Even though my Chinese Action Jacket was assembled by communists and is made out of dog fur and asbestos, it keeps me pretty toasty in sub-freezing temps, and it makes me look like a hit man with a case of the Mondays.  I think it basically intimidates the cold away.

N.P.: “Inheritance” – New Model Army

Happy Birthday, Axl.

A lot has changed since last we saw each other. I live in exile now, much like the Dalai Lama except when the shit hit the fan, he went south to India and I went north to Seattle.

Seattle’s a weird place. Maybe not India weird, but, well, you know…you were here not long ago.

It was recently the 25th anniversary of the release of Nirvana’s album Nevermind, and people around here were simply shitting themselves with a sort of weird collective, somehow connected congratulatory attitude, all searching for new superlatives to describe Kurt Cobain and his music. As has become quite typical, when everybody around me is saying or thinking one thing, I’m likely thinking quite another. I got in a number of boisterous arguments with groups of people who disagreed when I listed the order of the Holy Trinity of Seattle Music as Jimi Hendrix, then Sir Mix-A-Lot, and then Nirvana. Truth be told, I didn’t even want to place Nirvana in the top three, but I also wanted very much to not start a bar fight, so I threw ‘em in there. Sometimes I just do things because I’m so nice.

Anyway, I was reminded of some liner notes I wrote for my friend’s metal band’s first release a few years back. I thought you might dig the opening. Check it:

Kurt Cobain was like that shithead kid who came in at the beginning of first grade and sanctimoniously, precociously, and arrogantly announced that there was no such thing as Santa Claus, and did it with this super-sneery attitude, as if to say, “I can’t believe you cretins haven’t figured it out yet…you were fools for believing it at all.” But then, rather than telling that kid to fuck off, everybody just said, “Oh,” and quit enjoying Christmas for the rest of forever.
I bet Kurt Cobain was the kid in first grade that ruined Christmas for the rest of us. Probably fucked up the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy too. That’s sure as hell what he did to rock music. Just when the rest of us were having a hell of a time wearing all black and having complicated, asymmetrical hair and snorting cocaine and standing around clubs looking cool and at each other, in mopes Kurt, bedecked in flannel and denim, trudging up to the mic.
“Uh…rock is not supposed to be fun. Assholes.”
The members of the audience looked at each other, then back at Kurt, then back at each other. And there we stood in our spandex, hosed down to the point of flammability in Aquanet. We put our beers down and shook our heads: Wow. Shit. Kurt’s right. Rock is not supposed to be fun. We’ve been doing it all wrong. Wipe that smile off your face. Let’s go to the mall and buy a bunch of flannel.
And that was that…for many of us. But in some parts of the world, some bold souls stood their ground. They got the memo…they just didn’t give a fuck. Never mind what some malcontent junkie in the Pacific Northwest says. Who cares? He’ll be dead in a couple years anyway.

Which he was. Deader than shit. A damn shame, but I didn’t kill him, and neither did you, Axl. It’s Not Our Problem. I’m not even sure why I brought it up. I guess the moral of all this is don’t fuck with Santa Claus. And don’t give depressed people shotguns. You and I know these things, but I don’t know about the rest of these people. But they’re not our problem either.

Anyway, happy birthday.

N.P.: “Double Talkin’ Jive” – Guns N’ Roses

What it is, dearest reader.  And Happy Chinese New Year.
Today wasn’t the greatest day,,,long and extremely taxing.  Buncha weird and difficult shit going on.  I think I’m going to call it a day and try to reset tomorrow.  I hope you are doing well.  

N.P.: “What We All Want” – Gang Of Four

The last three days have been disappointingly unproductive.

It’s funny: as soon as I typed that, I got an idea for one of the things I’m working on, picked up my phone, wrote a half a page on that, was pretty pleased with myself, and then came back to this.  “Oh yeah…I was bitching about how unproductive I am.”  It’s kind of like that right now.  I’m writing a pretty impressive amount of words every day, but they are all being spread across many disparate projects, so it seems like I’m writing a lot (which I am) but the projects are not moving forward fast enough (which they’re not).

N.P.: “Every 1’s A Winner” – Gun

So when my Apple Watch started asking me questions about my physical characteristics, exercise habits, and overall health, I lied a bit.  i told it that it I am 4’8″ and weigh 585 lbs. But then I was honest about my exercise and caloric intake.  Then I told Siri to call me body-shaming names.  The result is that this thing thinks I’m some kind of medical miracle if I even get out of bed and get to the bathroom in the morning, and then delivers mixed and conflicted messages of encouraging derision throughout the day.  Here, for example, is what I was told as soon as I got out of bed this morning:

By the time I made it back to bed, I’d smashed 200% of all of my goals and this thing was issuing virtual medals and encouraging me to share my story on social media.  Which is quite an accomplishment.  I’m not sure exactly how much any one person can be expected to do in one day, but it seems like I was on the verge of overachieving.  On a Saturday.  Such a feat deserves a reward, so I decided to go back to sleep.  I mean, 200%.  I must have been exhausted.

N.P.: “I Stay Away” – Alice In Chains

The furnace is evidently stuck on “Solar Flare Enema” here at Hotel California,  I thought I was in goddamn Cuba when I woke up this morning.  I’ll be sleeping with the windows open tonight, which will make things interesting when the 70 mph winds crank up at midnight and blow a predawn thunderstorm in.  Yeah…maybe it’ll add a bit of drama to an otherwise unremarkable night.

N.P.: “Traitor” – The Sugarcubes