, August 17, 2008

45 years and a Gold Plated Watch

I don't know who you are.

I sit in my kitchen every morning, Sanka steaming, pajamas still on. It is what it is. I am retired, my wife died 15 years ago, my kids - middle-aged - have entered into their own orbits, mine left long behind.

After decades working as a grocery warehouse manager I managed to squirrel away enough money to sit here, at this table, and watch you.

You have so many dogs, little dogs, dogs on leashes that extend out 10, 20 feet, maybe more. They shit in my yard, in the neighbors yards, sometimes they even shit on the road. And you, always at the ready, baggie in hand, the dutiful public servant there to remove the evidence and keep our little world beautiful.

What have we reduced ourselves to that in order to get a grip on the need for companionship so much a part of our makeup we are capable of suffering the indignity of handling the warmed feces of a small mammal with nothing between the pile and your hand but a microscopically thin sheet of plastic? It can't be good.

I wonder how this day will go. Will the young boy from up the street drop in after school to pander his melted chocolates in order to support the local special ed kids, or the drama club, or whatever bottomless void is in need of a good tithing.

I have it on good authority that this particular young man is wont to take the earnings from his many bogus altruisms and use them to purchase the sexual favors of the woman who lives on the other side of my back yard.

She lives on a government stipend and the remnants of an inheritance given her from her late husband. Bit of a thrill seeker who tries to keep it honest by cloaking her deviance in the guise of professionalism.

Maybe I will receive another post card from my brother. Ever since our parents died in the seventies he has lived in the south of Spain on a fucking vineyard of all things.

We grew up in the 30s on the outskirts of Youngstown, Ohio. Nobody knew anything about wine. My brother knew his way around the beers of the Midwest, alright, but wine was out of the question.

Perhaps he wanted little more than to escape this reality and build a new one.

His postcards never contain more than one sentence, and honestly enough, he often misspells my name.

My wife spent so many years of her life in this very kitchen. Only God knows now what it was that occupied so much of her time in here. Even in the face of her unavoidable death at the hands of the cancer that reduced her to a virtual skeleton she spent her days in this very room waiting for the end to come.

I would come home late at night from my job to find my dinner warming in the oven, butts in the ashtray, her notes to herself in her own shorthand most likely gibberish anyway.

I would sit in the dark and eat and wait for the sun to come up so I could watch you.

Today the revolver sits on the table beside my coffee cup. One of my socks is sagging, the elastic long since worn away. My hair is unkempt. The sink is full of dishes.

You pass by, 6 AM on the money. After this morning, I wonder how this day will go.

I know what to do.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

New Blog/Blood-Pleas/Please

Up until a couple of weeks ago, I was a regular weekly contributor to the music blog, Nonalignment Pact. I have stepped away for a number of reasons that I won't go into, but suffice to say that I have no intention of slowing down my writing output as a result. In fact, if it is all all possible, I intend to focus much more heavily on my writing in the future.

Moving forward, part of my plan is to start a new blog project. While writing about music is fine (and don't buy the retarded 'writing about music is like dancing about architecture' horseshit, that's just lazy), I spent a great deal of time in the NAP trying to think of ways to incorporate the rest of the flotsam in my useless brain into my posts.

I began to entertain the idea of starting something that covers more of what I am interested in to not only give a more accurate view of what sort of world I see around me, but also to give myself an opportunity to incorporate the world of books, film, culture, misanthropy, and all other manner of hateful ranting to my heart's content.

This is a venture I don't intend to undertake alone.

This means I need help. Whatever you've got. If you want to participate, or are the least bit curious, then listen up:

I need writers. That means you like writing. It doesn't mean you are Shakespeare, or a grammar teacher, but it does mean that you need to have a voice and you need to be able to be honest with not only the rest of us, but more importantly, yourself.

I would like to have a stable of writers who will agree to commit to at least two posts per month.

These posts can come in two consecutive days, and they could come on the first and last day of the month. I don't care, but I do want you to consider that this is at least a small commitment for you.

Write about whatever you want. That means, pretty much anything. If I have to put up a disclaimer in order to allow you the freedom to express yourself without offending the rest of us, I will. Just say it loud.

I also would love either some literal help, or if not, then some good pointers as it relates to both design and layout. I will most likely stick with Google and thus Blogger as I like the interface just fine, it's free, and it links up quite nicely with my Gmail account (Google Docs, Calendar, etc...).

