Category Archives: Lucubrations

June 25, 2025

 

Today we celebrate the birthday of Eric Blair – better known to us as George Orwell – who was born on this day in 1903, into the sweltering chaos of Motihari, British-occupied India.  A literary titan emerged from that colonial crucible, and damn, did he deliver!  His works, 1984 and Animal Farm, hit like intellectual shithammers, tackling totalitarianism with a razor-sharp insight that cuts deeper than my switchblade through silk.  These books are fearless, incisive grenades of storytelling that explode power structures and leave you reeling.  Orwell’s prose, drenched in a gritty, enduring impact, resonates across generations like a rebel yell that may very well echo forever.

1984, penned by George Orwell and unleashed in 1949, was a stark cautionary tale, a dystopian scream against the perils of totalitarianism, surveillance, and the erosion of truth.  Orwell crafted a world where Big Brother’s omnipresent gaze and the Ministry of Truth’s reality-warping lies served as a warning: look what happens when power crushes individuality and language itself.  The novel’s bleak vision was meant to jolt readers into vigilance, a fuck-you to authoritarian creep.

Yet, some interpret it quite differently today.  The leftist Woke Supremacists seem to have flipped the proverbial script, treating Orwell’s nightmare as some sort of perverse political playbook rather than a dire caution.  Where he depicted the manipulation of language and history as oppressive tools – think “doublethink” (more on that in a minute) and rewritten records – they’ve embraced similar tactics, wielding cancel culture and narrative control to enforce ideological conformity.  The irony’s thick: Orwell’s warning about though police morphs into a justification for policing thought, with social media acting as the new telescreen.  It’s less about resisting power and more about redirecting it, turning a cautionary talk into a how-to guide for their own dark version of utopia.  Orwell might’ve rolled in his grave – or grabbed a pen to rewrite the ending.

Doublethink, a cornerstone of Orwell’s 1984, is the mind-bending art of holding two contradictory beliefs simultaneously, accepting both as true, and purging any flicker of cognitive dissonance.  Born from the novel’s oppressive regime, it’s the psychological grease that keeps totalitarianism humming – where “war is peace, “freedom is slavery,” and “ignorance is strength” aren’t just slogans but lived realities.  Orwell, with his 1903-born genius, designed it as a warning, a glimpse into how language and thought can be twisted to enslave rather than liberate.

It works by training the mind to suppress doubt, embracing the Party’s ever-shifting truths with zeal.  Take the daily rewriting of history in the Ministry of Truth – yesterday’s ally becomes today’s enemy, and records adjust seamlessly.  The individual doesn’t just accept it; they believe it, untroubled by the contradiction.  It’s a mental acrobatics act, requiring constant self-deception and a willful amnesia of the past.

In 2025, real-world doublethink echoes Orwell’s 1984 with eerie precision, manifesting in ways that blur the line between caution and complicity.  Take social media platforms where users decry censorship while flagging posts they deem offensive, embracing “free speech” only when it aligns with their views.  This cognitive juggling act lets them champion open dialogue while silencing dissent, a contradiction swallowed whole.  Politically, it’s rampant: public health offers such a case – during debates in recent years, I witnessed myriad such slaves who, in a single conversation, screamed about bodily autonomy and  “my body, my choice,” and in the same breath fascistically pushed untested vaccine mandates, holding both as unassailable truths.  Even consumerism shows it: people whine about climate change but immediately buy into fast fashion’s disposability, rationalizing personal impact as negligible.  “Ugliness is beauty” double-think is easily seen in the body positivity movement, to such an extent that even television commercials, which used to use beauty to sell their products, are now a nauseating parade of aggressively unattractive, overweight dullards touting victimhood.  These instances reveal a society that has become pathetically adept at doublethink – accepting opposing ideas, rewriting narratives, and silencing inner conflict, just as Orwell warned.

Disgusted as he’d be if he could see western society now, I still raise a glass and toast the birthday of a scribe whose legacy remains a badass benchmark for truth-tellers everywhere.  Doubleplusgood birthday, George…your ink still burns bright!

N.P.: “Sexcrime (Nineteen Eighty-Four)” – Eurythmics

June 24, 2025

Okay…I have to say something because I can’t take it anymore and something needs to be said about these massive fucking pickup trucks, and, regrettably, the people who, for the most part, it seems, drive them.

