Halloween sucks.
Stupid costumes. Stupid shitty candy.
At least there's no mention of Jesus.
Bless you all.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
BOO!
I'm just not feeling it these days. Several months ago, my muse went out for beer and cigarettes and just never came back. Can't say I blame her. I've always lacked discipline, but now I've got the attention span of a kid whose Ritalin was replaced with candy corn.
On that subject, before I forget, trick or treats is nigh approaching and I just could not care any less. Halloween used to be fun. As a kid eating candy, a teenager drinking beer, or a college student dropping acid, Halloween was a good time. Now my own kids get excited at the thought of the coming candy orgy, but it's just a pain in the ass for me. I've got to watch out for predators and poison and drunk drivers. And we can't even make it scary anymore. All it takes is one good old-fashioned, bowel-eliminating scare and I'm up every night for weeks with nightmare traumatized kids. But the real icing on the cupcake is this year's costumes. I will accompany a five-year-old Hannah Montana and a three-year-old Michael Jackson along the parade route. I'll be the embarrassed father with the flashlight/billy club acting as bodyguard to the stars. Sigh.
On that subject, before I forget, trick or treats is nigh approaching and I just could not care any less. Halloween used to be fun. As a kid eating candy, a teenager drinking beer, or a college student dropping acid, Halloween was a good time. Now my own kids get excited at the thought of the coming candy orgy, but it's just a pain in the ass for me. I've got to watch out for predators and poison and drunk drivers. And we can't even make it scary anymore. All it takes is one good old-fashioned, bowel-eliminating scare and I'm up every night for weeks with nightmare traumatized kids. But the real icing on the cupcake is this year's costumes. I will accompany a five-year-old Hannah Montana and a three-year-old Michael Jackson along the parade route. I'll be the embarrassed father with the flashlight/billy club acting as bodyguard to the stars. Sigh.
Thursday, 24 September 2009
Cooler than you
I read Kerouac and Ginsberg.
I dream of being a beat poet.
I live in a newly renovated loft apartment.
All my clothes are pre-owned.
My record collection is nothing but original one-off pressings of bands you've never heard of.
My sandals are made from hemp.
My favourite book is Che Guevara's biography.
I only smoke European cigarettes.
The best movies ever made are Soviet underground animation full length features.
I'm a vegan.
I brew my own beer.
I ride a bicycle.
Nothing is cool unless I say it is.
The things you like don't count for shit unless I deem them worthy to be called 'cool'.
I have no label.
I am unique.
I dream of being a beat poet.
I live in a newly renovated loft apartment.
All my clothes are pre-owned.
My record collection is nothing but original one-off pressings of bands you've never heard of.
My sandals are made from hemp.
My favourite book is Che Guevara's biography.
I only smoke European cigarettes.
The best movies ever made are Soviet underground animation full length features.
I'm a vegan.
I brew my own beer.
I ride a bicycle.
Nothing is cool unless I say it is.
The things you like don't count for shit unless I deem them worthy to be called 'cool'.
I have no label.
I am unique.
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
the music shop douche
there is no one who irritates me more is the "hipper than thou" music shop douche. a few years ago some one lived in my town who i will refer to as aaron bono (his last name starts with those letters which just begins to show his douchiness). aaron worked in a music store and of course heard of all these bands before they were famous and whenever you went to buy a cd who would go on a rant about it to you.
aaron also had the amazing personal characteristic of being a chronic liar. sometimes people are able to keep up or have some rational behind their lies to make them somewhat plausible and believable. not aaron.
the music store was in the mall but it was the closest thing to an independent music store we have in this town. even though i despised aaron i will admit he kept the store filled with some decent metal albums. the con to this was hoping he wasn't working when you went to buy one of these albums. i admit to waiting sometimes until he went on his lunch break or to the back of the shop so i didn't have to deal with his chronic lying.
i bought a soulfly album from there and he was working. he went on about how max cavalera fired his band mates for showing up fifteen minutes late and how he was a piece of shit. all i wanted to do was listen to the album and not hear a personal critique of what makes a good band leader. this was minor for an aaron bono moment though.