Little is off the table as far as ideas go. So if you read this, are interested, and have ideas, let me hear 'em. I'm all ears.

Most importantly, I am well aware that practically no one reads this blog, and that the few who do are either already disposed, uninterested, secretly hate me, or worse...

Still, think of all the ways that we could piss people off, people who so deserve it, and think of all the things that need to be said, because that's what I'm after.

And I am the dictator. This will be no simpering democarcy without any actual decisions ever being made so that no one can ever actually be happy at all. If I get tired of whoever you are, I reserve the right to make bye bye.

There, that ought to pull you in in droves.

I will be waiting for your prompt responses.

God, I hate you all.

8/8/08 State

This post will come off as being overly political, and I have tried to keep my political views and opinions to myself in the last few years, since it virtually leads nowhere. Having said that, I hope that my critiques here will fall closer to the social commentary column than that of pure political editorial. It doesn't help that my knowledge of world politics is rudimentary at best; so with that in mind, I respectively admit my shortcomings up front. Maybe this will make this post more readable. Maybe not. Maybe you can go fuck yourself. As always.

It's off to the races in China as the 2008 Summer Olympics have hit the ground running (ahem).

From what I've seen of the near four-hour opening ceremonies, lavish pomp is something that the Chinese do better than anyone else (in fact no one even comes close).

If you happened to hear the Democracy Now episode Friday morning then you heard about how the Chinese government spent over 45 billion dollars in order to host these games.

45 billion! Can you fucking believe that?

In Athens the 9 billion they spent on their games was way over budget and they will be in debt to themselves for many years to come. As an example, Montreal, who hosted the 1976 games, just payed off the last bit of their debt from those games in 2006. That means it took them 30 fucking years to deal with that. And guess who footed that bill? The people of course! Yay populism.

Anyone else think that maybe the games are not really about sport at all, not really about the spirit of human achievement, and perhaps more about commerce?

Doubt that? Well, think about this, this was the first opening ceremony to be attended by a visiting American president in decades. Any guess why?

Economically speaking we are in the pocket of the Chinese. Our need for cheaper and more plentiful crap is so voracious, and Chinese labor production so equally cheap and plentiful that as we continue to become indentured servants to the exploding Chinese economy China in the meantime is assuming its place at the global table, horrific human rights atrocities and soul-crushing anti-democracy right there with her.

China apparently displaced over a million residents of Beijing in order to make room for the posh Olympic accommodations that pepper that huge city. It's hard to imagine a country that covers such a wide range of social stratification especially considering their supposed love of the working class. The Chinese poor are very, very poor, and the rich are getting much, much richer. Just like every other Capitalist superpower! Joy!

The lengths that we will bend over in the name of commerce is appalling, but it should come as no surprise in a world where your entire being is summed up by its value to a global economy that thrives on control and marketing.

And speaking of marketing, can you believe the propaganda machine that has kicked so heavily into gear to sell these games as an arms-opened hug of humanity?

Pepsi has changed their can to red to celebrate the red of communist China, a move that must have McCarthy's ghost shitting its ethereal pants as we speak.

And just as we see every two years (winter/summer games), the media does its best to portray the sentimentality of the struggles the athletes must endure in order to realize their dream.

But how many athletes dream of being pawns for some sort of corporate marketing strategy to reach the hearts, minds, and dollars of China's, let alone the rest of the world's wealthier nations exponential upsurge of wealth?

Me, I have always enjoyed watching the games. Perhaps it is the spectacle that has captured a growing segment of my attention as I have grown older (and more cynical), but I still take a great deal of enjoyment from the games themselves. And that is in light of the discrepancy that exists between money rich countries like the US and China and other embattled political hotbeds like Iran, Iraq, and Pakistan.

In fact, watching the opening ceremonies was more than a little depressing. Watching as the countries paraded past with their vastly differing coteries of athletes, I felt a bit sheepish at the sight of the massive, attractive, and incredibly well-financed American team.

But, if nothing else, the games are a barometer for the climate of the world in which we live. And given the nature of our times, seeing the games take place in Beijing, while Putin watches and cheers as his fellow countrymen at that very moment open war on yet another breakaway front, while Bush does what no other president has bothered to do for so long (in order to curb favor) while our unending war in the Middle East rages on, while Pakistan's Musharraf stays home to combat a growing threat to his self-imposed leadership, perhaps it is only normal to see these games as a literal window into the human condition, warts and all.

