I’ll be so fucking glad when this dumb-ass decade is over with.  Ours is the absolute worst culture in the history of the world, dear reader.  And I’m seeing no signs of improvement any time soon.  

Greta Thunberg is Time Magazine’s Person of the Year.  Which is, of course, a meaningless gesture.  Which is, I suppose, apropos given that the “honor” is going to someone for making meaningless gestures.  But it really is meaningless.  Hell, they named me Person of the Year in 2006, which was arguably my shittiest year.  I didn’t want the award, and I tried to refuse it, but it was too late: there was my face, staring sexily back at me from every single cover of Time Magazine that month.  What had been done could not be undone.  But I’ve never gotten comfortable with the unsolicited and pointless accolade.  After all, it put me in some pretty dark company.  Let’s revisit some of Time’s People of the Year, shall we?
1938 – Adolf Hitler.  Back in ’38, before Time was woke, it was the Man of the Year award, and it seemed to be given to dictators rather frequently.  Which is what they did.  ’38 was the same year of the Kristalnacht, when Hitler’s Nazis destroyed buildings owned by Jews, and sent more than 30,000 Jewish Germans to concentration camps.  Just seems like the staff at Time would not have had to look all that hard for someone…anyone…who would have been Man of the Year.  Like, they could have chosen literally anybody else in the world who would have been a better Man of the Year simply because whomever the anybody else was, they would not have been Hitler.  Okay, maybe not anybody, because get ready for 1939….
1939 – Joseph Stalin. So, admittedly, Hitler had really earned his Man of the Year recognition in ’38: not only had he started rounding up all the Jews for his Final Solution, but he also invaded Poland and started World War II.  So when ’39 rolled around, with Hitler’s extermination of the Jews was going so swimmingly, there was a faction of the editorial board at Time who wanted to give Uncle Adolf Man of the Year again.  But that was considered unseemly.  To name the same person Man of the Year two years in a row would be…fascist.  And we wouldn’t want that.  So they went with the next worst dictator on the list, fucking Stalin.  On his orders, Soviet soldiers executed Polish POWs, raped and pillaged towns they occupied, and, not to be outdone by the Reich, established their own concentration camps.  Indeed, Time’s editorial board seemed to think, “Here is a truly inspirational individual that we think our readership should look to as an example of the type of man they should aspire to be.” Outstanding.
1942 – Joseph Stalin. Yep.  You read that right.  It had been a couple years since Time had seen fit to declare a genocidal dictator Man of the Year, so what the heck, they gave it to Stalin again.  In fairness he had been responsible for tens if not hundreds of thousands of deaths since his first go ’round in ’39. 
1979 – Ayatollah Khomeini.  I actually remember this one.  I was 10, and even then I remember wondering, “What the fuck is Time thinking?”  ’79 was the year Khomeini initiated the Islamic Revolution, made himself the Supreme Leader of Islamic Republic, and imposed Sharia law.  In doing so he required women to veil themselves, banned all alcohol, Western films and music, and instituted brutal and draconian punishments on all who did not abide by the absurdly strict religious rules.  
2006 – Me. And you.  And everybody.  They made literally everybody the “Person of the Year,” the rendering the “award” officially meaningless and stupid.  
So whatever…it is a completely meaningless gesture.  But why not give it to someone that actually not only matters? If you’re going to insist on handing the fucking thing out every year, why not actually go for it and try to redeem yourselves?  Why not try to make it actually mean something?  Why not give it to the Hong Kong protesters, fighting and dying in the streets to try to bring democracy and self-rule to their people?  Makes more sense then some spoiled hypocritical viking tweeting from a transatlantic cruise on a 40-foot yacht about her stolen childhood.  But that’s just me…Time Magazine’s Person of the Year, 2006.

N.P.: “Hyper Worm Tamer – Remix” – Grinderman

Unfortunately, the ideas don’t also come with the time it takes to write them. It’s unbelievably frustrating.

N.P.: “In Walks Barbarella” – Clutch

There is truly no rest for the wicked, dear reader. Mo bidness today. Not nearly enough sleep. Been going for about 40 hours. Time to collapse.

