Monthly Archives: June 2019

I swear to Christ, dear reader, if one more millennial says, “Welcome in,” when I walk through a door of whatever retail establishment I’m being forced by necessity to enter, I’m going to light them on fire.

Today’s experiment with the workflow proved successful in some areas, and more insightful in others.  I very clearly have no problem generating ideas.  I have a significant problem fleshing out, developing, and finishing anything.  So my ideal set up would be a staff of 4-5 clones.  Each morning I’d show up with 4-5 ideas, assign each idea to a clone, have them go at it for a couple hours, look at what we have, then decide if it’s going to be a short piece, or should it be developed into something longer.  But alas, no clones.  What I could really use is a manager.  That is also, you know, a clone.

Since I have no clones, I’ve gotta get back to it.

N.P.: “J’accuse” – Mucca Pazza

I’m going to tweak my workflow a bit starting tomorrow and see what happens.  It should only take 2 of 3 days to know if it worked or not.

N.P.: “Nottingham Lace” – Buckethead

So you know I’ve bitched about having absolutely no idea and no reliable barometer to judge if I’m doing a good job with it because it isn’t funny.  I can tell if something is funny or not, but I can’t tell if this is whatever the hell it’s supposed to be or not.  I know it’s well written….I just don’t know, and won’t know until it’s completed and an editor reads it, how effective it is in accomplishing what I want it to accomplish.

If that makes any sense.

N.P.: “Run Runaway” – Slade

So far a 15-hour day, 14 hours and 30 minutes of which had nothing to do with writing.  This sort of day displeases me.  And now my time with you, here, is rudely truncated, and for this, I apologize, ever-so-patient reader.

Even in the midst of all of today’s nonsense, however, I did manage to get in a few well placed Ta-das.  All were well received.

N.P.: “Sad But True – Live with the SFSO” – Metallica

Fuck sake.  I was keeping up with a goal I had set for myself of using dictation (speech to text) as a way of generating very rough first drafts of considerable length very quickly.  There have been a few false starts, but I’m gradually warming up to the idea.  So earlier I was dictating into my phone (why does that sound so dirty?) and I mentioned stupid hashtag campaigns and then just went off on a really-quite-elegant profanity-laced rant that was then automatically translated into a digitized screed.  The screed, however, though pages long, was composed of only one word.  One impossibly long word.  When I said the word “hashtag,” my phone wrote  an actual “#” and then considered all thousand or so words I said after that as part of what ended up being a very long, perhaps the world’s longest, hashtag.  No spaces anywhere.
The expression “hoisted on my own petard” seems apropos.