Despite that winded vitriol, I will honestly be enjoying the games anyway. I always have, and likely always will.

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

Beak Holes

Okay, I will admit to loving hysteria as much as the next guy. When I waxed rhapsodic about the non-event tropical storm that drivelled its way across the Houston/Galveston area, even I was wont to overestimate its effect on the environs.

Look, it fucking rained for about four or five hours. That was it ladies, the whole shooting match, the whole enchilada, lock stock and fucking lot. There was no wind at all. It's not like it was a wee breezy. No. There was no wind. I pass more wind daily than that damn thing did yesterday and no one is calling my ass a tropical storm.

Thank you. I'll be here all week.

Today, in lieu of actual work, I was reading the book, Isaac's Storm, about an actual storm that blew through here in the year of our lord, 1900. That fucking thing was a monster, and we've had our share. Camille, Claudette. Galveston was practically eradicated after the 1900 storm.

Reading about the science of hurricanes is no joke. Well, reading about it I guess is as much a joke as anything really, but the science is no joke.

The world record for rainfall in a 24 hour period goes to a storm that pissed out 73 inches over Jamaica in one day. ONE DAY.

The most rain recorded for one storm total was NINE FEET in 3 days of raining.

Camille (I believe it was), the monster storm that dropped 4 feet over Alvin, Texas in a day, went packing up north and ended up dropping 3 feet of rain in Virginia after days over land. The rain was apparently so heavy that it was reported birds drowned from the water filling their upper beak holes faster than the birds could drain it.

Edouardo, you sir were a pussy.

That's right, I said 'beak holes,' got a problem with that?

Yeah, But Can You Play That Thing?

Ever since I moved into this apartment a month ago I have taken great pleasure in putting my turntable to use. For some reason, when I bought the thing it sounded crap whenever I used it through the stereo I used to have at home. I had to use a preamp since the receiver was one model number away from having a phono jack packaged with it. For some reason (that some total tech dickwad would gladly share with you over milk and cookies), using that preamp through the receiver not only sounded bad, it was also way too quiet to matter. Therefore, I did what anyone in my position would do: I stopped using it.

Fast forward to my previous apartment (the one with the cocksmoking nuthound that lived upstairs and stomped about day and night) and I purchase a lovely set of plug-and-play speakers for my laptop. I just wanted something decent. Much to my surprise these things sound fucking boss. Boner city. The sub is more than powerful enough to piss off any neighbor who dreams of me standing over them at night with Naked City CDs in hand.

Unfortunately for me, my turntable was packed away in a corner since the damn place was often housing five hapless souls in its one-bedroom splendor.

Things had to change.

And so we are here in the now in this spacious little number in stripper central.

(As an aside, we received a complimentary copy of the Koran at our door the other day. I couldn’t have been happier. I’ve wanted one of those babies for a while, and the idea of the Koran being handed out in a place as backwards as, well, as America by some sort of Islamic Gideons is just too cool.)

So I now have more than enough room to whip out the vinyl and use the old phonograph. And man, I’ve got to tell you, listening to Black Sabbath’s Heaven and Hell through my Sony is a fucking revelation. The bass response is simply majestic, and the mix is full. If I weren’t such a modest man I would service myself in the mirror while listening to that album. Just saying, it’s that good.

If you know my writing from the Nonalignment Pact, then maybe you remember my mentioning the extreme metal magazine out of Philadelphia, Decibel. If not, know that I love that damn thing. And also know that every month Decibel adds another album to their Hall of Fame.

So, as I was listening to Heaven and Hell I was thinking to myself that it would be badass if Decibel had the sense to use H&H as their next Hall of Fame entry. So I grab the new issue yesterday, and there it is, Hall of Fame, bitches. So well deserved. Buy the album on vinyl, buy Decibel, buy some crack and snag some steel wool from the pantry, retire to your den, grab your full length mirror and some lube and have yourself a night.

And you’re welcome.

Oh yeah, there is another thing.

I have a really scary vinyl collection. Most of my records I have acquired from my mother who was liquidating her stuff years back since she had no turntable of her own anymore. This meant I ended up with gems like Charles Aznovour, Johnny Halliday, Serge Gainsbourg, Barbara Streisand, Cat Stevens, The Kingsmen and so many others. It also meant I ended up with several albums that my cousin left with my mom for some reason, stuff like Savoy Brown, The Beatles, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, The James Gang, and Traffic.

