Today was far too long.  Hardly got any writing done.  Going to have to catch up tomorrow.

N.P.: “Gasoline” – Audioslave

Yes, dear reader, the world is going to hell.  The apocalypse must surely be just around the corner.  The end is nigh.  The state of California, the tech capital of the world, is have multi-day blackouts in the 21st century because it’s a bit breezy.  There are so many homeless camped on the sides of freeways and under overpasses that it looks like the road to Burning Man no matter which direction one is going.  There are plagues.  There is pestilence.  The moon has turned to blood.  The four Horseman are saddling up.  But none of that matters.  Nobody cares.  Wanna know why?

The McRib is back, dear reader…at long last, the McRib is back.

N.P.: “Enter Starman” – Ten Second Songs

It’s frustrating, most of the time, to feel that you run on one schedule and the rest of the world runs on a different schedule, one that is much slower.  But that’s really how it feels most days.  And today was like most days.

N.P.: “Sugar – Archigram Remix” – Ladytron

Dammit, dear reader, the night got away from me again.  I need either a manager or an assistant.  Preferably both.  I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to write books and also shop for groceries and get the oil changed and all the pedestrian, time-consuming tasks that everyone else seems to be able to get done whilst still having a career.  I should have factota.  I suppose the upside is, in the words of Kobayashi, “One cannot be betrayed if one has no people.”  But if one has no people, one ends up spending a lot of time dicking around in lines at grocery stores.

Anyway, enough of this drivel…time to drain this pen of bitter ink.  And to pawn a biting phrase with tongues hot with blood.  Heh.  Yeah.

N.P.: “Sex Type Thing” – Stone Temple Pilots

Today should have been better.  A day’s potential goodness is limited when book-ended by reports of Ginger Baker dying in the morning, followed by reports of Rip Taylor dying in the evening.  Think I’m just gonna go to bed.

N.P.: “Black Velveteen” – Lenny Kravitz

An impressively productive day, if I may say so myself.  Especially after not going to sleep until after 0300.  Things are getting better.  More interesting, in an odd way.

N.P.: “The Conqueror Worm” – Lou Reed

I know, I know, dear reader…I said I was taking the day off to do battle with the whiskey gods.  And I did.  But the whiskey gods, like all other opponents these days, didn’t amount to shit.  Another one-punch knock out.

So here I am.  Tis’ midnight, and I’m going to get to work on the book.

N.P.: “Ziggy Stardust” – Bauhaus

Meanwhile, over in England, a bunch of dumb-ass hippies decided to try to solve climate change by spraying red paint on the U.K. Treasury building.  Yeah, I have no idea.  Anyway, having evidently not really put much thought into the plan, they managed to get about 5 gallons of the paint onto the side of the building (and as far as painting jobs go, this one was particularly slapdash) before losing control of the hose, spraying themselves with the red paint and sending the other 455 gallons of the oil-based paint directly into the storm drains of London which release directly into rivers and streams.  Saving the environment, one moronic protest at a time.  Idiots.  These are not the actions of people who are getting laid on the reg.

I am taking tomorrow off, dear reader, from all things literary and criminal in order to do battle with the whiskey gods and engage in a celebratory goat dance, the likes of which would embarrass Caligula.  Or maybe even Rick James.  Okay, not Rick James.  But Caligula….

N.P.: “Always On The Run” – Lenny Kravitz

It’s time to get serious about putting some proposals together for these books.  The problem is I keep getting new ideas.  Too many new ideas.  I can’t write them all down.  I need to start using dictation more as well.

So many words, just wanting perfect arrangement.

N.P.: “Der Meister” – Rammstein

Hotel California has a woodpecker that shows up every October 1st, after a 9-month absence, and started pounding away at whatever spot it left on last year.  If the owner patches the spot with a metal plate, the bird either doesn’t notice or particularly care.  I loathe the bird and have actively tried to murder it numerous times in previous seasons, but failed to prevail due to inadequate tools.  If I could take one of the guns outside I could blow the thing off the roof and out of the sky easily.  But me running around outside holding any kind of gun is the sort of thing that attracts SWAT teams and CNN news crews.  And we don’t want any of that, do we, dear reader?  No.  Of course not.  But that leaves me with a severe handicap when it comes to assassinating this bastard bird.

I’ll figure something out.

N.P.: “This Is Your Life (feat. Tyler Durden)” – The Dust Brothers