a few weeks later i was in the store wearing a korn shirt and he told me how he jammed with korn when he ran into them before a concert. i asked what instrument he played and he said guitar. aaron did not play the guitar though. a few months earlier i ran into at a house party and he picked up a guitar and said how he wish he knew how to play.
aaron also talked about how he went to ozzfest one time and drank with rob zombie and partied with pantera. this might have happened but knowing aaron, it did not.
the ultimate aaron moment was when i bought a bill hicks cd. he told me that he saw bill hicks perform right before he died in seattle when he did a small tour. time for a little math.
this incident occurred in 2001. bill hicks died in 1994. aaron was a year ahead of me in school and i was 18 when he told me this story so that would make aaron 19 and born in 1982. aaron was such a hipster at the time that he went to the united states and witnessed this comedic legend at a bar when he was maybe 12 years of age. i finally had enough and called him on his bullshit and asked how he saw hicks when he was 12. he paused, started to speak but stuttered and then answered:
"i'm thirty years old".
i asked him how he could be that old when he was only year ahead of me in school and he paused again.
"that's some guy who looks like me".
finally for the grand finale i asked him if he thought it was a coincidence that this guy was named aaron as well.
"i'm not named aaron".
i pointed to his name tag which said aaron and he commented that it was another worker's name tag. he quickly said he had work to do and went to the back of the shop. his co-worker looked at me after he left and was laughing her ass off. apparently she had heard similiar stories from him and was glad that someone finally shut him up.
a few years later i was in a different city for a concert. beforehand my buddy and i were wandering the mall and went into a music store. guess who was working? i said "hello aaron" and he replied "hello" back to me.
"i thought your name wasn't aaron?" i mentioned.
he looked at me with a weird look and went back to work. i guess it's hard keeping your lies straight.
aaron also had the amazing personal characteristic of being a chronic liar. sometimes people are able to keep up or have some rational behind their lies to make them somewhat plausible and believable. not aaron.
the music store was in the mall but it was the closest thing to an independent music store we have in this town. even though i despised aaron i will admit he kept the store filled with some decent metal albums. the con to this was hoping he wasn't working when you went to buy one of these albums. i admit to waiting sometimes until he went on his lunch break or to the back of the shop so i didn't have to deal with his chronic lying.
i bought a soulfly album from there and he was working. he went on about how max cavalera fired his band mates for showing up fifteen minutes late and how he was a piece of shit. all i wanted to do was listen to the album and not hear a personal critique of what makes a good band leader. this was minor for an aaron bono moment though.
a few weeks later i was in the store wearing a korn shirt and he told me how he jammed with korn when he ran into them before a concert. i asked what instrument he played and he said guitar. aaron did not play the guitar though. a few months earlier i ran into at a house party and he picked up a guitar and said how he wish he knew how to play.
aaron also talked about how he went to ozzfest one time and drank with rob zombie and partied with pantera. this might have happened but knowing aaron, it did not.
the ultimate aaron moment was when i bought a bill hicks cd. he told me that he saw bill hicks perform right before he died in seattle when he did a small tour. time for a little math.
this incident occurred in 2001. bill hicks died in 1994. aaron was a year ahead of me in school and i was 18 when he told me this story so that would make aaron 19 and born in 1982. aaron was such a hipster at the time that he went to the united states and witnessed this comedic legend at a bar when he was maybe 12 years of age. i finally had enough and called him on his bullshit and asked how he saw hicks when he was 12. he paused, started to speak but stuttered and then answered:
"i'm thirty years old".
i asked him how he could be that old when he was only year ahead of me in school and he paused again.
"that's some guy who looks like me".
finally for the grand finale i asked him if he thought it was a coincidence that this guy was named aaron as well.
"i'm not named aaron".
i pointed to his name tag which said aaron and he commented that it was another worker's name tag. he quickly said he had work to do and went to the back of the shop. his co-worker looked at me after he left and was laughing her ass off. apparently she had heard similiar stories from him and was glad that someone finally shut him up.
a few years later i was in a different city for a concert. beforehand my buddy and i were wandering the mall and went into a music store. guess who was working? i said "hello aaron" and he replied "hello" back to me.