So I’ve been playing Traffic’s The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys. I really dig a pretty good chunk of that album. Sure, it gets a little “flutey” so to speak, and it has that doofus, Steve Winwood, on it, but overall that thing rocks. I highly recommend it. And don’t fuck around with a CD of it, or worse still, a fucking download. What you need is the vinyl and here’s why… Check out the unit on the guy on the far left side of the front row! Holy fuck! What is in his pants for god's sake? I know it was the 70s, and I know that it was de rigueur to have the old armadillo in trou’, but Jesus H., that is some scary shit. I’m not sure who that guy is. I assume he was the sax player, Chris Wood (Wood, hahahahahaha), because he has that apparatus around his neck. For some reason, he also seems to be holding a fucking walkie-talkie in his left hand! What the fuck for? What self-respecting genital mutant needs a walkie-talkie anyway? Whoever he is, there is some serious shit going down in his pants. His package is so disproportionately large that it seems almost hard to imagine that the guy donning it would have the abdominal strength to stand up straight. There is so much action in that guy’s crotchal region that it is almost possible to not even notice the batshit crazy black guy next to him. What’s up with the black dude? Full camo zipper suit? Woven straw hat? Ridiculously dark oversized sunglasses? They’re all there, but you would be totally forgiven for not noticing thanks to Mr. Cock and Balls over on the left.

Buy it.

Monday, August 04, 2008

Tropical Storm Retardo

It's amazing what watching the undoing of a city at the hands of a hurricane can do to the sanity of a neighboring city.

Back when Katrina exposed once and for the near total lack of competent leadership in the federal government, and the central Gulf Coast suffered the worst natural disaster in its recorded history, something happened to the psyche of Houstonians. We saw the abandonment and inundation of New Orleans as a potential worst case scenario here as well. Never mind that we don't live in a virtual cereal bowl, every day losing valuable natural protection to the willful destruction of surrounding wetlands in the name of profits and at the expense of civil safety. Never mind all that. When we panic here in Houston, we do it right.

Luckily for us, hot on the heels of the Katrina debacle came Hurricane Rita, which was the most powerful storm ever if you measure it by barometric pressure (which only weather people actually do).

Had the Houston/Galveston area sustained a direct category 5 hit like it was appearing a day or two before landfall, things would have been pretty ugly here.

The ensuing flood (and only flood) of residents heading for safer locales ended up being a crisis unto itself as literally hundreds of thousands of area residents were trapped in a bumper-to-bumper nightmare in the Houston freeways.

A whole busload of elderly people being shipped to 'safer' ground was basically burned to death thanks to a fire that got out of hand very quickly.

Since that near miss we really haven't had much to talk about in the tropical arena here in Houston.

Tonight, Tropical Storm Edouardo is threatening to become a category 1 hurricane overnight and then make landfall directly on Galveston Beach before heading for Houston.

This means that if it even becomes a hurricane at all, the highest sustained winds would be around 74 miles per hour. If it happens at all, by the time it reaches Houston things will have died down somewhat. Basically we will see loose items blow around, some dead trees and limbs break, and probably a hell of a lot of rain. That's most likely it.

Thing is, on our way home tonight we stopped at the local yup-mart to grab some stuff for dinner and the fucking place was a mob scene.

Even the fucking local news was on hand to capture the lunatic frenzy. You'd think something important was about to happen the way folks were clamoring for bread, water, and of course beer.

I think, in retrospect, that since so many people will be off tomorrow, and since the stores may well be closed (not mine of course), they might as well stock up and stay at home and get bombed.

Now that is America at its finest.

Sunday, August 03, 2008

Jesus is Making for us the Chicken

Jesus is making for us the chicken.

We will give thanks to him, Jesus, for it is for us that he has bestowed the chicken.

And seriously, those empty chicken eyes, all glassy, malignant voids of darkness, and clear hosts to the majesty of the dark lord.

Chik-Fil-A is the lord’s venue for the word on the front of fast food and in this we must rejoice.

Jesus too has made for us the pizza.

We will give thanks to his majesty and rejoice in this sacrament of dough and cheese (made with real milk, ye of little faith), and spicy sauce with but a hint of sugar.

Incredible Pizza Company is the lord’s secret way of delving within the recesses of your wayward soul and touching us with his word all through the sacred joys of pizza and shitty video games.


Yes people, yay verily, and so shall it be that his majesty is in the business of cheap, nutritionally worthless fast-food and mindless electronic entertainments served up at the mercy of a token. This token will go down like the very wafer, an analogue of his flesh made real and transposed into the gleeful faces of fat, ruddy faced children.