You, my fellow denizens of the asphalt jungle, have no doubt seen the grotesquely engorged pick-up trucks that lumber through our streets like some hypertrophic nightmare, their dimensions ballooning into a preposterous caricature of utility! In the span of a scant few years, these vehicular behemoths have metastasized to such an absurd scale that the humble California garage—once a sanctuary of suburban pragmatism—now stands impotent, its confines laughably inadequate to cradle these monstrous steel leviathans. And lo, the consequence: every driveway from San Diego to Sacramento is now a grotesque tableau, dominated by at least one oversized truck, its hulking mass obliterating any vestige of street-side charm, a garish monument to excess that screams louder than a foghorn in a library.  And fuck it…it’s a free country and you can buy whatever kind of vehicle you want.  And it’s your house…if you want to totally eclipse the view of that pile of stucco you paid $750K for, cool.  Most of my neighbors at the Safe House have fallen into this truck trap.  If you are a big-league contractor, or you find yourself hauling semi-trailers or towing busted bulldozers or some such, cool…you need all the truck you can get.  But they two or three guys I know with things clearly do not need this much truck.  One dude’s an attorney who works for Anhedonia County.  Why does he need a two-ton truck as a daily driver?  It’s the digital age…not like he has to haul entire file cabinets of briefs to and fro.  All he has to take with him to work is his phone, and maybe a small briefcase.  And his office is maybe a mile from here…not like he needs to go offroad and ford a river or anything.  And the other dude is retired.  He only uses his truck to get to the local Indian casino.  I see him out my window every evening as he prepares to go gamble this month’s pension money…he can barely climb into that big bastard that’s parked in his driveway.  But whatever…they can do whatever they want.  Hell, I don’t need a tank, but if I had Fuck-You money, I wouldn’t put it past myself to arrive home one day in a shiny new Abrams whip, and I wouldn’t want any guff about it (though I really doubt anybody would give me any guff at all if I was sitting in the cockpit of an actual Abrams tank).  But if you’re going to go through all the attendant hassle of having one of these big-ass trucks, I would think your driving would reflect your vehicular choice.  If you’re going to shell out…how much are these things?  Jesus!  A Ford F-150 Raptor (which is what one of the aforementioned neighbors is sporting this year) is over $100K.  If one is will to shell out over $100K for one of these Mega Trucks, would one not want to drive it like a Boss?

Yet, oh the irony!  The swaggering titans who pilot these colossi reveal themselves as quivering milquetoasts the moment the road demands a modicum of mettle!  Observe them, these self-anointed lords of the highway, as they approach a speedbump with the tremulous hesitance of a dowager clutching her pearls, their behemoths inching forward with a delicacy that would shame a geriatric snail.  Each crest is navigated with a painstaking crawl, a ritual of cowardice that belies the brash bravado their tonnage implies – truly, a spectacle of spinelessness wrapped in chrome.  It just happened again to yrs. truly…I’m in a relatively miniscule car, with itty bitty shitty tires, trying to get across a grocery store parking lot to park.  There are some old school speedbumps in said parking lot, not the newer, kissy-face “undulations,” but the more brutal speedbumps.  And this guy in a massive, black Chevy Silverado, is actually slowing to a vaginal crawl whenever he gets to one of the things.  Huge off-road tires…I think this thing is even lifted.  He could take speedbumps twice this size at speed and not feel a thing.  It’s inexplicable.

And then…oh, shit, dear reader, and then, the piece de resistance of this absurdity: the seemingly ritualistic backing into parking spaces, a maneuver executed with the precision of a paranoid squirrel hoarding nuts.  Why, one might ask (I sure as hell do), this fetishistic reverse choreography?  Is it some primal urge to assert dominance, to ensure their retreat is as ostentatious as their arrival?  Or perhaps a tacit admission that these unwieldly beasts are better suited to flee than to face the world head-on?  Whatever the rationale, it’s a dance of dithering insecurity, a final flourish of folly atop their already towering pike of automotive hubris.  And it pisses me off to no end.

