I know, I know, dear reader…I said I was taking the day off to do battle with the whiskey gods.  And I did.  But the whiskey gods, like all other opponents these days, didn’t amount to shit.  Another one-punch knock out.

So here I am.  Tis’ midnight, and I’m going to get to work on the book.

N.P.: “Ziggy Stardust” – Bauhaus

Meanwhile, over in England, a bunch of dumb-ass hippies decided to try to solve climate change by spraying red paint on the U.K. Treasury building.  Yeah, I have no idea.  Anyway, having evidently not really put much thought into the plan, they managed to get about 5 gallons of the paint onto the side of the building (and as far as painting jobs go, this one was particularly slapdash) before losing control of the hose, spraying themselves with the red paint and sending the other 455 gallons of the oil-based paint directly into the storm drains of London which release directly into rivers and streams.  Saving the environment, one moronic protest at a time.  Idiots.  These are not the actions of people who are getting laid on the reg.

I am taking tomorrow off, dear reader, from all things literary and criminal in order to do battle with the whiskey gods and engage in a celebratory goat dance, the likes of which would embarrass Caligula.  Or maybe even Rick James.  Okay, not Rick James.  But Caligula….

N.P.: “Always On The Run” – Lenny Kravitz

It’s time to get serious about putting some proposals together for these books.  The problem is I keep getting new ideas.  Too many new ideas.  I can’t write them all down.  I need to start using dictation more as well.

So many words, just wanting perfect arrangement.

N.P.: “Der Meister” – Rammstein

Hotel California has a woodpecker that shows up every October 1st, after a 9-month absence, and started pounding away at whatever spot it left on last year.  If the owner patches the spot with a metal plate, the bird either doesn’t notice or particularly care.  I loathe the bird and have actively tried to murder it numerous times in previous seasons, but failed to prevail due to inadequate tools.  If I could take one of the guns outside I could blow the thing off the roof and out of the sky easily.  But me running around outside holding any kind of gun is the sort of thing that attracts SWAT teams and CNN news crews.  And we don’t want any of that, do we, dear reader?  No.  Of course not.  But that leaves me with a severe handicap when it comes to assassinating this bastard bird.

I’ll figure something out.

N.P.: “This Is Your Life (feat. Tyler Durden)” – The Dust Brothers

A damn fine day, dear reader.  Tomorrow should be even better.

I’m writing the hell out of these books.  I can’t wait for the first one to be out.  If nothing else, at least we’ll be able to speak freely here.  I’m very much looking forward to that.

Alright…back to it.

N.P.: “Damn It Feels Good to be a Gangsta” – Geto Boys

The nights and darkness are getting noticeably longer.  This, of course, means my mood is improving, I’m being more productive, et cetera, all as my more heliophilic friends begin to wither and wilt.  Which is fine.  I’ve had to listen to their sun-loving bullshit since Cinco de Goddamn Mayo.

N.P.: “Gun Lover” – Acumen Nation

Awaiting onset of well-deserved medically induced coma.  First real rain and thunderstorm of the year.  The skies were dark over Anhedonia today.  It was fairly wonderful.

Okay…back to it.  I hope you are well, dear reader.

N.P.: “In Your Eyes – Special Remix” – Peter Gabriel

It’s been interesting week.  And next week is even more promising.

Started writing this thing tonight…it’s not a poem, but it’s coming out pretty poetically.  Nothing big.  If I finish it tonight or tomorrow, I’ll leave it here for you.

N.P.: “Helter Skelter” – Samael

I dislike holding patterns.  They bore me.  And here I sit, in a holding pattern.  And, it should go without saying in our brief conversation, that I am, thus, bored.

Weird shit happens when I get bored.

N.P.: “Sweet Mountain River” – Monster Truck

I filed a cease and desist order with the sun today.  It is in clear violation of the calendar and is hereby officially demanded to fuck off.  Life in the Anhedonia Valley is wretched and miserable enough without some huge carcinogenic star overstaying its welcome in our sky.  I showed the moon my favorite finger today too.  Yeah.  Today.  Like at 12:30.  There’s the fucking moon, hanging there like it’s confused or lost in the northwestern sky.  Fuck off back to the night, ya stupid moon.  Nobody asked you to work a double.  Your only purpose is to reflect the sunlight when it’s nighttime in this hemisphere so that our cave-dwelling ancestors didn’t kill themselves when they got up in the middle of the prehistoric night to pee.  And we have subsequently harnessed electricity to use very effectively in those cases, but right at the very moment I was giving the moon the finger, we certainly didn’t need anything reflecting the sun because the sun was right there, screaming radiation down on us and giving everybody cancer.  As my friend Buzz Aldrin told the moon after he walked on its face: “You have no business in the day.”

I can forgive the moon.  But the sun is just an asshole.

N.P.: “Put It on the Line” – The Heavy