"i thought your name wasn't aaron?" i mentioned.
he looked at me with a weird look and went back to work. i guess it's hard keeping your lies straight.
Sunday, 6 September 2009
Saturday, 29 August 2009
Get out of my head
It's easy enough isn't it?
Just block them out.
Pretend they're not real. They don't exist.
Don't think twice.
They are the other. The outsiders. The unfamiliar.
It's easy to block them out and imagine they are somewhat less than you are.
Faceless. Heartless. Immoral.
Evil and unclean.
Their destruction would be a justified and holy act.
Their continued existence would be an anathema.
Or worst still. They don't even register.
Your radar remains mute.
There is nothing to notice. Nothing more important than yourself.
Other people don't count.
Even those closest to you barely register a blip on your screen.
Other people are outside. They are the other.
No matter how hard you try. You cannot know who they are.
No matter how much they reveal, they will always remain hidden.
Basically. Essentially. When you get down to it.
What I'm trying to say is. In the gayest, most poetic way possible.
No matter how hard you try.
And no matter how much you think you know.
You will never, ever truly know someone.
And they will never, ever truly know you.
Other people will always be removed and apart from what you are.
And that's a large part of what makes life interesting.
Just block them out.
Pretend they're not real. They don't exist.
Don't think twice.
They are the other. The outsiders. The unfamiliar.
It's easy to block them out and imagine they are somewhat less than you are.
Faceless. Heartless. Immoral.
Evil and unclean.
Their destruction would be a justified and holy act.
Their continued existence would be an anathema.
Or worst still. They don't even register.
Your radar remains mute.
There is nothing to notice. Nothing more important than yourself.
Other people don't count.
Even those closest to you barely register a blip on your screen.
Other people are outside. They are the other.
No matter how hard you try. You cannot know who they are.
No matter how much they reveal, they will always remain hidden.
Basically. Essentially. When you get down to it.
What I'm trying to say is. In the gayest, most poetic way possible.
No matter how hard you try.
And no matter how much you think you know.
You will never, ever truly know someone.
And they will never, ever truly know you.
Other people will always be removed and apart from what you are.
And that's a large part of what makes life interesting.
Saturday, 22 August 2009
them
as i walk down the street i can hear their stares.
what are they staring at me?
why do they keep looking at me?
is it something i am wearing, do i have something on my clothes?
can they see my erection?
anxiety soon takes over and i notice my breathing is irregular. trying to get your breathing back to normal when you consciously recognize it is like trying not to cum when you are about to orgasm. it is possible but us average folk can not control it.
i am able to breathe slowly. for every one breath that makes it through, i choke on three. the lump in my throat gradually shrinks until my breathing is back to normal. my attention now switches to the paranoia of the people passing me by.
i continue to walk and avoid eye contact. if, for a split second my eyes lock with a stranger's eyes, my gaze goes directly to my shoes and i continue to walk.
this continues until i see a gorgeous girl walking towards me. gorgeous meaning that she is a girl i would have the courage to talk to. a smirk forms in the corner of her mouth and my eyes meet hers. being shy i quickly look down to my feet but muster up the courage to look back at her and return the smile. we walk by each other, both smiling but nothing else is said.
i continue to think about her smile while i walk.
after passing me she thinks to herself, "i wonder if he knows i am a lesbian?"
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
More People
The Proud Addict
A caricature.
Compensating for a lack of substance
with substances.
Denying reality by substituting another.
Cannot make sense
so become senseless.
Celebrate self-inflicted demise
and call it a party.
Drinking from the punchbowl of death
in a slow, cultish, mass-suicide.
Solace in knowing the outcome:
death by own hands.
The Temptress
Muse, muse, muse again and confuse.
Flames of desire tower high and only a mist to quench.
Is the occasional whetting of the tongue worth
the burn ever-present?
It’s about control.
Only a moment here and there for her;
A brain –racing, -folding, -twisting, -turning, mind-fuck
that defines and stops time
for him.