N.P.: “Choke” – Hybrid

Too tired, dear reader. Got maybe an hour and change last night. For a good reason. I put myself to bed at a perfectly reasonable hour. But as soon as I got into bed, I had a thought that cried out to be written down. Which was followed immediately by another thought demanding to be written down next to the previous thought. I knew what time it was, but there was nothing I could do: these things had to be written down. And but so anyway when I finally laid down and tried to sleep, I was quite awake. Read for a while…nothing. Watched a movie…nothing. Eventually I went under, but, like I said, maybe an hour and change. But tonight’s going to be different, goddammit. Because tonight I am exhausted.

N.P.: “Classic Girl” – Jane’s Addiction

I had high hopes for the writing today, dear reader, but bidness got in the way. Just bidness, all day. Feeling more hopeful about tomorrow.

N.P.: “Erotic City (Make Love Not War Erotic City Come Alive) [Extended Version]” – Prince

Me:  I’m sick of these fucking hipster dives you keep taking me to.
She: Okay, grandpa, settle down.
Me: Oh fuck you.  I’m not old enough to be…look, I’m only a couple years older than your dad.  And you said it was hot.
She: It is hot.  But you need to quit complaining about everyplace we go.  
Me:  Then you need to start picking less shitty places for us to go.  That last place, your friend’s bar, with the fucking jungle of herbs and shit he insisted on draping over the sides of every cocktail?  And his insipid vest and old-timey mustache.
She: Relax.  Just eat your…what did you get?  Spaghetti and meatballs?
Me:  Nooooooo.  I would have ordered spaghetti and meatballs if they had spaghetti and meatballs on the menu.  But they couldn’t do that.  Because they’re fucking hipsters.  So the only option was “deconstructed spag bol.”  Which, by the way, what the fuck?
She:  I think it’s supposed to be spaghetti bolognese.
Me:  They just stuck the ingredients in jars and here they are? What the hell? Am I supposed to assemble this myself, or will that ruin the whole thing?  Will they throw me out here for constructing my dinner?  I hate this place so much.  Look at this…this is absurd.  $23 for this bullshit. 

How’s your $18 deconstructed avocado toast? 
She:  Okay, okay…this is pretty stupid.  Do you just want to go?
Me:  Maybe…But I’m really hungry…I kind of want desert.  Do we want to risk it?
She: Sure.  How badly can they fuck up desert?”
Me:  Well, come on…you have to really go out of your way to fuck up spaghetti, but ta-da! [clinks jars of deconstructed spaghetti with butter knife].
She: Touché.  Touché
Me: [looking at the menu]  Jesus.  
She: Is it bad?
Me: It’s worse.  “Bone marrow apple turnover.”  Yeah.  No shit.  Get this: “Bone marrow ice cream, bourbon smoked apples, spiced pork rinds…”
She:  No!
Me:  Yes!  “Spiced pork rinds, and cider gastric,” whatever the fuck that is.
She: How about this…”Ice Cream Experience.”  
Me:  Goddammit.  Why does it have to be an experience?  What can’t they just serve ice cream.  Ice cream is perfect.  It doesn’t need “an experience.”  And who the hell would pay $32 for an ice cream experience?
She: You’re about to.  I’m gonna order it. 
Me:  Oh hell.  Okay.  Shit.  Is it deconstructed?  
She:  Likely.  
Me:  This place blows.  I’m going to the bathroom.  

She:  How was the bathroom?  They mess that up too?
Me:  Of course they did.  No sink.  In lieu of a sink, there was a bucket.  
She: A bucket?
Me:  A motherfucking bucket.  Look:

