“He sees no reason for doing anything in particular and finds most of the causes for which, at ordinary times, he was prepared to act and suffer, profoundly uninteresting. He can’t be bothered with them, for the good reason that he has better things to think about.” ~ Aldous Huxley
N.P.: “Hourglass” – A Perfect Circle
One-one was a race horse.
Two-two was one too.
One-one won one race.
Two-two won one too.
N.P.: “Anita” – The Nuns
In other brilliant musical news, a very happy birthday to Ludwig Van Beethoven. Maestro.
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California is a derelict miasmic shithole that needs to be purged. I was born here, I live here, and I’ll likely die here, and the whole thing is an embarrassment. This state is an abject societal failure. The streets are full of homeless shit, the politicians are inept and moronic, the courts are corrupt, and most of the people are dildos. Okay…I probably shouldn’t have said that: that’s unfairly insulting to actual dildos. Each night I pray to the forces of darkness for the Big One to hit, some Old Testament earthquake that leaves the state cleaved off from all else, sinking quickly into the cleansing depths of the Pacific. That’s the best thing that could happen for all parties concerned. I was going to make a list of 49 states that are better than California, but I need to get back to work on the book.
#seeyoudowninArizonaBay
N.P.: “Hyperdrive” – Devin Townsend
Be the reason nuns clutch their Rosaries when you walk by.
N.P.: “Automat” – Eischrecher
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
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
Hats off to Brian Wilson for postponing his tour to take care of his mental health.
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.
Travel day. Hotter than hell. Crossed the border into the badlands of Tijuana. Got my usual room at the Hotel Nelson. It should be peaceful until Friday night, when the armies of mariachis start wailing two stories beneath my window.
Fear not, dear reader…sure, it’s the most dangerous city in the world, but I am one suave gabacho, and I am protected from on high by the powers of darkness.
N.P.: “Fuzzbox Voodoo” – ZZ Top
I am exhausted. Spent. Kaput. Goodnight.
N.P.: “Tainted Love” – Imelda May
Did a bit of drinking with a friend in from England this evening. ‘Twas fun, though going to public places where people are is a rather taxing endeavor these days. I laid low, quiet in the shadows. But even just watching people…ugh. So disappointing these days. At least I can count on you, dear reader.
God…I don’t even know what day it is. Hypnos and Morpheus…let’s do this.
N.P.: “Setting Sun” – Jerry Cantrell