It’s a blustery motherfucker in The Creek today.   I can’t hear the movie over the wind chimes.

Had to listen to another idiot tell me that “knowledge is power.”  This trite and patronizing statement has always pissed me off.  Knowledge in a vacuum, unapplied, is useless.  Knowledge strategically applied…that is power.  Or at least it can be.  And knowledge about someone is power over them…if strategically applied.  I was raised by someone who believed in that fervently, and practiced it with brutality.  Hence the Masonic-like secrecy and constant disinformation.  The more you know….

N.P.: “Rollin ‘N Tumblin” – North Mississippi Allstars

My mood is quite unpleasant.  Rather than cause cathartic chaos, it’s likely best for everyone if I just go the fuck to bed.  So I shall.

N.P.: “Going Back Home” – Wilko Johnson, Roger Daltrey

Goddamn, dear reader.  If I must be reincarnated back to this absurd existence, I hope I come back as a Hindu deity, just so I can have at least six middle fingers.  I figure I could use two hands normally, to make sandwiches, bowl, hold a cocktail, et cetera, but also have four other hands constantly giving The Finger, one hand for each of the four directions.   To ask me to artfully cope with this life with two measly middle fingers is ridiculous.

“Slippery People – Live” – Mavis Staples, Win Butler, Regine Chassagne

Another day spent trying to stay calm in a world populated by dim-witted idiots who seem intent on pissing me off.  And I heard spring starts tomorrow.  I’m going to watch Se7en and maybe The Wall…those should improve the mood.

N.P.: “Highway 61 Revisited” – Dave Alvin

Kind of a lot going on at The Haunt these days.  It’s exhausting.

N.P.: “Depression” – The Hillbilly Moon Explosion

A pleasantly rainy day…so rare we get one…this winter has been another dry one for The Creek.
Moving a bit slowly today.  Yesterday was, after all, St. Patrick’s Day.  I managed to raise a bit of hell, but I seemed to be alone in my efforts.  I bought a bottle of Proper No. Twelve, a made a wicked corned beef.  I even rented “In The Name of the Father” to celebrate the brethren and get thoroughly disgusted with the British government.  The corned beef was well received (it was pretty goddamn good, if I may say so), but I drank the whiskey alone, and ended up having to turn the movie off because it was too upsetting.  Which was kind of the point, but alas.  I tried.
The rain’s really coming down now…big gelatinous drops splatting on the roof of the shed.  I like it.  It’s drowning out the music.  That is acceptable.

N.P.: “I’m Gonna Make Her Love Me” – Jim Ford

Happy Hump Day.  Happy St. Paddy’s Day.  Happy Hump a Paddy Day.  Et cetera.

N.P.: “Middle Finger” – Dropkick Murphys

Foul fucking mood today.  And I’m afraid this mood is irreparable (for today, at least).  I’m just pissed off at everything today.
Nope…just tried to rally…not happening.  I’m just an irritable bastard today.

N.P.: “Even Trolls Love Rock and Roll” – Tony Joe White

“Don’t loaf and invite inspiration.  Light out after it with a club.” ~ Jack London

I’m coming to you today, dear reader, from, if I may be so bold, the coolest writer’s shed, certainly in California, but perhaps anywhere.  Better than Roald Dahl’s or Dylan Thomas’.  Certainly better than Thoreau’s or Kaczynski’s.  Allowing for time and adjusting for technological advancement, I’d say it could give both Shaw’s and Twain’s sheds a run for their money.  I have a shed.  It is badass.  Within this shed, I shall build my church.

I ran out of whiskey shortly after noon today, which was not an auspicious start.  But then I realized I was out of whiskey in the coolest writer’s shed in the world and I felt mildly better.  But then I thought, “Well, now, wait a minute.  If there is no whiskey, then this can’t be the coolest writer’s shed in the world.  It’s not even as cool as the next nearest one if that one has whiskey in it.

N.P.: “Low Fuel Drug Run” – 7Horse

I’m trying not to be miserable today despite all the temporal and chronometric fuckery of the last 24 hours.  I’m trying, but I can’t say it’s working out that way.

At least half of all the Japanese poems I’ve read have been either directly about or at least tangentially related to the beauty and perfection of cherry blossoms.  I can’t stand the fucking things.  Maybe in Japan, with all that sea air constantly blowing the pollen away, it’s different, but here in Allergy Valley, cherry blossoms are shit.  And they all showed up yesterday.  Ka-bloom.  This may call for NyQuil™.

N.P.: “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction – Alternate Version” – Jerry Lee Lewis, Rory Gallagher