Monthly Archives: November 2018

Non Sequitur.

Dearest reader, as you know, I don’t really do holidays, but if you are the sort that does, I hope yours are going well.
I don’t know if you are also the sort that drinks regularly at the same bar, but I suspect you are.  I certainly am. And when you are such a person, you will eventually get to know your fellow drinkers at your chosen bar.
So there’s this guy who puts a decent dent in the local whiskey supply.  Bald, white goatee, mid-60s, retired desk jockey, divorced…normal enough guy.
So sometime around the beginning of the summer, back in May or June, we’re sitting there sipping our suds and pounding our fists on the bar and getting indignant about the General State of Things, and all of a sudden he says, “You know, I slept in a coffin.”
I suspect he said this as a segue from whatever we were talking about into something else he wanted to talk about, but the shock of incongruent weirdness from what he’d just said eclipsed everything that had been said before and I lost all sense of place in the conversation.  No idea what we’d been talking about.  Had he really said that?  Well, goood for him.  Maybe he lost a bet.  Or accepted a dare.  Maybe it was part of some immersion therapy to help him get over his fear of death.  Maybe it was just an item on his bucket list.  Hypotheses for what he had meant flooded my mind.  Before I could ask for clarification, my friend spoke again, destroying all of my ideas and complicating things significantly: “For years…I slept in a coffin.”
Holy shit, dear reader.  This is about the last thing I would expect this guy to ever say. Hell, I’ve known plenty of people who have slept in coffins either as a one off or as a lifestyle choice, but those people you’d totally expect to have slept in coffins. It would be weird if they hadn’t slept in a coffin.  But this guy? No way.
I was reminded of when, back in the day, the conversation started to get ordinary, I would inject something ridiculous, like, “One time I killed a bunch of people,” which would  usually get things going again.  But this was different…nobody really thought I’d killed a bunch of people.  There was not a doubt in my mind about this man’s veracity.
To make things even more disturbing, that was the exact last thing he said about it.  Half a year later and he has yet to mention it again.  Weird as hell.
Anyway, I should get back to it.
N.P.: “Black Betty – Edit” – Spiderbait

The cop pulled in behind me and I glanced down at the speedometer: 85 mph.  Hmmm…this could go either way.  I slowed down to 80 and moved one lane to the right, and he went zooming past.  I thought to myself, “Fuck.  I hate this time of year.”
Even for those of us who choose not to celebrate pre-fab holidays with the rest of the herd, the suffering is unavoidable.  Just try running to the grocery store to pick up your usual stuff this week: can’t even find a parking space, and if you do, you’ll have to deal with all manner of assholes buying turkey and god-knows-what else that they would never buy if they weren’t such abject yet oblivious societal slaves.  Look at their faces: these are not the looks of the truly grateful, of the deeply thankful.  Nope.  They are irritated at best, livid and pissed off at worst, because deep down they know they don’t want to do any of this, but their minds are so controlled by familial expectations and societal edicts that it would never even occur to them that there is, in fact, a reality that does not include slavishly going through these absurd motions.  And now I’m stuck waiting an extra 15 minutes behind them in line because of their inability to overcome the delusional security of social mores.
And then on Thursday itself, if you happen to have to commute or travel as part of your normal life, good fucking luck.  Tickets are significantly more expensive and hard to get.  Why?  Because somebody told everybody that this is what they’re supposed to do on this specific day.
And then, between then and New Years Day, if you happen to need to purchase any clothing or anything else from a retail outlet, good fucking luck.
Okay…gotta cut this short.  I have to go to the grocery store.  I’ll be taking the bear spray.

N.P.: “I’m Afraid of Americans (Nine Inch Nails V1 Mix) – David Bowie

I have a thing for masks, but this one is my least favorite.  But it has come to this, dear reader.  The smoke is so bad in Fecal Creek, yrs. truly is having to mask up.  Seriously, it looks like Beirut on a bad day out there.  Californians are asked to please refrain from breathing for the next 48 – 72 hours.

N.P.: “Rebel Yell” – Billy Idol

Holy shit, dear reader, I am frustrated.  By pretty much everything.  Surely this must be the apex of my frustration.  The zenith.  Or would nadir be more appropriate?  I don’t know.  Whatever the fuck.  I’m just frustrated.
Made a bit of headway on the book this weekend.  I should get back to it.  Just wanted to say hey.