N.P.: “Poverty Blues” – Appalachian White Lightning

June 23, 2025

Behold, dearest reader, another Monday is upon us.  But this isn’t “just another Monday.”  No.  June 23, 2025 is a day of ink-soaked rebellion and typewriter fury.  Around this time in 1971 (try as I might, I couldn’t pin down an exact date), Charles Bukowski’s raw, booze-soaked novel Post Office was published.  It’s a throbbing middle-finger to The Grind, chronicling his years as a postal worker with unfiltered grit – drinking, screwing, and surviving the soul-crushing monotony.  Bukowski’s voice is pure badass: no polish, just truth.  This book cemented his rep as the poet of the down-and-out, and its release was a liver-lick to the literary establishment.  If you’re looking for something that screams defiance, this isit.  The prose hits like a shot of Jack – rough, unapologetic, and leaving you reeling.  Bukowski showed writers like yrs. truly How Its Done, turning a dead-end job into a manifesto of survival.  Pick it up, crack it open, and let the pages drag you into the chaos of a man who refused to bow to the suits.  This book was a grenade tossed into the ivory tower.

June 23 is also National Typewriter Day, marking the 1868 patent of the typewriter by Christopher Latham Sholes.  This machine was the weapon of choice for literary rebels like Hemingway, Kerouac, and other wild scribes who hammered out their works with mechanical fury.  The typewriter’s clack is the sound of creation under pressure.  It’s a nod to the tools that let writers fight their own apocalypses on the page.  Back in the day, this beast of a device was the heartbeat of the craft, a clattering symphony of keys that turned thoughts into tangible rebellion.  Sholes’ invention birthed a revolution, giving voice to the outcasts and dreamers who pounded out epics on its iron frame.  Today, it’s a relic, sure, but its legacy lives up to every keystroke – a reminder that the fight for words is as old as the machine itself.

I have a truly old, totally analog typewriter…no electricity needed.  If the world goes up, or the electrical grid collapses, dissemination will certainly be affected, but I’ll still be here, banging on the keys.  Due to my father’s ludditic obstinance when it came to technology, I was forced to use a typewriter until I had already started college.  It was a real pain in the ass, especially since literally everyone I knew had been rocking word processors for years at that point.  But there is a certain satisfaction the comes from typewriting.  I think it’s the combination of several different elements: the various noises from the contraption itself…the aforementioned clanking of the keys, the end-of-the-line ding, the subsequent smacking of the carriage-return lever.  It also has something to do with the fact that you are dealing with a physical page, which pages stacking up next to the machine is far more gratifying to those of us who like tangible, visible results of our efforts than any screen could ever be.

N.P.: “Bauhaus Staircase” – Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark

June 22, 2025

 

You know, dear reader, I do my best to extoll the virtues and pleasantries of living in Fecal Creek, CA.  And I know I’ve spilled a lot of virtual and analog ink over the years bemoaning the literary uninhabitable heat that happens here from Cinco de Mayo through Halloween.  But as I’ve recently discussed here, I may finally be getting acclimated to this unreasonable heat.  Maybe I’m just getting old.  You know how old people are always cold, and they always talk about going to warmer climates for their health or bones or whatever?  Maybe that’s going on.  I hope not.  Regardless, I am trying to lean into the heat this year.  Not just to accept it, but to embrace it for some reason I have yet to figure out.  Surviving multiple summers here does suggest a durability, a hardiness, even a ruggedness you possess that other humans and species do not possess.  But there’s a darker side to that arrangement: you’re stuck living here with those hardy, rugged creatures, and the warmer the temperatures get, the more some of these little monsters thrive and breed.  Which is what brings me to the topic of today’s sermon.

Behold, dear readers, the unmitigated chaos that descends upon our beleaguered hamlet of Fecal Creek each summer, a season wherein the very basic fabric of our domestic tranquility is besieged by an army of cockroaches so multitudinous, so audaciously omnipresent, that one might be forgiven for imagining a dystopian epic penned by a madman with a typewriter and a vendetta.  These six-legged marauders, glistening with the unholy sheen of resilience, emerge from the dank crevices of our collective subconscious – or, more likely, the sewer grates – transforming our sunlit days into a grotesque ballet of evasion and existential dread.

Let us consider, with a trembling yet irreverent chuckle, the sheer audacity of their numbers.  By mid-June, as the thermometer breaches the infernal threshold of ninety degrees, the cockroach population swells to a figure so staggering – let’s hazard a wildly speculative estimate of eleventy-billion – that one cannot so much as open a cupboard without encountering a symposium of antennae and skittering legs, debating philosophy or plotting their next assault on the sanctity of my artisanal sourdough stash.  The kitchen counter, once a bastion of culinary ambition, becomes a roach-filled agora, where these critters hold court with the insouciant swagger of uninvited guests at a black-tie gala.