What would Jesus eat?

Jesus eats pizza and chicken.

Peculiar this shunning of the bovine culinary delights seeing as how the cow has been granted certain sacred qualities in other equally ill-informed monotheistic ventures. You would think that we would shove as much cow flesh into our massive yet ironically malnourished bellies as was humanly possible.

Oh yeah, we do.

Just not at Chik-Fil-A.

Chik-Fil-A isn’t even open on the lord’s day. Yeah, that’s right; Sundays are for worship, not eating chicken. How’s that for devotion? Never mind that fried foods in highly saturated oil is tantamount to a slow and controlled genocide on a mass scale. That’s no sin.

Check out this little excerpt from Wiki on the Chik-Fil-A god hookup (warning: it’s fucking retarded):

Religious connections

Chick-fil-A founder S. Truett Cathy is a devout Southern Baptist who has taught Sunday School for over 44 years and whose religious beliefs permeate the company to this day. The company's official statement of corporate purpose says that the business exists "to glorify God by being a faithful steward of all that is entrusted to us and to have a positive influence on all who come in contact with Chick-fil-A." The chain invests heavily in community services (especially for children and teenagers) and scholarships. Cathy's beliefs are also responsible for one of the chain's distinctive features: All Chick-fil-A locations (company-owned and franchised, whether in a mall or freestanding) are closed on Sundays.

Our decision to close on Sunday was our way of honoring God and directing our attention to things more important than our business. If it took seven days to make a living with a restaurant, then we needed to be in some other line of work. Through the years, I have never wavered from that position.

—S. Truett Cathy [5]
The religious organizations to which Truett Cathy and Chick-fil-A have lent support include such groups as Focus on the Family. Groups researching financial support of religious groups have noted that Truett Cathy is one of the largest corporate sponsors of politically active religious groups in the US, largely through grants from the Truett Cathy Foundation but occasionally through direct sponsorship as well or through partnership with other foundations that are major corporate sponsors of politically active religious groups.[citation needed]
Chick-fil-A has promoted religious groups via toys and CDs included in children's meals, much as movie studios promote new movies via McDonald's Happy Meal toys. These have ranged from including toys from the Christian television series VeggieTales in children's meals to including Financial Peace for Kids children's books by Christian financial guru Dave Ramsey and CDs from the Christian radio program Adventures in Odyssey, as children's meal incentives. The latter show is produced by the radio division of Focus on the Family, and typically heard on Christian radio stations.
Chick-fil-A and Focus on the Family also have a history of cross-promotion. Chick-fil-A has also sponsored meetings by the group All Pro Dad; All Pro Dad is a group with affiliations with Focus on the Family via a group called Family First; Family First promotes a large number of conservative religious causes, including covenant marriage.
Chick-fil-A has also directly sponsored other religious campaigns. One of the groups sponsored by Chick-fil-A is Athletes In Action which is a sports missionary arm of the Campus Crusade for Christ.
Another link between Chick-fil-A and religious groups includes promotion of National Bible Week. Truett Cathy is the chair of the National Bible Week Committee.
Amidst the company's push to the southwest, Las Vegas remains the southernmost metropolitan area without a Chick-fil-A location.[6]
Truett Cathy is also heavily involved in the WinShape Foundation, a non-profit organization which was started in 1984 with its goal to "shape winners" by offering summer camps, retreats, foster care, and other services.
Chick-fil-A's connection to Christianity has even been brought up in court when Aziz Latif, a Houston-based Muslim employee for 6 years, sued the company in 2002 for firing him, alleging that he was fired for his religious beliefs when he had refused to take part in an employee prayer.[7] The suit was settled on undisclosed terms.[8]

Know why the suit was settled? Because the guy was right.

Jesus is making for us the hypocrites. Hope you enjoy it because you asked for it.

The Chrism

The world is a giant cesspool. For once we can all be in agreement. No more of this incessant self-congratulatory simpering garbage that parades for civilized behavior for us, oh no, it’s time to pull out all the stops and beat our xenophobic drums, pound our hairy chests, and make every effort to isolate and crush any threat to our own perceived sensibilities. Welcome America, your fate will not be a pretty one.

Reading the news lately has been a huge exercise in hubris, or if I was to be more accurate, a huge exercise in horror.