She:  They’re taking the whole urban organic farm aesthetic a little far.  
Me:  I hate this place so much.  
KevintheServer:  Okay, we have the Ice Cream Experience…[places bowl with two scoops of vanilla ice cream on the table, then what looks like a flight of beers, but it’s not beers.]
Me:  What the hell is all this?
KtS:  This is the Ice Cream Experience…you’re going to love it.  
Me:  I’m sure.  Why is it an experience?   Why isn’t just ice cream?  Is this a deconstructed sundae?
KtS:  No, of course not.  So this [gesturing toward the bowl of ice cream] is a bowl of ice cream.  And this [gesturing to the flight of not-beer] is the accouterments.  So we have vanilla beans, coffee beans, a fine rum….
Me: [grabbing the rum] Rum!  [shoots the rum].
She:  Baby!  I don’t think…
KtS:  Um, yeah, so you’re not supposed to just drink it.
Me: Any ‘experience’ that involves booze being brought to the table that I’m not supposed to drink is not something I’m paying…how much am I paying for this, baby?
She: Thirty two dollars.
Me: That I’m paying thirty two dollars for.  In fact, for $32, I’m expecting a couple more shots of rum.
KtS: I’ll have more rum brought over, but please don’t drink it…it’s an important part of the experience.
Me:  I appreciate that, Kevin, but fair warning…I’m gonna drink it.
She:  [to KtS] That’s true.  He absolutely will drink it.  How about it we order you a shot of rum.  
Me:  I don’t want a shot of rum.
She:  But you just said you were going to drink the shot of rum he’s bringing over.  To replace the shot of rum you already drank!
Me: That’s just what he brought over and put on the table.  If he’d brought over a finger of gin, I would have dispatched that as well.  And I fucking hate gin.  I’m just trying to be cooperative here…working with what I’m being given.  
She:  What do you want a shot of so that you don’t drink the Ice Cream Experience rum?
Me: Whiskey.  
She: Can we get a shot of Jamie’s, please, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t drink the rum.  
KtS:  That will work. 
Me:  Fine.  So now that we have that figured out, what the hell is the rest of this nonsense?
KtS: Okay, so here’s what you do.  First, you inhale from one element of the bouquet….
Me:  The bouquet?  Is that all this shit here?  
KtS:  Yes, that’s the bouquet.  So here, just try a bit of the ice cream as is.  
Me:  Okay…vanilla ice cream.  It’s lovely.  
KtS:  Now take a big whiff of these vanilla beans and then take another bite.  
She:  Oooooooo.
Me:  Son of a bitch.  
KtS:  Amazing, right?  Here, now try the coffee beans.  
Me:  Jesus.
She:  Oh wow…that’s nice. 
KtS: And here is the rum and a shot of Jameson’s.  
Me: Wonderful, Kevin, thank you.  
She: No…don’t drink the rum!  Let me sniff it first.  
Me:  Oh lord.
She:  That’s amazing…here, try it.  
Me: [shoots the rum]
She: You suck.  
Me: I know.  
She: Just the worst.  Thanks for dinner.  
Me:  Mm. 

N.P.: “Wait for You” – Bonham

So I did like I said I was gonna do, and started wandering through The Vault this morning. Worked on 2 – 3 things throughout the day. Got a lot done. Some book stuff, but mostly just individual, unattached things. I could really use more time. But I suppose everyone can say that.

N.P.: “Are Friends Electric” – Groove Armada

If coming up with ideas for things that need writing was the job, I would be the best in the business. I need to work on the follow-through…the fleshing out, completion, and editing. Think I’ll spend the next few days just going through the vault and finishing a few things. It’s a bit overwhelming at this point.