Oh damn you, goddamn you…
What can I do for you next?
Please leave me alone
so the dejection can take hold
to restore the blandness of normalcy.Monday, 10 August 2009
Random Poem
The Skank
Asking nothing of your soul or emotions
the skank is there for you to fuck.
What isn’t at risk cannot be lost.
She has lost too many times before.
Her trying heart took a pounding
harder than her dignity and snatch.
She fills her void of love with cock
and the seed of possibility.
Like the potential of life shot on her face,
hers is also wasted.
Slowly dripping away,
turning cold and hard;
the threat of life is avoided.Friday, 24 July 2009
IT'S A TRAP!!!
No, not really. I'm going to just re-use one of my first bits on the subject as best as I can remember it.
"So, I don't know if I'm queer or not... It's worrying because, I'm terrified of dicks. Not this one(points at Sgt. Terror) we got a good thing going. But I had a moment recently watching the movie Smokin' Aces. HEY, any man who can't admit Ryan Reynolds is a pretty man is gay by default!! Anyway, there's this big ending where my little Ry-Ry has this hero moment... Quoth George Kostanza, 'It moved'. Not that I sprung a bedpost sized erection, it was more like when you're in a department store and see a cute saleswoman undressing a mannequin and you just get that little... twinge. Eh whatever."
"So, I don't know if I'm queer or not... It's worrying because, I'm terrified of dicks. Not this one(points at Sgt. Terror) we got a good thing going. But I had a moment recently watching the movie Smokin' Aces. HEY, any man who can't admit Ryan Reynolds is a pretty man is gay by default!! Anyway, there's this big ending where my little Ry-Ry has this hero moment... Quoth George Kostanza, 'It moved'. Not that I sprung a bedpost sized erection, it was more like when you're in a department store and see a cute saleswoman undressing a mannequin and you just get that little... twinge. Eh whatever."
Thursday, 23 July 2009
i'm not gay but...
first off, i'm a hetero guy and lesbian porn doesn't do much for me. yet if it's a girl going down on another girl while a guy is railing her (also known as a 3-way) i like it. maybe it's because i know how shitty my oral technique is and i am sexist towards lesbians are way better at it than me? or maybe it's because it is more likely for me to have sex with a girl than to be a first hand witness to some hot lesbo action.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Firm Footing
I'm not gay but...
I'm knot gay but...
I'm not gay butt...
I'm not ghey but...
Eye'm knot ghey butte.
I'm not gay but I know how it feels to love and lust and want.
I'm not gay but I understand wanting to spend your life with someone.
I'm not gay but I want to be happy.
I am not a homosexual, however...
... I am a human being.
Which gives me something in common with all of you.
Gay included.
I'm knot gay but...
I'm not gay butt...
I'm not ghey but...
Eye'm knot ghey butte.
I'm not gay but I know how it feels to love and lust and want.
I'm not gay but I understand wanting to spend your life with someone.
I'm not gay but I want to be happy.
I am not a homosexual, however...
... I am a human being.
Which gives me something in common with all of you.
Gay included.
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Mr Smith and Miss Veronica discuss Money
"I have a tree which grows great abundances of cash, all in different currencies of course" Miss Veronica said to Mr Smith. It should be known that being a Miss Veronica she was obviously a scarlet woman in fishnets and red lipstick.
"Why should I believe you Miss Veronica? you are after all a scarlet woman in fishnets and red lipstick" said Mr Smith, who being a Mr Smith tended towards tweed suites and thick glasses.
"You know Mr Smith I know you're only insulting me to belittle my confidence so I'll sleep with you but you really need to take me more seriously" Miss Veronica replied placing her sassy hands on her sassy hips.
"How could I possibly take you seriously? you are a woman, even in the most outrageous narratives the male protagonist would find the money tree NOT the woman" he snarled back with a triumphant flick of his sandy brown hair.
Miss Veronica, if this had been a full fledged romantic chicklit novel would have through trial and error eventually won over Mr Smith.
He would see the money tree and begin to take her seriously.
