The Angst is upon me once again, dear reader.  Of course, when is it not?  I’ve had a pernicious and acute case of the The Angst since about 1993.  Much like rust, it never sleeps.
I remain irreparably disappointed in Americans.  They collectively lost their critical thinking skills, seemingly intentionally,  which has left them pathetically gullible and easily bullied.  They deny they’re being bullied because they figured out that if they just side with the bullies, the bullies will leave them alone.  They don’t need to be beaten into submission: they’ve already submitted.  They were not given toy guns as children.  As adolescents they engaged in sport without scores being kept, with the very concept of competition being deemed dangerous because with competition come the concepts of defeat, failure and loss, and you are far too special and delicate to feel any of those things.  They reach adulthood without being able to conjugate the verb “to fight.”  They have received participation awards and taken them seriously, even though everyone else got one too.  With no coping mechanisms to deal with the idea of experiencing a negative emotion ever, it was inevitable that they could only expect the world to change to suit the sensitive needs of their fragile little psyches.  They were taught that there is nothing worse than being offended and thus they were totally justified in absolutely destroying anyone who offended them.  Naturally, any behavior or idea, person or group they didn’t agree with became “offensive.”  And the cowardly Americans went along with it!  They’re watching as businesses they love and people they’re friends with are getting “cancelled,” and their dominant thought seems to be, “Well, better them than me.”  Should I be surprised that most Americans’ first instinct when seeing a crime in progress or a person in distress in need of assistance is to pull out their phone and start recording?
Americans would do well to rememeber that they have the ability to say “no.”  They need to get far more comfortable telling mobs to go fuck themselves.  And also, never underestimate the persuasive power of a broken jaw.

N.P.: “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road” – Lowell Fulson

People continue to disappoint.  Of course my Buddhist friends will chime in, as they always do: “Disappointment is the unavoidable punishment for those foolish enough to have expectations.”  And they are correct.  However.  I spent a lot of years exploring the tenets and attempting to incorporate Yoda-like slogans such as the one supra and was only able to finally figure out that while the Buddhists are absolutely right about achieving true happiness, I am not a Buddhist.  That is no way a rejection of their teachings, it’s an admission of failure: I don’t have what it takes to live that kind of life.  Yes, being attached to anything is really quite dangerous, and if one truly wants to be happy, one should strive to be passionless, but I’ve found it impossible to live that way and make those choices and still be any kind of artist.  And it’s an unacceptably boring way to live.  Some of the best parts of life are the mistakes…the egregious, passionate fuck ups.  Maybe not in the moment, and maybe not even in the aftermath.  But when you’re looking over the entirety of it, when you’re horizontal with a tube in your nose figuring out that no matter how many people are in the room, we are all completely alone when we die, and you look back at your entire furlough on this absurd planet, the parts that will make you snicker out loud and smile are going to be the “mistakes.”
So yes, people continue to disappoint.
Besides, I like liquor and meat far too much to ever hack it as any kind of real Buddhist.

N.P.: “Boxcar Blues” – Gary Hoey

Is it really Monday?  How the hell did that happen?  Whatever.  The point is I need a Vacation.  With a capital V.  Of course, there are exactly no vacations on my calendar.  No breaks ’til death.
Is it really March too?  Shit.  I generally dislike March.  There’s really nothing to like: the temperatures go up, the days get longer, and stupid-ass Daylight Saving Time starts again.  Disgusting.  Goddammit, now I’m in a bad mood.

N.P.: “Goin’ Out West” – Tom Waits

Worked on cataloging some older stuff today.  I really need to work on cleaning up this digital clutter.  It’s gotten out-of-control enough to start causing me stress, which makes it a problem.
Being one’s own archivist is a pain in the hole.

N.P.: “Down With The Ship” – Todd Rundgren, Rivers Cuomo

Gee-zuss, attractive reader…today started and never stopped.  Ludicrously productive, though.  Even managed to have an adventure.  And even that managed to knock something off this wretched goddamn To-Do List.  It’s like a hydra: you get one thing done, and seven more things sprout up in its place.  My To-Do List is an embarrassment.  And it knows this.  And it hates me.

N.P.: “The Parliament of Fools” – Skyclad

Timɘ iƨ pɒƨƨinϱ ʇɒɿ too qυiɔʞlγ tʜɘƨɘ dɒγƨ, dɘɒɿ ɿɘɒdɘɿ. Iʇ onlγ tʜɘɿɘ wɒƨ ƨomɘ wɒγ to ɿɘvɘɿƨɘ it, mɒʞɘ it ϱo bɒɔʞwɒɿdƨ.

N.P.: “Free From Gravity – Busy P Remix” –

Gutted to learn that the Anton LaVey Fun Run™ has been cancelled for a second year due to plague.  Which is just ironic as hell, pun very much intended, yet probably not achieved.  Alas.  Forsooth.  Et cetera.

N.P.: “Social Debris” – Alice Cooper

There comes a time in every man’s life when he finds himself answering three ringing phones while typing on two separate keyboards trying to meet the passed deadlines that the phone calls are about and he just stops and says, “Fuck it,” and cracks a bottle and spends the rest of the afternoon rethinking his entire life.  And today was that day for someone, somewhere, no doubt, but not for me, dear reader.  Woke up early, wrote a bunch, went out and did some superhero shit, then wrote some more.  I also attempted some accounting, which really broke up the rhythm of things.  But it had to be done.

N.P.: “Eyes Without A Face – Poolside Remix” – Billy Idol