N.P.: “That’s the Way (I Like It) – Pig and Sasha Grey

Well, shit, California.  You voted to make moronic Daylight Saving Time permanent, and now the whole goddamn state is on fire.  Which fire, by the way, dear reader, is not threatening me directly.  I do appreciate the inquiries about my health a well being.  California is a huge state, so to quell any further concern, I have a little place above a liquor store at the corner of Bedlam and Squalor here in Fecal Creek,, which is a perverted suburb just a few minutes south of  Anhedonia, CA.  We’re pretty impervious to fire around here: all structures are built with asbestos and petrified wood.  The smoke, however, is dreadful.  Orders have been issued regarding outdoor respiration and visibility whilst driving.  The trees look forlorn.  Lugubrious.  Maybe it’s not because of the smoke, though.  Maybe the trees are upset as I am about the passage of Proposition 7.  Permanent Daylight Saving Time.  Shit.  The only hope now is the federal government, which are not words anyone ever wants to have to say.

Anyway, friends to the north and south, stay safe and pray for rain.

N.P.: “Squealer” – Genitorturers

The whole “I voted” thing with the stickers and all that strikes me as silly and childish and an example of the grotesquely misplaced priorities endemic to today’s culture.  I guess it’s that by so loudly declaring that you have voted via garish stickers and social media posts, you are also declaring that this is either a rarity, a first, or some kind of actual accomplishment that you are proud of.  Maybe it’s just another unavoidable empty gesture demanded by a desperate culture of inclusion that insists that everybody gets an award or at least a certificate of participation because we don’t want anybody to feel like some pathetically marginalized failure.
If you vote in every election, voting is not a big deal.
Look, you’re supposed to vote.  There are innumerable things that, as an adult, you are supposed to do whether you want to or not: you’re supposed to file a tax return every year.  If you’re in a certain age bracket, you’re supposed to register with the selective service.  You’re supposed to pay a fee to register your car every year.  You’re supposed to spend several hours at the DMV with the unwashed masses to renew your driver’s license.  You’re supposed to show up when summoned for jury duty.  And you’re supposed to vote in every election.  You’re not supposed to want to do any of these things.  And you don’t have to do any of them, but bad things happen if you don’t.  They are each just another droll civic hassle that’s part of adult life.  Every one of them is a  pain in the ass.  And you do them.  But you don’t then run around putting bullshitty frames around your profile pic extolling to fact that you filed your tax return or paid your registration, and then, not suggesting as much as rhetorically bludgeoning your friends to register their cars too.  Why not?  Because everybody else did the exact same thing already, and they didn’t need your dumb ass to encourage them to do it.
Stickers are for brave five-year-olds who don’t cry during the routine cleaning at the dentist’s office.

N.P.: “Hau Ruck (Spezial K Mix) – KMFDM

Just taking a gander at the news.  Some rapper’s cause of death was today officially listed as a “mixed drug toxicity” caused by  an “accidental overdose of fentanyl, cocaine, and alcohol.”  How “accidental” could that have really been?  If it had been any one of those ingredients, sure…especially fentanyl, which is apparently popping up labeled as Vicodin.  Dude goes to take his new prescription of Vicodin and accidentally ingests a fatal amount of something else, that is an accident.  But fentanyl and cocaine and booze?  That’s like saying the someone who died after being shot three times by three different guns fired by three different shooters was killed by an accidental shooting.
We could probably take a lesson from the Brits here.  They would have labeled it “Death by Misadventure” which, if you must have a cause of death, is about as good as it gets.

Speaking of death, absolutely fuck Louis Farrakhan.  The day he dies (which will be soon) is a day I smile and drink.  More than usual.  Another one off the list.

I should probably quit reading the news.

N.P.: “Lightning Man” – Nitzer Ebb

The villagers are having some sort of superstitious ruckus outside, so I’m sheltering in place.  Laying low until they pass out or fuck off.

You know what else needs to fuck off?  This stupid aloe plant.  I was sitting right here the other night, scribbling away, and out of the corner of my eye, one of the stalks of this thing just collapses in half and starts oozing pure skincare/burn treatment goodness onto my desk.  I thought about chucking the whole thing right then, but there are still two stalks left which, despite some bullshit going on down at the base, seem to be at least potentially more robust than this stupid broken dead thing just dangling over the edge of the pot.

I am presently so unpleasantly behind on the book that I can’t bear to think about it.  Okay, it’s not that bad.  I don’t know how behind I am.  I may not be behind at all.  It’s impossible to say.  It’s like trying to figure out how much longer your drive is if you have no accurate idea of where your destination is.

N.P.: “Red Tape” – Agent Provocateur