But this wasn't a full fledged novel so instead she walked away.
And spent her money tree earnings on a pair of baby pink heels that cost at least three grand.
"Why should I believe you Miss Veronica? you are after all a scarlet woman in fishnets and red lipstick" said Mr Smith, who being a Mr Smith tended towards tweed suites and thick glasses.
"You know Mr Smith I know you're only insulting me to belittle my confidence so I'll sleep with you but you really need to take me more seriously" Miss Veronica replied placing her sassy hands on her sassy hips.
"How could I possibly take you seriously? you are a woman, even in the most outrageous narratives the male protagonist would find the money tree NOT the woman" he snarled back with a triumphant flick of his sandy brown hair.
Miss Veronica, if this had been a full fledged romantic chicklit novel would have through trial and error eventually won over Mr Smith.
He would see the money tree and begin to take her seriously.
But this wasn't a full fledged novel so instead she walked away.
And spent her money tree earnings on a pair of baby pink heels that cost at least three grand.
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
another self important post.
as the great philosopher ma$e said, "mo money, mo problems". now i don't know about you but i find it hard to feel sorry for a celebrity when they say these things yet the cost of the music video for the song is more than some third world countries GDPs.
jonathan davis was a whiny cunt for "got the life" when he's complaining about fame. boo fucking hoo, go find jesus like your former guitarist and write a crappy book about it. and while your at it, quit fucking a porn star and go back to the regular bar whores.
that's not to say money solves all problems. i am making more money now than i ever had and it's not like i'm getting laid left, right and center. then again i am not making hollywood money.
money is just paper. it's paper that we attach a meaning too. if our economy turned to shit and the dollar was worth as much as the zimbabwe currency (sorry i am too lazy to research what the fuck it's called), would we value toilet paper more than money? and if so, would we wipe our asses on dead presidents (or prime ministers for us commonwealth folk).
to bring this rant to a end i think i should state the obvious. you should fuck me even when i'm poor.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Good for something
Hey there brother, can you spare a dime? Or a penny? Or a cent? Or a Euro? Or some yen? Maybe some shellfish and shiny rocks?
No?
Oh well, thanks for your time.
Any medium of exchange will do.
Something that will allow me to obtain goods and services.
Something that will make me feel safer.
Something that I'll obsess about.
And think about constantly.
Plan, scheme, connive.
It's about comfort. It's about power. It's about sex.
Once again, your desperate need to procreate has made you a slave. Kneeling before Mammon.
But this no false god of mythology. This shit is real.
When you have it, it's your best friend. When you don't, you say you're better off without it.
But all it is, is a medium of exchange.
You exchange your labour for it. As does your neighbour there. As does farmer Jim.
How else do you propose we make this shit work?
This isn't Star Trek motherfucker.
There are no golden ages. From now on all our ages will be green.
Opening my wallet, I pull out a brand new bank note. Fifty dollars.
I feel it between my fingers. Smooth. Plastic.
I roll it slowly in my fingers, making a tube.
I put one end in my nose and leave the other end hovering above the plate.
Inhale.
Ahh... that's better.
Money. Not totally useless.
No?
Oh well, thanks for your time.
Any medium of exchange will do.
Something that will allow me to obtain goods and services.
Something that will make me feel safer.
Something that I'll obsess about.
And think about constantly.
Plan, scheme, connive.
It's about comfort. It's about power. It's about sex.
Once again, your desperate need to procreate has made you a slave. Kneeling before Mammon.
But this no false god of mythology. This shit is real.
When you have it, it's your best friend. When you don't, you say you're better off without it.
But all it is, is a medium of exchange.
You exchange your labour for it. As does your neighbour there. As does farmer Jim.
How else do you propose we make this shit work?
This isn't Star Trek motherfucker.
There are no golden ages. From now on all our ages will be green.
Opening my wallet, I pull out a brand new bank note. Fifty dollars.
I feel it between my fingers. Smooth. Plastic.
I roll it slowly in my fingers, making a tube.
I put one end in my nose and leave the other end hovering above the plate.
