Got a ludicrous amount done today. Regrettably, none of it was writing. But it all had to be done. So that’s fine. Tomorrow, dear reader…tomorrow is reserved for whiskey, wings, and writing (there may be some of those goings-on tonight (except for the wings)).

N.P.: Hurdy Gurdy Man – Donovan

I’m told and reassured that the present issue with time (or lack thereof) will “get better.” I don’t believe that, and I see no evidence to support it, but that’s what I’m told. I hope it’s true. Because this is getting ridiculous, dear reader. Nothing left to do but sleep.

N.P.: “Baba O’Riley – Remix” – The Who, Andy MacPherson, Jon Astley

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

You’ll forgive my brevity, dearest reader, but I’m feeling a bit off this evening.

N.P.: “Taurus” – Mosh

There are some days when it becomes clear that it’s time to take a break from people, and today was one of those days. I’ve tried to make time for them, but the writing is suffering (in as much as it’s not getting done), and the result seems to be nothing but bitching. So I’m going to refocus on finishing these books, and everything else can kiss my ass. Except you, dear reader…you remain The Best.

N.P.: “We Are Done” – The Madden Brothers

I think exhaustion is just my baseline now. It’s the new norm. Now matter how much sleep I get, there is still the vague feeling of exhaustion lingering just beneath the surface.

There’s a lot of stuff going on, but I can’t talk about any of it here. Suffice it to say I need significantly more time during my days. And nights. And an assistant. And a manager. You know what would be both helpful and cool, is a hype man.

N.P.: “Nyctophilia” – AGLORY

It’s February, dear reader, and I’m beginning to fear we here in the west have been ripped off and deprived of another winter. If things do not improve soon, I may have to nude up and go outside and do my Celtic Rain Dance. It’s quite disgusting and will no doubt inspire complaints by the neighbors, and to the neighbors I sincerely apologize but say also tough titty: I slogged all the way through that last bastard of a summer on the promise of a winter and By God I Will Have My Winter. Besides, we need the rain.
* * * * *
I haven’t been doing much driving lately, but today I got a chance to take the Panty Dropper out for some triple-digit speed therapy. ‘Twas lovely.

N.P.: “I Won’t Back Down” – Hybrid