We all are aware of the unparalleled amount of exposure that we now have to the world around us thanks to venues like the internet, and while it is nice to have so much easy access to so much information, one huge side effect of this glut is the simultaneous exposure to the utter douchebaggery that only humanity could master on such a grand scale.

Case in point.

The anthrax guy. Was this the right guy? Do we trust the FBI enough to believe that this dude was the guy they were really after? I mean, now that he’s offed himself, can we really trust the feds enough to believe that they were one step from cracking it wide open and handing this guy his ass? Apparently he took the dirt cocktail because he was tipped off that he was about to be arrested by the goons. Who knew that was coming, and why in the fuck would they tell a man who was (according to his shrink) homicidal? The whole thing reeks. And the bonus round has me wondering why this guy was working at Fort Dietrich at the bioweapons facility in the first place if he was so goddamned looped. What possible good would come from keeping a homicidal bioweapons expert on staff at a US Army bioweapons research lab? Anyone?

Then there’s the ‘Snooks” abduction case.

Some total jackweed marries a rich socialite businesswoman. The guy tells his wife he is a member of the ultraloaded and ultraconnected Rockefeller clan, and she, being the mental wizard she has been touted to be in the press, marries this clown without so much as a peek at anything pertaining to his actual reality. They have a kid, and Mr. Creeps becomes a stay-at-home dad while mom is off traipsing around the world making a mint and raising her standing in the vapid world of finance and influence. After a spell of this the woman decides that this dude is hiding too much and wants a divorce. They split, but he is able to wrangle it so that his actual identity is sealed from her. Her reward for allowing this nonsense is full custody while the nut job dad is left having supervised visits with a social worker.

So this guy does what? Well, he tells friends he’s going to abduct his kid, and lo and behold… wait for it… he does!!

Whoa, shocker, never saw that coming.

Let’s see, he hid his identity from his own wife, and then after they split he tells people he will abduct his kid, and then he does? No way!

Isn’t it retarded?

So, he is caught, the kid is fine, and what kind of world are we living in?

Well, I’ll tell you.

Did you read about the fucking guy in Canada?

This 22-year-old guy is coming home to see his family. He’s a fucking carny for chrissakes, which in itself is weird enough. So, this carny is heading home on a bus through the Canadian wilderness. Luckily for him he gets to sit next to a 40-year-old Chinese guy, who for what may never be fully understood, has finally snapped. For whatever reason, the Chinese guy suddenly whips out a huge knife and starts stabbing the younger guy. He ends up stabbing him 50 to 60 fucking times! While all of this is going on, the people on the bus clamor to get off. No one stops to help the guy getting brutally murdered.

Now let’s, as an aside, just reflect on the information we have so far, shall we?

I know that watching someone go apeshit and start stabbing another guy is real fucking terrifying. I get that. And I think it’s only normal that a certain segment of the population would simply freak out and go for theirs in that situation. You know, like the mother holding the infant, they were sitting behind all this hellishness. She tossed her kid ahead, past the action, and got the fuck out of there. I get that. But what happened here, it appears, is that the entire remaining busload of people just got the hell out of there. Not a single person tried to stop this. Not one.

And it gets worse, so much worse.

While everyone else on the bus was apparently fighting to get out of the way of this scene, including the driver, the Chinese guy actually does the worst thing you could imagine and beheads the passenger. Yeah, cuts his fucking head OFF.

Somehow, as this is all going down, a cop is now on the scene calling back to the station to relay what is going down. During this call he very calmly tells the dispatcher about how the suspect is now “defiling the body,” and eating pieces of the dead guy’s flesh.

Is this cop raising a finger to stop this? No. He’s giving a play-by-play. He has become the Harry Carey on the scene. That’s fucking great isn’t it?

Welcome to earth.

And the best part of all is that these mountains of horrific indignities are played out in so many guises day after day in every city of this world without any sign of slowing down.

Meanwhile, there is ice on Mars, Comets may well destroy us, nuclear war is brewing in a place we know nothing about, David Lee Roth is back in Van Halen, Christina Applegate has breast cancer, and I hate everyone.

Okay, the last bit is hardly news.

I’ve talked about the death of my mother in here on a number of occasions, and I will always miss her. But seeing as how she saw how ugly it all is almost as well as I do, I am not sorry that she doesn’t have to see any more of this ever again, because we aren’t getting any more attractive as a race.

Can’t global warming hurry up and work its mojo? Will this shithole city be inundated when the ice caps go away? I can surely dream.