Inhale.
Ahh... that's better.
Money. Not totally useless.
Friday, 5 June 2009
7/8
"Even if you're clever enough to write a pop song in 7/8, you're almost definitely going to go to 4/4 for the chorus." - probably said by someone in Pink Floyd
As I've mentioned on this blog before, I've been unemployed for seven months now. Drawing a check. Living on the teat. But these days I do make it to work- if you want to call it that.
And because of my fondness for tardiness, for early-outs and absences, back when I was employed, my unemployment checks still end up being up about seven eighths of what I was making at Apple.
So this one goes in the 'win' column.
Friday, 22 May 2009
DAY 611
The door is there, I can see it. It has a knob that I can just pull or push, I forget now. It is a golden thing and I see it everyday. The woman with the urgency comes in almost everyday through it and does her thing. I like it when she cleans beneath the carriage clock on the side table yet I hate the ticking of the thing. There is a television on the other table over by the small cubic area that pushes open the rectangle of the room. I saw myself on it and I saw my Mum and Dad.
I cry for them.
The window above my bed blows a wind through, though it is not open.
I'm given a list of food to eat, drinks to drink and games to play.
Every few days men come to visit me and are really nice.
A black man with greying tufts of hair comes a lot with toys in a bag and paints my nails.
Another man who makes me laugh a lot brings cheese. I really like him. We have fun and he combs my hair for what seems like ages.
Another man who tells me about a glam rock group he was in makes me wear big boots and I saw him on the television.
Madeline.
I cry for them.
The window above my bed blows a wind through, though it is not open.
I'm given a list of food to eat, drinks to drink and games to play.
Every few days men come to visit me and are really nice.
A black man with greying tufts of hair comes a lot with toys in a bag and paints my nails.
Another man who makes me laugh a lot brings cheese. I really like him. We have fun and he combs my hair for what seems like ages.
Another man who tells me about a glam rock group he was in makes me wear big boots and I saw him on the television.
Madeline.
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
the bad times
"I'm worst at what i do best" is how his suicide note began. He further imitated Kurt Cobain's teenage angst with similar clichéd and self-deprecating comments about how useless he was in the letter. The usual "nobody will miss me", "no one loves me" and "i am stupid" lines were present every other line. Even though he felt he was stupid and that no one would miss him, he still made sure to check the spelling of certain words and used a thesaurus to make sure certain words were not overused. He wanted his last writing to be remembered for its content, not its sloppiness.
His note concluded with probably the most common quote in suicide notes since the mid
1990s. "It's better to burn out than to fade away" which he mistakenly attributed to
Kurt Cobain. Even though he was meticulous in making sure there were no spelling or
grammar errors in the letter, his research skills were obviously lacking. He left his
laptop open with the suicide note on the screen.
He stripped naked. "I am going to end my life the way I entered it" he though to
himself. This was most likely not his idea but one from a shitty indie flick that
some film student made.
He wrapped the belt around his door knob and tied the other around his neck.
Tightening it up he gradually lost his breath.
Darkness soon came.
A few hours later, his father entered the room to see his son naked. The laptop had
ran out of power and shut off. All the father saw was his nude son with a belt around
his neck.
"Fucking metal music" he thought to himself. "All the boy listened to was heavy shit like INXS and had to imitate Michael Hutchence".
His note concluded with probably the most common quote in suicide notes since the mid
1990s. "It's better to burn out than to fade away" which he mistakenly attributed to
Kurt Cobain. Even though he was meticulous in making sure there were no spelling or
grammar errors in the letter, his research skills were obviously lacking. He left his
laptop open with the suicide note on the screen.
He stripped naked. "I am going to end my life the way I entered it" he though to
himself. This was most likely not his idea but one from a shitty indie flick that
some film student made.
He wrapped the belt around his door knob and tied the other around his neck.
Tightening it up he gradually lost his breath.
Darkness soon came.
A few hours later, his father entered the room to see his son naked. The laptop had
ran out of power and shut off. All the father saw was his nude son with a belt around
his neck.
