I was sitting at a desk, talking to a psychologist friend, when a spider popped up over the edge of the desk and began running directly at me.  So i hammer-fisted the bastard, natch.  Just brutally squashed it, with malice aforethought, with extreme prejudice.  I was studying the guts on the outer part of my fist when the good doctor piped up.
“Whoa…what the hell was that?”
“Arachnojihad.  All spiders must die.  Kill on sight.”
“So just because your afraid of something means you can kill it?”
“Did you see any fear there?  There is no fear.  Just pure hate.  Murderous contempt.”
“So you get to play God?”
“Not at all.  God is merciful.  I am not.”
“Jesus.”
“Nope…not him either.  Two thousand years of turning the other cheek, and where has that gotten us?  No where.  Except trod upon by the forces of evil.  And spiders.  No.  No turning the other cheek.  No fear.  No mercy.  Just a trail of arachnocarcasses, spread across the land, left in situ, as messages to the rest.”
“I think you need a vacation.  Or a 72-hour hold.  I’m gonna get going.”
“I fucking hate spiders so much.”

N.P.: “The Chain” – Toothgrinder

I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time in the matrix, dear reader.  Which is not good for anybody.  I try to avoid it, but I’ve been right in the middle of it recently, and it’s taxing as hell.  Exhausting, and existential-crisis inducing.

N.P.: “People Who Died” – The Jim Carroll Band

We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world, forever, it seems.
~ Arthur O’Shaughnessy

There is an imbalance in my world.  Something along the lines of, “If A is true, then why do I feel so B.”  Something I’ve found that helps with imbalances is sleep.  So I’m going to pursue that option now.  Didn’t write shit today.  Dammit.

N.P.: “THISKIDSNOTALRIGHT” – AWOLNATION

One of my goals has long been and remains to fly on Air Force One.

N.P.: “Dis-O-Bedience” – KMFDM

Living anywhere in the Anhedonia Valley means dealing with ludicrous heat 6 months out of the year.  And yrs. truly does not do well in the heat, dear reader.  I usually warn people that I’m in a foul mood from Cinco de Mayo until Halloween.  Which was once again the case this year.  But Halloween is over.  It’s November.  That insipid daylight saving time finally ends this weekend.  I’m even turning on the heater tonight.  So I should be in a much more reasonable mood until Cinco de Mayo.

N.P.: “Figure It Out” – Royal Blood

Happy Amateur Hour, rookies.   Now get yer damn kids of my lawn…I have whiskey to attend to just now.

N.P.: “The Chain” – Tantric

“No time for love, Dr. Jones.”

Oh man, I’m busy, dear reader.  Good lord.  I’m so busy, I don’t even have time to tell you how busy I am.

Today was remarkable in many ways.  I was a fan of today.

N.P.: “Like I Should” – Craig Robinson

I find it exceedingly strange that people are still referring to contemporary years as “two thousand and whatever.”   I mean, I figured it would be a few years of that weirdness at the turn of the century, and things would sort of relax into “Twenty whatever.”  When reading early writings from the previous 2 centuries, the formality of writers calling the years “Nineteen hundred and eighteen” is always comical. It sounds as if they were using an abacus to figure out what year it was.   But it typically didn’t take too long before they were just calling it “Nineteen fourteen” or whatever.  But we’re almost a quarter of the way through our own dreadful century and people are still referring to the present year as “two thousand nineteen.”  I’m hopeful that because next year’s number will match the century number, people will see/hear the awkward asymmetrical bulkiness of saying “Two thousand twenty” and finally shift to sleeker, sexier, symmetrical “twenty twenty.”  Of course, looking to the present generation of American speakers who even still continue to stupidly and compulsively bleat the insipid “I know, right?” for any kind of linguistic grace will only result in crushing disappointment.

I’m just so over it.  I can’t even.

N.P.: “Breathless” – Shankar Mahadevan

I have exactly nothing to say tonight, dear reader.  Not there there isn’t a lot on my mind…I can’t remember a time when there wasn’t…and not that I don’t have a lot to say.  But there’s nothing I can really say if I plan on getting any sleep.

Anyway, I just thought I’d pop in and say hey.  So, hey.

N.P.: “The Shame of Life” – Butthole Surfers