And oh, the indignities they inflict!  Last Tuesday, as I endeavored to brew a pot of coffee – black as my mood and twice as bitter – one such brazen interloper executed a kamikaze dive into the carafe, necessitating a ritualistic exorcism involving scalding water and a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush.  The sheer affrontery!  To infiltrate the sacred rite of caffeine consumption is to declare war on the very soul of Fecal Creek, and yet, these pests persist with a tenacity that borders on the absurdly heroic.

What recourse, then, for the beleaguered citizenry?  Traps abound – sticky, insidious contraptions that promise salvation but deliver only a tableau of wriggling captives, a macabre art installation titled the Agony of the Arthropod.  Pesticides, those chemical knights in shining aerosol cans, offer a fleeting reprieve, only to be met with the roaches’ evolutionary middle finger: resistance so robust it could withstand a nuclear winter.  We are left, dear reader, to wage this battle with brooms, bravado, and a grim determination to reclaim our dominion, one squashed invader at a time.

So here we stand, on the precipice of July, in Fecal Creek’s cockroach apocalypse, armed with humor as our shield and a reckless disregard for the conventional.  Let us laugh in the face of this scuttling tyranny, for to do otherwise would be to cede victory to the six-legged horde.  Until the autumn chill restores order, I bid your fortify your pantries, steel your nerves, and join me in this absurd, ongoing crusade – because if we can’t beat them, we’ll at least mock them with the ferocity of a thousand suns.  Onward, brave souls, to the Roachpocalypse 2025!

N.P.: “Bug Powder Dust” – Bomb The Bass, Justin Warfield

June 19, 2025

 

Behold, dear reader: June 19, 1947, the birthday of a true literary badass, Salman Rushdie, whose audacious prose – most electrifyingly The Satanic Verses – ignites global tempests and even a fatwa with its unapologetic defiance and razor-sharp storytelling.  Today we raise a glass to a titan who dances on the edge of controversy, weaving narratives that slash through the mundane with fearless brilliance.

Let’s take a minute to dive into the firestorm: that 1989 fatwa (I remember it well), a death sentence from Iran’s Ayatollah Khomeini, branded Rushdie a heretic for daring to blend sacred myth with profane imagination.  This was not long after the Pope had forbidden Catholics from seeing “The Last Temptation of Christ,” and as a fledgling writer, the notion that one could potentially write something so potent that it would be labeled verboten, even worthy of a death sentence by heads of state and religious leaders made the whole thing that much more appealing.  The fatwa was a global hunt, a shadow over his every step, yet this badass refused to cower.  Decades of exile, guarded existence, and relentless threats couldn’t muzzle him – he kept writing, kept provoking, kept living loud.

They almost got him on August 12, 2022: a knife attack in New York that stole his right eye, a brutal scar on his unyielding spirit.  Doctors fought to save him, and though the blade took his sight, it didn’t touch his badass soul.  With one eye and infinite grit, he rose again, pen in hand, declaring in his memoir Knife that silence is the enemy’s victory.  Fuck yes.  This man, now 78, stands unbroken, a testament to resilience.  Cheers to you, Salman, the unbreakable.

N.P.: “The God That Failed” – Imelda May

June 18, 2025

Partial Transcript of Emergency Strategy Meeting, Tuesday, 17 June 2025, In The Law Office of Finger & Diddle, Fecal Creek, CA.  Participants: Jayson Gallaway, Author and Presumptive Gubernatorial Candidate, Boochie Collins, Drug Dealer and Political Analyst/Advisor, James “Jimmy” Finger, Attorney At Law, and Shazam, Paralegal of Rather Dubious Visa Status.

