Remembering The Fallen.

Bad news: 108°.  Worse news: summer doesn’t even fucking start for another 20 days.  Sometimes…most times…I hate this godforsaken desert.  It’s a blighted, sun-blasted hellscape and even the rattlesnakes are demanding that Something Be Done.

N.P.: “Summertime” – The Tea Party

Too tired to write, dear reader, and it’s because of this goddamn heat.  And that is about to get significantly worse.

N.P.: “Carouselambra – Remaster” – Led Zeppelin

At some point in the predawn hours of this morning, I decided to look into getting a bomb shelter built here.  For the sort of thing I had in mind: $57K.  Which seemed reasonable.  So I called.  Oddly enough, no one was in the office to take my call.  Which, in hindsight, I suppose was also reasonable, but at that moment, I remember taking rather significant umbrage: I guess I think that certain businesses should be available 24 hours a day, and bomb shelter installation is such a business.  But I understand that not everybody thinks like me, so I left a voicemail.  When they returned my call, they educated me on how things would have to be done around here: gotta build a pool.  Package deal: if you want to build a bomb shelter in Fecal Creek or Anhedonia County, you build a pool.  Bullet-resistant door…always good.
In the end, though, I decided not to get a bomb shelter, and instead went back to sleep.

N.P.: “Smash Shit Up” – Dropkick Murphys

Christ almighty, dear reader, what a weird few days these have been.  Due to contractual obligation and stern warnings from one of the attorneys, I can’t really discuss Saturday or Sunday.  But here’s just how things have been this morning:
1)  Had to fight a wolf spider, a raccoon, and an entire murmuration of blackbirds that had gathered on the roof of the writing shed for some sort of perverted bird orgy.
2) For lunch, I attempted to negotiate the purchase and delivery of assorted sub sandwiches through a guy named Turid, whose name I honestly misread as Turd, so that’s how I addressed him throughout the course of our communications today, which communications totally broke down very early on and only now do I understand this was probably a direct result of me repeatedly calling him Turd.
3)  After deciding to fire Turd and go pick up the sandwich my damn self, I, as a very conscientious driver, set my music and sat nav on my phone and plugged it into my car before departing.  As I always do.  Unfortunately for all concerned, when I placed my phone into its holder on my dashboard, the two side clasps that hold the thing in place triggered the “Emergency SOS” function.  Because I tend to exit my driveway and street in much the same way an F-22 launches from an aircraft carrier, I was halfway to my destination before the phone started beeping in a truly alarming way, the way bombs inexplicably beep 5 seconds before they’re going to go off in movies.  I hit the quick release button on the phone holder to hopefully stop the process of declaring an emergency.  Now I was holding the phone and driving the car.  Not wanting to take my eyes from the road, I only saw a flashing red button on my phone, so I pressed it, thinking desperately that the goddamn beeping would stop.  Which it did.  Thank god.  But then there was ringing.  The phone had dialed 911.  Instinctively, I hit the hang-up button.
It was then that I noticed the police SUV behind me.  This was no big deal…the Fecal Creek Police Department is a robust force, with a nice big budget and lots of officers.  And The Haunt is located fairly near FCPD Headquarters (and jail), so cops abound.  It’s nice.  But it put in a bit of a quandary when my phone started ringing.  Caller ID said “Fecal Creek PD.”  So I either blatantly take a call on my phone while driving right in front of The Creek’s Finest and likely get pulled over, or I don’t take the call and have them triangulate my position and send the SWAT team, and I’ll be on the local nightly news with an entire police force’s guns trained on me.  I took the call.  What the hell else was I gonna do?
“Hello,” I said stupidly.
“This is the Fecal Creek Police Department and we just got a hang-up call from this number…is there an emergency or was this an accident?”  The cop behind me hit his lights.
It actually all worked out…the dispatch operator talked to the cop and explained the situation and all was forgiven.  But still, all of this before 12:30PM.  I suppose the moral is leave the sandwiches to Turd.  And if you want something done, hire good people to do it.

N.P.: “On The Road Again” – Rockets

Today was good enough, but non-descript.  I need to write more.  And read more.  And have more adventures.  And spend more time with the mothafuckin’ loved ones.

N.P.: “Highway Star – Belter Version” – Cory Todd

Greeting, dear reader, from the last bastion of free thought and speech.  Today was a fine day: no air conditioning needed, the word count was reasonable, and I successfully mediated a violent dispute between Bath Salts the squirrel and several somewhat assholish blackbirds.

N.P.: “Men Without Shame” – Phantom, Rocker & Slick

Needed a break from the Jungle Juice, so I made my first batch of Irish Iced Tea today…not bad at all for a first attempt.

I miss the Wild Boys and Interzone.  America could use a dose of the Wild Boys right about now.  Well, scratch that…I don’t know what the fuck America needs anymore, nor do I really care: unless there’s a sudden course correction, I’m afraid Americans might be a lost cause.  But I digress…apologies, dear reader.  But I feel better about the general state of things knowing there is someone like Bill Lee is sending regular reports from Interzone.
I have an idea.

N.P.: “Dirty Water” – The Inmates

Today was okay, but I think tomorrow will be better.  I might (finally) be getting into a truly effective work flow routine involving the shed, the studio, and the various projects that are always in the orbit.  It still needs to be tweaked a bit, but I’m getting close to a really cool balance between the various aspects of my weird existence.  Which, if it happens, will be a very welcome relief.

N.P.: “Turn Up That Dial” – Dropkick Murphys