N.P.: “The Angel Wars” – Gary Numan

Even when I still believed that Santa Claus was an actual dude with an actual mailing address inside the Arctic Circle, with an actual toy shop at the same address staffed mostly by elves, blah blah blah, I felt, deep down in that dark and vacant space where my soul should have been, that Things Weren’t Right.   Even as toddlers, children understand that there are scary monsters [see The Uses of Enchantment by Bruno Bettelheim and that study where children were given rewritten versions of fairy tales with the scary monsters taken out, and the kids got all pissed off and attacked their teachers’ kneecaps].  Rugrats know that evil lurks, and they resent the hell out of patronizing adults who tell them otherwise.  I certainly did.  Which is why the unipolar morality of the Santa story never really sat well with me: goodness is ostensibly rewarded, but evil goes completely unpunished.  All year long, the promise of every materialistic dream a child may have coming true on Christmas morning is dangled in front of the child’s beady eyes on the condition of “good” behavior during the rest of the year.   I always assumed there was some kind of sliding scale of goodness vs. toys spectrum: if your behavior was superlative and Christ-like all year long, then you get absolutely everything on your list, and perhaps even a few bonus toys.  If you were a minimally decent person for, say, 8 months out of the year, but a bit of a prick the rest of the time, then you might only get a third of the things on your list.  But what of little Adolf and Osama?  What about the little kid who is an absolute bastard every goddamn day of the year?  What of him?  According to the Santa story, nothing.  Not a damn thing. Hell, Santa will even still come by your house: he’ll just leave a piece of coal.  So what?  Who cares? This means that some little fucker can run around terrorizing the neighborhood, lowering property values and ruining everybody’s lives all year long, and the only thing he has to worry about is maybe not getting as many toys as the Goody Two-Shoes next door?  All little Adolf has to do is stroll over to Goody’s on the 26th, when the little angel is playing with all of his benevolently hard-earned toys, whack him over the head with a board, take whatever toys he wants, and swagger back home.   No.  That’s just ludicrous.  It is unjust. And it is existentially unsound. There can be no light without darkness.  And there can be no goodness without evil.  That knowledge is innate in human children.  But in the Disneyfied, politically correct culture that is modern day America, apparently parents are afraid of damaging their little snowflakes’ eggshell psyches, We ask our teachers not to use red pen when grading papers, because red is the color of blood and there is an implied threat there.  We’re not going to keep score in little league games because the idea of someone winning necessitates that some lost, and the concept of losing at anything, even a baseball game, is far more than a human being should have to endure.  And oh God, the results are tragic.  Entire generations who cannot conjugate the verbs “to lose” or “to fail.”   I say Enough. Ya basta!  I say that people in general, but children especially, are far heartier and more resilient than they are ever given credit for.  And it is with that in mind that I suggest that we hit reset and start celebrating Christmas properly.  Let us look back toward Europe, to where the Santa Claus story originated, to get the full story: the story of the Santa’s dark counterpart, Krampus.   If Santa Claus is a right jolly old elf, then Krampus is a pissed off libidinous Christmas demon.  If old Saint Nick is benevolent generosity and reward, Krampus is divine retribution and vengeance.  Krampus is a very satanic-looking demon (I suppose all demons worth their horns are rather satanic-looking): a satyr (in the Roman tradition (as opposed to the Greek)), with massive horns and a bifurcated tail, who is draped in noisy chains and cow bells, and wields a collection of pointy sticks with which (get this) he beats all hell out of children who have been assholes during the previous year.  If children have committed more than the typically venial offenses associated with childhood, Krampus will not simply beat them with his sticks and chains, but will either dismember them, or simply drag them to hell, never to be seen again.  Sometimes Krampus just eats the goddamn kids right there in front of God and everybody.  And don’t think you can go running to Santa to save you from Krampus…no.  Krampus and Santa are good buddies.  Existential friends who enjoy happy hour at der biergarten together.   Krampus does not just molest and abuse vagrant children.  No.  When not dispensing yuletide justice to miscreants, Krampus enjoys goosing attractive women and licking their faces, a la Rick James on a good, crackful night.  Oh yes…Krampus is a straight up poon hound.  Unlike that grandfatherly twat Santa Claus, ever the family man, the Christmas demon crushes mad ass on the reg.  There is no Mrs. Krampus.  No need.  Krampus has game and he wants to fist your mother.  After he eats your soul.   Speaking of eating, don’t bother trying to placate Krampus with cookies and milk.  He cannot be plied with baked goods, and Krampus is notoriously lactose-intolerant.  You would be better off leaving whiskey and steak, but those will not likely work either.  To avoid the wrath of Krampus this night, there is only one path: The path of righteousness, and the avoidance of jackassery throughout the rest of the year.
Glücklicher Krampusnact, lieber Leser. Krampus über alles.

N.P.: “Lecher Bitch” – Genitorturers

Did a little writing today, but not enough. Never enough.

N.P.: “Carnivorous” – Band of Skulls