Jayson: …the hell it ain’t a step down, Finger…this is a trailer!  You live here?  What happened to the loft?
Finger: Fuckin’ divorce.
Jayson: Ouch.  Weren’t you a divorce attorney?
Finger: Best in town.
Jayson: Did you represent yourself?
Finger:  What, in the divorce?  Hell no.  Diddle did it.
Jayson:  Diddle didn’t do a very good job, did he, if you lost the loft.
Finger: Lost the ‘Vette, too.
Jayson: Son of a bitch.
Finger: Indeed.  But never mind all that.  You want to run for mayor?
Jayson: Nope.  I wanna run for governor.
Finger: Governor of what?
Jayson: California, dumbass.
Finger:  Well, you can never be too sure with you.  Cool.  California.  Governor.  Love it.  Let’s do it.
Jayson:  Great.  I went over qualifications last night with Boochie…ah…Boochie Collins, meet Jimmy Finger.  Finger…Boochie.
Finger:  Nice fronts, Boochie.
Boochie: Nice trailer, douchebag.  What’s that smell?
Finger: What smell?
Jayson: Yeah…that is pretty loud, isn’t it?
Finger:  What smell?
Boochie: Smells like a bouncer in a Persian nightclub.
Finger:  Ah…that’s Shazam.
Jayson: ..the fuck is Shazam, your new cologne?  It’s rancid.
Finger: Shazam’s my paralegal.  Shazam!  Come say hello to our new clients!
Shazam: ….
Jayson: You’re making shit up.
Finger:  Goddammit…Shazam!
Shazam [coming in from other room, taking earbuds out of his ears]: Sorry, boss…had my earbuds in.
Finger: Shazam this is Jayson Gallaway, the next governor of California, and his, what, sidekick?  Gucci.
Boochie: Boochie.
Shazam: Salam.
Jayson: What it is.
Finger: Okay, let’s get down to business.
Jayson: Let’s.
Finger: Okay…hold on.
Jayson:
Boochie:
Finger: …just give me a minute.  Google’s been slow all day.  Shazam, can you please reboot the router!
Shazam:
Finger: Ah!  Here we go.  Okay.  First thing you’re gonna wanna do is, it says, is, “to officially become a candidate, you must complete the following steps with the California Secretary of State and county elections offices…”
Jayson: Give it to me.
Finger: Jesus.
Jayson: What’s up?
Finger: This is a lot of steps.   This is going to be…yeah.  Okay.  Today we need to submit a Statement of Intention with the Secretary of State.
Jayson: So far, so good.  Boochie, write up a Statement of Intention.
Boochie:  What…right here?  Now?
Jayson:   Why not.  Here, use this.
Boochie: A cocktail napkin?
Jayson:  Yeah, it’ll be fine.  Keep it simple: Dear Secretary of State…shit…who’s the Secretary of State?
Finger: No idea.
Boochie:  Who cares.
Shazam: What’s the question?
Finger: Who’s the Secretary of State?
Shazam:  How the fuck would I know?
Finger: Dammit…you asked.  Never mind.  I Google it.
Jayson: Am I just paying you to do Google searches?  I could have done that.
Finger: Thus far, you haven’t paid me shit, and no, you could not have done that.  You could have, you would have, but evidently you didn’t, so shut up and let me type.
Jayson:  Ass.
Finger:  …
Finger: Fucking internet!  Shazam!  Reboot!
Jayson: Fuck it.  Just put “Dear Secretary of State.”  They know who they are.  Then, “I, Jayson Gallaway, hereby state my intention to run for Governor of this massive pile of shit by the Pacific.”
Finger:  No.  Don’t do that.  And don’t write it on a goddamn cocktail napkin.  I’ll write the thing.  Come back tomorrow and will get ‘er signed and sealed.
Boochie: Dude…this just feels right.  You’re going to win this thing.
Jayson:  That’s the spirit, Booch.  Damn right.  We are going to Kick Ass!  Finger, be ready…we’ll be back tomorrow.

N.P.: “Magic Carpet Ride (Steir’s Mix)” – Steppenwolf

June 16, 2025

Happy Monday, dear reader.  Today is June 16th.  A day like any other for most, but for a certain breed of literary masochist, this isn’t just another ripple in the mundane tide of the Gregorian calendar.  Nope.  For them, today is Bloomsday, that annual carnival of intellectual flexing, literary cosplay, and public displays of knowing exactly what “ineluctable modality of the visible” means (spoiler alert: most of them don’t).

If you’re unfamiliar, Bloomsday is the hallowed celebration of James Joyce’s Ulysses.  This 700-something-page modernist behemoth, set entirely on June 16th, 1904, captures a single day in the life of Leopold Bloom, a humble Dublin ad salesman with a thing for kidneys and an uncanny knack for making his deeply weird interior monologue your deeply weird interior monologue.  Why June 16th?  Well, legend has it that Joyce picked the date in honor of his first outing with Nora Barnacle, the woman who’d eventually become his wife and soulmate in stubborn eccentricity.