What attracts me more and more each day? The passing of time finds me shrinking into myself like a withering fruit in a drought. This life finds me drawn to the solace of silence and of fantasy and of…

Fuck it.

When you walk in this world in your bleached white baby dress with your garish platinum hair and your pathetic child dangles from your arm like a trophy of your claimed faith in a higher power to which you have donated your shriveled visage on each Sunday morning in exchange for a self-righteous gleam on which to hang your soul in judgment of all that is not you, when you give only of yourself your small-minded posturing from way up on high, do you not feel the pangs of guilt that you are somehow symptomatic of the very thing that will destroy us all and leave us in the annals of universal history as a stain and a blight on all that was good in the great failed experiment of life?

The only thing that allows me a small shard of peace is the comfort in knowing that no matter how long your family line goes on, no matter how many genetically atrophied mongoloids spew forth from your soiled loins, all of us, every single one, will one day die and be long forgotten. Forgotten, yes, because we are worth nothing and will be reduced to just that in the equalizing wash of time.

In case you haven’t noticed, I fucking hate Houston in August.

It’s a recurring theme.

Some decisions bear the sweetest fruit. Time is marching, I hear the boots, but I will fuck it all back with an unyielding vengeance. And I will go for mine.

Don’t talk to me of smiles and patience and acceptance; just crawl back to your empty hearts and your coddled nests of phony sympathy and pray to your words of christ in red and smile at yourself in the mirror. One day I will meet you on the road and your dress will be stained with the soil of a thousand floods, only then will the smiles take root and find their way into the waiting arms of mercy.

Foolish stumbling voles, eyeless, naked, utterly savage, and never less alone than right now…

And right now…

And right now…


Thursday, July 24, 2008

The Hiatus, One Foot Into Another Hiatus

Well okay, I'm back. I made my blog private for a while, and then promptly wrote not a single word in the fucking thing. Such is my life.

Much has happened since my last post. I have moved. That's all you need to know about the big stuff.

I continue to rediscover my devotion to heavy metal, and I must admit that I have not had so much fun with music in many years.

My art, my writing, my music, basically anything that I do to express myself creatively has been placed deep on the back burner in light of all that has come in the last few months.

I love, fucking love living, but I also hate it more than I could ever imagine, which is to say that my hatred for life is ever expanding, ever finding new corners in which to foster itself and develop into a cancer of epic proportion.

And I'm 40.

So, no, to my twenty year old self, worrying that I would lose my edge and become all Dalai Lama with a lobotomy if I lived to this tender age, no, it didn't happen. I have learned to be wary of humanity more and more with each passing year. And honestly, thank god for that.

I see myself as a huge teenager, prattling about, leaving a radioactive trail of ignorance in my wake, and generally wasting the precious time I have been given in this life. So, nothing new there.

I am hurtling towards a change, a sea change, a rift with the past that will find me more at ease in my skin, more in tune with the voices that drive me to open the gates and allow the cattle to come home, bellies full, a pasture left to regrow.

I need to keep up the focus on writing. That is not to say that I am somehow impressed with myself, though I think it is fair to find my own writing serviceable and not just a little bit juvenile (or self-indulgent to the point of being off-putting for that matter), it is meant more as a way of expressing my own need to communicate in a creative fashion whatever it is that allows me to look in the mirror and not shrivel away into a husk of disgust and self loathing. That, I could do with the slightest provocation.

I am a regular weekly contributor to a music oriented blog called the Nonalignment Pact. At the NAP (as we affectionately call it), I have done a fairly good job of painting myself into a sort of corner.

See, here's the deal. I have a bit of a mouth on me when I write candidly. I just do. It's my voice. In the almost two years that we have been doing that little experiment I have managed to piss off damn near everyone who walked through the place. Mission accomplished? Well, yes and no.

Let me explain.

Yes, mission accomplished because the languor with which we have conducted ourselves has a tendency to make me feel jumpy. I like the lively discussion. Thing is, I stick in craws whenever I do it. It's maybe a side effect, or perhaps it's more of a symptom.

And so, no, mission not accomplished because I don't have any interest in quashing interaction not only between the NAP and the outside world (or each other for that matter), but also between myself and the rest of the entire universe.

I mean, fuck. Am I either that boring, provocative, or just plain stupid?

Yes, many might say.

Fair enough.

But objectively so?

I doubt it.

So, what am I after here?

Who knows. Shit, who cares.