Greetings from The Creek, dear reader! Murdered my first wolf spider of the season. Bonus: it was outside. Yep, the arachno-jihad is on the offensive. No longer shall we wait until they’re actually in the house…no, fearless reader, we are taking the fight to them.
Fuck I hate spiders. Not fear…hate.
N.P.: “DSPTCH” – The Anix
Ludicrously busy day today, dear reader. It’s been like this for a while now. No idea how I’m still vertical. Anyway, managed to write some good stuff today.
N.P.: “Hey Boy Hey Girl – Cover Version” – Bud Spencer Blues Explosion
The neighbor’s upset because I peed in his pool. I wasn’t swimming in it…I just sort of stumbled over there and peed in his pool. And now he’s upset. But he’s not nearly as upset as he’s going to be after I dynamite his lawn. I’m doing this for his own good, of course. That poor, miserable bastard has been beaten down over decades by his troll of a wife, who is uglier than a barrel full of busted assholes and known for driving around in her shitty Prius with her husbands testicles hanging from the rear-view mirror like dice. She is horrible, and spends most evenings under a bridge feeding on goats. Anyway, this guy has nothing in life anymore except his lawn and his pool. His entire identity is wrapped up in those two things. Whenever Jose and the Army of Gardeners mow the front lawn, this asshole is out there as soon as Jose et al. depart, mowing his lawn a centimetre shorter than my lawn, because he simply could not tolerate having longer grass than his neighbor. I keep meaning to go out there after he’s done and completely buzz my lawn. That would put him in quite the quandary: to preserve the dignity of his lawn, he would have to destroy it. But I never have the energy.
But now this friend of mine is just back from Alaska with a bunch of seal bombs that I’m just aching to try. By blowing up his lawn, I will be relieving him of a burden he has subconsciously be crying out to be relieved of. There is the problem of The Law, of course. Gosh darn The pesky Law. It’s my own fault for living in The Haunt, which is well within the city limits of Fecal Creek. Which means no discharging of firearms or causing explosions allowed. Which sucks. Outside of the city limits, in Anhedonia County, it’s almost anarchy: fireballs on the horizon at dusk. People blowing shit up all over the place. They burn their trash in huge barrels. They dry their sheets on a line outside. I like the way they live. But here I sit, in The Creek, with a huge bottle of whiskey and about a dozen seal bombs and an open contempt of my neighbor’s lawn. Perhaps I should just take some NyQuil and calm down.
N.P.: “Rock El Casbah” – Rachid Taha
Trevor Noah still has perhaps the most punchable face on television. Which says a lot, as I find most faces on television punchable. I’m coming for you, Trevor, and it’s going to be fucked up: even with a sizable staff of overpaid writers, you are not funny.
I killed a centipede in the writing shed today. I did not appreciate its presence, and called it a motherfucker before murdering it. No centipedes (nor any members of the insect kingdom) allowed in the my goddamn writing shed.
N.P.: “Running Whiskey (feat. Billy F Gibbons)” – Supersonic Blues Machine
Beyond exhausted and dangerously psychologically overdrawn. Other than that, I’m splendid.
N.P.: “Off The Ground” – The Record Company
Holy monkey, dear reader…I am completely spent. Going directly to bed. All nightly festivities have been cancelled. We’ll see about tomorrow.
N.P.: “Head Over Heels” – JD McPherson
Today was a bit of a pain in the hole. Time to collapse.
N.P.: “What’s The Time?” – Blancmange
I’m not writing enough, I’m not reading enough. I’m finally walking enough…five miles a day. At least there’s that.
N.P.: “Rasputin” – Majestic, Boney M.
It was damn near 90 degrees in The Creek today. We were not pleased. Umbrage was taken. Fortunately the air conditioning in The Haunt truly overachieves…I just can’t believe I’m having to deploy it this early.
Didn’t write anything today.
N.P.: “In Stride” – Myles Kennedy
These goddamn anti-tobacco ads have got to go. They are the absolute worst. They each feature former tobacco smokers whom, due to their ludicrous tobacco intake 20-30 years ago, have had their voice boxes, mandibles, and usual assorted other significant body parts removed, and are typically reliant on rather raucous breathing apparatus. So even if you’re not actively watching tv, you suddenly hear this just horrible mechanical voice croaking a 15-second tale of self-centered deception, woe, and failure. “I was the homecoming queen the year I graduated high school…voted “Best Dancer” in my class, and then I started smoking.” At this point in the commercial, the hapless and passive listener simply must turn to the screen to see what the fuck is making such horrible noise. Then some half-dead bald woman who looks almost exactly like that little smart ass from Tales From The Crypt. The producers of the commercial know this, so they wait for that exact moment, when they know everybody in the room is locked onto the screen, to have the Carcinogenic Crypt Keeper do something truly ghastly, like remove their teeth or wig and then dance/hop around as they begin removing other prosthetic limbs in a sort of sick striptease. “I just someone had told me the cigarettes would do this.” The Crypt Keeper then stares desperately into the camera, clearly resigned to her own self-inflicted wound (or maybe the producer just paused the video), and then text appears on the screen: “Sharon died 20 seconds after recording this message.”
Jesus Christ…I’m eating lunch! I don’t want to see this morbid shit! I never started smoking, so there is no reason for me to be exposed to Sharon’s dying moments over and over again in the course of a single afternoon when I’m just trying to watch Bar Rescue and eat steak sandwiches.
N.P.: “You’re the Reflection of the Moon on the Water” – Grant Hart