Since 1954, when a pack of particularly ambitious Joyce fans retraced the steps of Bloom and his moody sidekick Stephen Dedalus through the cobblestone streets of Dublin, Bloomsday ha spiraled into a global phenomenon.  Dublin itself is ground zero, morphing into a labyrinth of tweed-clad academics, aspiring novelists, and tourists pretending to understand what “Molly’s soliloquy” really means.  The day’s menu features marathon readings, theatrical performances, and pub crawls where Guinness and existential dread flow in equal measure.  But Bloomsday isn’t confined to the Irish capital…it’s gone international.  New York has its own event.  Budapest, too.  Chances are, there’s someone in your city right now butchering a Joyce passage in public.

Here’s the thing about Ulysses, though: it’s an entire ecosystem of narrative rebellion.  At its most basic level, this is a novel about a guy, kind of a schlubby everyman, wandering Dublin for a day while mulling over infidelity, bodily functions, and the cosmic messiness of existence.  Describing Ulysses as “just a book” is like calling the Grand Canyon a “neat hole” or fireworks “nice little explosions.”  Joyce scrapped the blueprint for what novels could be, melted it in acid, and reconstructed it as a linguistic rollercoaster built for causing epileptic fits in English majors.

It’s a book where style isn’t just substance; it’s spectacle.  Stream-of-consciousness prose drenched in linguistic gymnastics?  Check.  Entire chapters mimicking everything from 19th-century romance novels to overwrought legal rhetoric?  Yep.  A narrative that stops being linear the minute Joyce decides he’s bored?  Oh yeah.  And through all of it, you’re left marveling at its audacity, its wit, and its refusal to make itself easy for you.

Which is exactly why Ulysses has earned its badass reputation.  It doesn’t care if you understand it.  Hell, it seems to actively hope you won’t.  It’s confrontational, unrelenting, and defiantly weird.  And yet, buried under its dense wordplay and chaotic structure is a keenly human portrait of love, loneliness, sex, guilt, and spiritual yearning.  It’s about what it means to be alive, absurd and messy as it is.

And maybe that’s what makes Bloomsday so resonant.  Beyond the cosplay, the debates over whether Leopold Bloom or Stephen Dedalus is the superior antihero (Bloom, obviously), and the whispered apologies to unread copies of Finnegans Wake, Bloomsday is a celebration of literature that refuses to be ignored.  It’s a collective act of tribute to the kind of art that challenges, confuses, and maybe even pisses you off, but changes you in the process.

Whether you’re in Dublin following Bloom’s hypothetical footsteps, or just cracking open Ulysses for the twentieth time only to quit two pages into “Oxen of the Sun,” Bloomsday isn’t about mastery.  It’s about grappling with brilliance on its own terms, about raising a pint to impossibly large ideas compressed into impossibly difficult prose.

And it that’s not worth celebrating, then neither is art itself.

N.P.: “Looking for a Fight” – The Cold Stares

June 14, 2025

 

Partial Transcript of Emergency Strategy Meeting, Saturday, 14 June 2025, In The War Room Of The Safehouse.  Participants: Jayson Gallaway, Author and Speculative Gubernatorial Candidate and Boochie Collins, Drug Dealer and Political Analyst/Advisor.