Another goal that I’m setting for myself is employing the exclamative term “Ta-da!” far more frequently than I have been since I turned 9. Its usage seemed to drop off precipitously as soon as I hit double digits, age-wise, and there was nothing to ever really replace it.  J.T. brought SexyBack… I’m bringing TadaBack.  I think we should use Ta-da at every occasion, regardless of appropriateness.  In fact, the more inappropriate and incongruous the circumstance, the greater the power of Ta-da.  Here’s what I recommend:
To start, first thing in the morning (or whenever you get out of bed), as soon as you are out of bed and on two stable feet, let out a ta-da.  If you can belt out an enthusiastic loud one, by all means.  But if you can only manage a gravelly whisper-growl, that will work fine too.  It will likely be even more dramatic as it displays the tremendous self-imposed difficulties (being violently hung over, having eaten a pack of cigarettes the night before, et cetera) you had to overcome to get vertical.  That absolutely deserves a Ta-da.  If there’s somebody else in bed with you, or if it’s the morning after an orgy and there are still several people around recovering the next morning, all the better.  But even if waking up totally alone, there is a certain romantic nobility in defiantly telling a universe that is completely chaotic and at best totally indifferent to your survival and continued existence, “Kiss my ass, cold, indifferent Void.  You thought I was dead, but I was just asleep, and now I’m awake again, out of bed, and ready to Bring the Ruckus.  Ta-da!”  Which, incidentally, is the exact message Beethoven was trying to communicate through most of his work.  Unfortunately, we don’t have Beethoven’s genius, but we’ve got fucking Ta-da!  Let it fly.  Proceed to punctuate every accomplishment once you get out of bed, no matter how trivial.  Go to the bathroom: Ta-da!  Step out of the shower, successfully cleansed of your sins of the night before: Ta-da!  The only potential problem here is overuse.  As awesome as the power of Ta-da is, it does lose its potency with overuse.  To avoid this, there are several other behaviors that closely mimic the spirit of Ta-da: a dramatic bow avec arm flourish, an NFL touchdown victory dance, or an award ceremony acceptance speech are all perfectly acceptable ways to avoid overuse of Ta-da.  I’ve found that maybe saving the acceptance speech to the completion of your morning ablutions is best, like when you do the final look in the mirror before stepping out into the chaotic world that is at best indifferent to your continued existence: just look into the mirror and deliver a brief but heartfelt speech of gratitude mostly to yourself for making this moment possible.  Besides, you need to save a bunch of Ta-das for the rest of your day.
Anytime you do anything today, good or bad, miraculous or disastrous, punctuate it and call attention to the recognition you think it deserves with an exuberant Ta-da!  If you made it to work today, on time or late…doesn’t matter…just announce your arrival with a “Ta-da!”  If you completely screw the pooch on some project, and the pooch-screw is significant enough to get you called into your supervisor’s office to “explain things,” open the meeting with a hearty “Ta-da,” to show your supervisor that you, too, see the humor in the situation, whatever it may be.  Supervisors really tend to respect this.

Okay…enough of this bilge…back to the book.  Books.  Whatever.

N.P. “I Wanna Be a Cowboy'” – Boys Don’t Cry

Well, hello, dear reader, and thank you for tuning in to this random-ass post.

“I wish I was in Tijuana,
eating barbecued iguana.”
~ Wall of Voodoo

Back in the country for one day and I’m already completely bored again.  The doctor says boredom is a “trait,” but that doesn’t make it any more tolerable.  Life without having this book done is rapidly becoming intolerable, which is as good a source of motivation as any.  So I’m going to get back to it.  Things are still going okay…starting to get interesting.

Also, F this F’ing heat.

N.P.: “Snortin’ Whiskey” – Pat Travers Band

“These words are all dead.  They leave untouched, powerless to affect it, the intensity of what was.”  ~ Henri Barbusse

I’m back, dear reader, literally and otherwise, perhaps.  We’ll see.  I woke up a new kind of pissed off this morning.  It’s the good kind: a overwhelming resentment of the status quo and an “enough is enough” desire to change it as soon as.

I was disappointed in the hotter than hell weather that has apparently moved into and parked itself over Anhedonia and Fecal Creek in my absence.  It was sweltering in TJ, but the heat makes more sense there.  It sort of goes with the wild west, total corruption and lawlessness vibe they’re going for down there.

I hate the sun so much.  Stupid star.

N.P.: “Wait for You” – Bonham

Jayson Gallaway

June 8, 2019

This place is starting to get to me.  Had a bit of a breakdown in the wax museum this afternoon.  Trying to figure out if I should try to get a full night sleep and hope all goes well at the border on a busy Sunday morning, or raise hell for a couple more hours here on the strip, and then right at the crescendo of things, just after midnight, one suave gabacho will saunter his way up to an immigration officer, performs crude Jedi mind tricks (look ’em right in the eye and lie), try to remember where I parked the Panty Dropper on the American side, and, if it’s still there, throwing my bag in the seat and tearing ass back to Fecal Creek tonight, trying to beat the sunrise.  I’m going to have some desk tequila about this and see what happens.

