Interactions with people are becoming increasingly unrewarding. And I’m pretty sure they need these interactions more than I do.
What this night needs is a nice medically induced coma.

N.P.: “Bed of Thorns” – Gary Numan

Hats off to Mr. David Ostrum of Paola, Kansas, who, after being dragged through the corrupt family court system, petitioned the judge to grant him a trial by combat. Fuckin’ right. He wants to figure out custody and visitation, as well as who the hell is going to pay the property tax by swordfighting his ex-wife and her attorney. He requested the court grant 12 weeks for him to procure katana and wakizashi swords, and let his wife and her attorney do whatever it was they’re gonna do between now and the day Mr. Ostrum runs them both through. This fucking warms my heart.
“To this day, trial by combat has never been explicitly banned or restricted as a right in these United States,” said Mr. Ostrum, going on to say that trial by combat had been used “as recently as 1818 in British Court.”
It’s not going to happen, but holy shit I wish it would. Can you imagine?
“Baby, you know I love you, but I want a divorce, half your shit, and I’m taking the kids.”
“Pistols at dawn, bitch.”
What a wonderful world it would be.

N.P.: “No One Ever Walked On Water” – Gone is Gone

There is no way I’m going to let myself get old. Not like what I had to deal with today. Jesus. Can’t do it. If I make it to 65 (which is relatively unlikely), I’ll probably point the Panty Dropper south and head to the border where I’ll get in some ridiculous gun battle with los federales, and go out in a pointless and clearly avoidable blaze of glory.
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There is one aspect of research I’ve been doing for the slasher novel that I rather enjoy more than some of the others. At this point, my thinking is, “Well, okay, I probably have this down but…can I really be sure? I should probably do this at least a few more times, just so I can be absolutely certain that I’m getting it right.” Heh. There are times when one must suffer for one’s art, dearest reader, and this is just such a time.

N.P.: “Slice of Life” – Bauhaus

On a bit of a roll, dear reader…tonight may be a late one. Yeah, why not. Pass the desk whiskey. Turn the music up. Way up. Let us drain our pens of bitter ink, dear reader.

N.P.: “No Good” – KALEO

On the verge of something big, dear reader. But no writing got done today. No. Today was spent celebrating the birthday of the Mother of Chaos, my mom. Happy birthday, Mom!

N.P.: “Hyperdrive!” – Reed Reimer, Emory Larson, Devin Townsend

Had a lot of time set aside for writing today, but I ended up resting more than anything. Which is disappointing. Mortality is such a pain in the ass. I did manage to do a bit of work on the book and a couple of other things.

N.P.: “Lay Your Hands On Me” – Peter Gabriel

Got a ludicrous amount done today. Regrettably, none of it was writing. But it all had to be done. So that’s fine. Tomorrow, dear reader…tomorrow is reserved for whiskey, wings, and writing (there may be some of those goings-on tonight (except for the wings)).

N.P.: Hurdy Gurdy Man – Donovan

I’m told and reassured that the present issue with time (or lack thereof) will “get better.” I don’t believe that, and I see no evidence to support it, but that’s what I’m told. I hope it’s true. Because this is getting ridiculous, dear reader. Nothing left to do but sleep.

N.P.: “Baba O’Riley – Remix” – The Who, Andy MacPherson, Jon Astley

Happy Birthday, Axl.
A lot has changed since last we saw each other. I live in exile now, much like the Dalai Lama except when the shit hit the fan, he went south to India and I went north to Seattle. Seattle’s a weird place. Maybe not India weird, but, well, you know…you were here not long ago.
It was recently the 25th anniversary of the release of Nirvana’s album Nevermind, and people around here were simply shitting themselves with a sort of weird collective, somehow connected congratulatory attitude, all searching for new superlatives to describe Kurt Cobain and his music. As has become quite typical, when everybody around me is saying or thinking one thing, I’m likely thinking quite another. I got in a number of boisterous arguments with groups of people who disagreed when I listed the order of the Holy Trinity of Seattle Music as Jimi Hendrix, then Sir Mix-A-Lot, and then Nirvana. Truth be told, I didn’t even want to place Nirvana in the top three, but I also wanted very much to not start a bar fight, so I threw ‘em in there. Sometimes I just do things because I’m so nice.
Anyway, I was reminded of some liner notes I wrote for my friend’s metal band’s first release a few years back. I thought you might dig the opening. Check it:
Kurt Cobain was like that shithead kid who came in at the beginning of first grade and sanctimoniously, precociously, and arrogantly announced that there was no such thing as Santa Claus, and did it with this super-sneery attitude, as if to say, “I can’t believe you cretins haven’t figured it out yet…you were fools for believing it at all.” But then, rather than telling that kid to fuck off, everybody just said, “Oh,” and quit enjoying Christmas for the rest of forever.
I bet Kurt Cobain was the kid in first grade that ruined Christmas for the rest of us. Probably fucked up the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy too. That’s sure as hell what he did to rock music. Just when the rest of us were having a hell of a time wearing all black and having complicated, asymmetrical hair and snorting cocaine and standing around clubs looking cool and at each other, in mopes Kurt, bedecked in flannel and denim, trudging up to the mic.
“Uh…rock is not supposed to be fun. Assholes.”
The members of the audience looked at each other, then back at Kurt, then back at each other. And there we stood in our spandex, hosed down to the point of flammability in Aquanet. We put our beers down and shook our heads: Wow. Shit. Kurt’s right. Rock is not supposed to be fun. We’ve been doing it all wrong. Wipe that smile off your face. Let’s go to the mall and buy a bunch of flannel.
And that was that…for many of us. But in some parts of the world, some bold souls stood their ground. They got the memo…they just didn’t give a fuck. Never mind what some malcontent junkie in the Pacific Northwest says. Who cares? He’ll be dead in a couple years anyway.

Which he was. Deader than shit. A damn shame, but I didn’t kill him, and neither did you, Axl. It’s Not Our Problem. I’m not even sure why I brought it up. I guess the moral of all this is don’t fuck with Santa Claus. And don’t give depressed people shotguns. You and I know these things, but I don’t know about the rest of these people. But they’re not our problem either.
Anyway, happy birthday.

N.P.: “Double Talkin’ Jive” – Guns N’ Roses