Boochie: Helluvan idea, chief…I think it’s got teeth.  Audacious as shit, though.  But audacious is good.  Fuck yes.  Let’s do this.
Jayson: Excellent!  I’m so glad we’re on the same page.  What have you got for me?  Where do we start?
Boochie: We start with making sure you’re qualified.
Jayson: Of course I’m qualified.  Probably over-qualified, all things considered.  I should probably be looking into running for President in ’28.  Yeah.  Why am I messing around with this itty-bitty-shitty state.
Boochie: California is neither itty nor bitty.  Third largest state, isn’t it?
Jayson: See…that’s what I’m talking about.  Third.  Third.  Rhymes with turd.  Why aren’t we first?
Boochie: Square milage.
Jayson: Balls!  We will be first!  Day One, we invade Oregon.  Annex that miserable state.  Drive all those hippies into the sea.
Boochie: Well, if you’re going to annex the state, you should probably keep the people…they’ll be part of your constituency.
Jayson:  Oooooo!  “Constituency.”  Fancy words from the Booch, all of a sudden.
Boochie: I use fancy words all the time.
Jayson: Horseshit.  Can you even spell constituency?
Boochie [caught off guard]: Shut up.  You can’t drive the people of Oregon into the sea; they are potential voters.
Jayson: No, they’re not.  They are not people, they are hippies.  And not one of those hippies will ever vote for me, potentially or otherwise.  They are not My People.  Buncha vegans who can’t pump their own gas.  Damnedest thing.  Fuck ’em…they shall be driven into the sea.
Boochie: We’d still be smaller than Alaska.
Jayson: Shit. Really?
Boochie: Even still, we are not itty or bitty.
Jayson: Fine.  But we are shitty, though.  You have to admit that.
Boochie: Shittiest state in the union.
Jayson: But not for much longer.  We’re gonna make history, Booch!  Come on…what do I have to do to govern this bitch?
Boochie: Qualifications.
Jayson: Still?  I thought we just covered that.
Boochie [rifles through papers and pulls one aside]:  Okay…”To run for Governor of California in 2026, you must meet the following criteria…”
Jayson: Bring it.
Boochie: Citizenship.  Are you a U.S. citizen?
Jayson: Damn skippy.  What’s next?
Boochie: Check.  Next is Residency.  Are you a registered voter in California?
Jayson: You know it.  Killing this, so far.  What’s next?
Boochie: Lessee…No Other Office…
Jayson: I’ve got one office, and you’re sitting in it.
Boochie: No, not “office” as a place.  “You cannot hold any other public office, engage in lobbying, or accept honoraria during your term as governor.”
Jayson: Cool.  I find those terms acceptable.
Boochie: Then that’s it…you qualify to run for governor.
Jayson: That’s it?  Shit, this is easy.  Feels like fate.
Boochie: I always thought you’d be a great governor.
Jayson: Thanks, Booch.  I’ll be better than what we’ve been stuck with for the last several idiotic years. So what’s next?
Boochie: Not exactly sure…this is my first gubernatorial campaign.  You still have that attorney on retainer?  With the weird name?
Jayson: Which one?  Finger?  Yeah, I’ve got his number.
Boochie: We should probably consult with him about next steps.
Jayson: I’ll call him.
[Jayson pulls out cell phone, scrolls, taps the screen, then puts phone on speaker.  The sound of repetitive rings heard over speaker].
Jayson: Fucker never answers his phone.  He’s probably over there in his loft, smoking drugs or whatever he does, ignoring the goddamn phone.
[Ringing stops, a recorded message plays over the speaker]
Finger [recorded, over speaker]: You have reached the voicemail of Jimmy Finger, Finger & Diddle, Attorneys at Law.  Leave a message.
Jayson [under his breath to Boochie]: Asshole.  [Then, after the beep into the phone]: Jimmy Finger!  It’s been a minute.  This is Jayson, I’m over here with Boochie…listen, I’m going to run for Governor in ’26, and could use some guidance to navigate this process.  Call me back at this number.
Jayson [hanging up]: Asshole.  I bet he starts picking up the phone once I’m goddamn Governor of this dump.

N.P.: “Fuck Everything” – Hairy Soul Man

June 12, 2025

The skies over California are inappropriately sunny today.  Just after sunrise, when I was in the backyard looking for the carcass of whatever it was I shot last night that I heard rifling through the trash, I turned the sun, that hateful star of ours, with disgust and umbrage and told it to, “Read the room.”  These are dark days indeed, dear reader.  My beloved state is under attack from both ends: a mob of foreigners and paid anti-American sheep on one end, and a moronic, botoxic, sociopathic governor who seems to think that prioritizing foreigners’ fictitious right to wave Mexican and Palestinian flags while assaulting police and burning American flags and what’s left of L.A. down over the safety and rights of legal residents will somehow make him a viable candidate for the Democratic presidential nomination.  Approval ratings, shmapproval ratings.

I’ve been doing what I can, but to no avail.  I’ve tried communicating with Gavin using every method available.  In much of that communication, I have been polite and civil, even friendly.  In others, I’ve lampooned him viciously, challenging him to MMA fights, public debates…I even invited him to participate in the pilot program of a new sport I’m developing tentatively called Whiskey Croquet (I’m still workshopping the name and most of the rules).  And what has his response been?  Nothing.  Nada.  Squat.  Even his office has been non-responsive: not even a courtesy form letter.