N.P.: “Fortunate Son” – Creedence Clearwater Revival

Jayson Gallaway

June 7, 2019

Today was spent killing an alarming number of arrogant and aggressive spiders and cussing at this keyboard.  It’s not the keyboard’s fault, but I have to yell at somebody, so the keyboard gets it.

Tonight was depressing.  All I wanted for dinner was burrito.  A nice carnitas burrito.  But somehow, some way, two and a half hours after I ordered the burrito, I was eating sub par “chicken” nuggets (we’ll never know for sure) coated in fire sauce.  I guess my Spanish isn’t what it used to be.  Never did get a burrito.

Friday night.  A small army of mariachis is warming up a couple stories beneath my window.  Pretty decent word count today.

N.P.: “Down in New Orleans” – Dr. John

Jayson Gallaway

June 6, 2019

Hats off to Brian Wilson for postponing his tour to take care of his mental health.

You see a lot of strange things when traveling in other countries.  A lot of it is just, “huh…I guess that’s just the way they do that here…interesting,” and a lot of it can be, “holy shit, I can’t believe they’re doing that…isn’t somebody going to do something, like call the police…oh, those are the police.”  Right now I’m sitting in a small hotel in the most dangerous city in the world, in a failed narco-state where the police forces and entire government is egregiously corrupt.  If one spends any serious amount of time down here, or even a comedic amount of time down here, one is going to see some shit.  I was here about 7 minutes before I saw some shit.  And at some point, inevitably, you’re going to see some shit that deeply offends your American sensibilities.  And you know what you should do about it?  Yep…same thing I do: absolutely nothing.  Not a goddamn thing.  And the reason we don’t do a goddamn thing is it is not our place as guests of whichever country to complain about anything.  If we find some aspect of their society deal-breakingly distasteful, we can leave and never return.
I have the utmost respect for Roger Waters as an artist and musician, but his aggressively anti-Israel stance has made it tough to stay a fan.   He’s been calling for a boycott of Israel and giving other bands who choose to play there an inordinate amount of sanctimonious shit.  This sort of thing really pisses me off: when some multi-millionaire legendary rock star from one of the biggest bands in rock history at the end of his career tries to bully struggling younger bands into submissive cooperation with their bullshit boycotts and petty politics.  When one can command a million dollars per appearance with a reunited Pink Floyd, one can be as picky and finicky and bullshity as one wants when one is choosing where and when to play.  But it’s a bit rich for that same multi-millionaire legendary rock star to pressure other acts who are not at all in a position to turn down a gig anywhere to do exactly that for his political agenda.  
One band that is in the position to pick and choose what gigs they do is Disturbed, and they will be playing their first show in Israel on July 2 and Roger Waters can go fuck himself.  As Disturbed frontman David Draiman told, “I don’t think anybody in any country always agrees with everything their country does. I don’t, but I’m a very, very strong supporter of Israel forever and for our people. And regardless of whether it’s Israel or anywhere else, boycotting an entire society and an entire people based on the actions of its government is absolutely ridiculous. And it doesn’t accomplish anything,  You can’t accomplish anything in terms of trying to create peace, in terms of trying to create understanding by shutting things off. There has to be open roads of communication.  You build bridges, you don’t knock them down. And music and entertainment is the perfect way to bridge that gap. And the very notion that Waters and the rest of his Nazi comrades decide that this is the way to go ahead and foster change is absolute lunacy and idiocy — absolute.”

Well put, sir.  

I had the chance to sleep under a weighted-blanket last night.  I didn’t notice any remarkable change.  It certainly wasn’t bad.  I’m going to give it another shot tonight.  It seemed like a bit of an extravagance for a hotel in El Zona Norte in Tijuana, so I asked the guy at the desk about it.  He said they are literally “security blankets” offering protection against “indirect ballistic contact” (errant cartel bullets from a drive-by) as well as “edged-blade contact” (in case your ho has both a problem and a knife).  So yeah, I’m going to give it another shot tonight.  

N.P.: “No Tengo Dinero (C & J Mix)” – Los Umbrellos