Not knowing what else to do, I sat down this morning to pen yet another letter of invective to this idiot, hoping maybe this will be the one to break through.

Dear Governor Newsom,
You fucking putz.  You festering clot of political hubris. You sanctimonious trainwreck. You’ve spent the last seven years gleefully torching California into a smoldering ash-heap of your own making, and I am here for the public excoriation you’re just starting to receive, that you so richly deserve.
I watched your dumbass “national address” the other night.  Jesus.  You couldn’t even figure out your audio.  Clown.
This state, once a glittering beacon of  innovation and freedom, now staggers under your pitiful reign of error – economy gutted by your hypocritical lockdowns, streets drowning in a fetid soup of homelessness you’ve ignored with the callous shrug of a dilettante dictator.  Taxes?  Skyrocketing like your ego, you preening weenie, while small businesses collapse under the weight of your ludicrous regulatory overreach.  Wildfires rage, water dries up, and you smirk through it all, posing with your artisanal French Laundry receipts as if governance were nothing more than a photo op.
You stupid douche.  Seven years of your blundering, self-aggrandizing misrule have turned the Golden State into a cautionary tale, a punchline spat out by a nation watching in disgusted awe.
I’m done.  I’m packing my bags, you insufferable charlatan, and heading for a state where competence isn’t a foreign concept – maybe Wyoming…fuck it, maybe even Idaho, ferchrissake!  Somewhere where sanity still draws breath.  This rotten cesspool you’ve sculpted with your incompetent, clammy hands isn’t worth the psychic toll anymore.
But wait – damn it to hell – logistics rear their ugly heads, and as my assistant just delicately pointed out, I can’t just up and move.  Not any time soon, anyway.  To which I said (and say) “balls!”  She makes a valid point.  So I’m shackled here, at least until 2028, trapped in your dystopian circus like a rat in a maze of your own inept and perverse design.
So, fine.  You win this round, you smug architect of ruin.  But mark my words, Newsom – I’m not slinking away.  No…if I can leave, then I’m turning this rage into a campaign.  In 2026, I’m throwing my hat into the ring, running for governor to wrest this state from your greasy paws.  I’ll campaign with the fire of a thousand suns, promising to undo your catastrophic legacy – restore jobs, clean the streets, and govern with a spine, not a fucking selfie stick.  Get ready, shitbag, because the reckoning’s coming, and you will finally be sent packing back to your Napa wine caves. 

Yr. brother in Christ,
Jayson

Nice.  Subtle, but not too.  I felt better, but I knew it wouldn’t make a bit of difference.  It seems clear, now, after I’ve had a few shots of Jack to calm down, that I must run for Governor of California.  I have to make today’s wordcount on the book, so I can’t do anything today, but tomorrow!  Shit yes…tomorrow we begin.

N.P.: “Fighting Trousers” – Professor Elemental

June 9, 2025

Today we pour some out for Charles Dickens, who dropped dead on June 9, 1870.  His death was likely due to a stroke, though the exact cause remains a subject of historical speculation.  He had been in declining health, suffering from fatigue and possibly a prior minor stroke, before collapsing at his home in Gad’s Hill Place, England.

Uncle Chuck, an absolute beast behind the quill, left behind an unfinished masterpiece, The Mystery of Edwin Drood.  His works, his sprawling epics and a certain dual-city saga, went beyond simple entertainment…they sliced through the fog of Victorian pretense with razor-sharp wit and characters so vivid they practically leap off the page, reshaping the literary landscape forever.  He wasn’t some polite putz scribbling tame tales…he was a bona fide literary rockstar who flipped the script on the status quo, dragging the gritty, unvarnished truths of poverty, class, and corruption into the spotlight.  With a narrative weave so compelling it could hypnotize, he roared for social reform.  Dying mid-novel only amps up the enigma, leaving a legacy that still echoes like a thunderclap through time.

In more temporally local news, my work continues apace.  I’m busy as hell, but getting it done.  On a sidenote, the degree to which my day-to-day existence is dictated and controlled by an 8lb girl puppy is the source of great shame and embarrassment.

N.P.: “Barbaras Rhabarberbar” – Bodo Wartke, Marti Fisher, Matthias Kräutli