"Fucking metal music" he thought to himself. "All the boy listened to was heavy shit like INXS and had to imitate Michael Hutchence".
Sunday, 17 May 2009
One step at a time perhaps
And now, my question:
Having turned forty, I can feel an impending mid-life crisis bearing down on me like a rabid Rottweiler riding a runaway freight train. How best to deal with it? Buying a Corvette is so cliché and I can't afford one anyway. An extra-marital affair is right out since I don't have the energy and can no more afford a divorce than I can the Corvette. I need something original and unexpected.
So what can I do to sow the last of my wild oats and burn off my quickly vanishing youth?
- billy(no longer a)boy
Instead of an extra-marital affair, how about a marital affair? Get the wife and kids together, order up a couple of hookers, get yourself an eight ball of coke watch your youth burn away.
Alternatively, you can attempt some form of extreme sport to help you feel alive once more.
The problem is when your done sowing those oats and defying those deaths you'll have to go back to your good ol' day to day. Well you don't have to, but you probably will. You'll realise that you really didn't have it all that bad and that your life didn't suck that bad.
You'll realise that more than half your life is over. And you'll have to make a choice. Whether to live the rest of the time you have left as best as you can. Or you'll come to the realisation that your best years are behind you and that you should just give up.
Get busy living or get busy dying. That's what you can do.
My question is as follows:
If there is in fact no deity or prime mover (which is almost certainly the case). And if the universe is indifferent to our existence and our non-existence. And if there is no over-arching morality or good or evil. Then, what purpose do our lives serve and if they have no ultimate purpose, how does a materialistic atheist justify his own continued existence in this universe (or any other) and find some semblance of meaning to allow him to keep trudging along?
Having turned forty, I can feel an impending mid-life crisis bearing down on me like a rabid Rottweiler riding a runaway freight train. How best to deal with it? Buying a Corvette is so cliché and I can't afford one anyway. An extra-marital affair is right out since I don't have the energy and can no more afford a divorce than I can the Corvette. I need something original and unexpected.
So what can I do to sow the last of my wild oats and burn off my quickly vanishing youth?
- billy(no longer a)boy
Instead of an extra-marital affair, how about a marital affair? Get the wife and kids together, order up a couple of hookers, get yourself an eight ball of coke watch your youth burn away.
Alternatively, you can attempt some form of extreme sport to help you feel alive once more.
The problem is when your done sowing those oats and defying those deaths you'll have to go back to your good ol' day to day. Well you don't have to, but you probably will. You'll realise that you really didn't have it all that bad and that your life didn't suck that bad.
You'll realise that more than half your life is over. And you'll have to make a choice. Whether to live the rest of the time you have left as best as you can. Or you'll come to the realisation that your best years are behind you and that you should just give up.
Get busy living or get busy dying. That's what you can do.
My question is as follows:
If there is in fact no deity or prime mover (which is almost certainly the case). And if the universe is indifferent to our existence and our non-existence. And if there is no over-arching morality or good or evil. Then, what purpose do our lives serve and if they have no ultimate purpose, how does a materialistic atheist justify his own continued existence in this universe (or any other) and find some semblance of meaning to allow him to keep trudging along?
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Dear Rotten Bastards Bad Advice Blog
Originally posted by Tomby Stone:
My question ...
I have lost my ability to fantasise. I have always liked Einstein's suggestion that 'imagination is your preview of life's coming attractions.' and I used to lie around for hours previewing all the attractions coming my way.
Having lost faith that anything half decent will ever happen to me ever (which I understand is all my fault) I am unable to imagine a fun and exciting future. I feel silly and childish and even more of a loser than usual whenever I envision any kind of positive future.
Is this a good thing ?? Is there a point we should discard dreams and focus on reality or is this a very bad thing ??? Should I allow myself to dream stupid dreams again ??
Also ... Amy Winehouse, would you ??
I have lost my ability to fantasise. I have always liked Einstein's suggestion that 'imagination is your preview of life's coming attractions.' and I used to lie around for hours previewing all the attractions coming my way.
Having lost faith that anything half decent will ever happen to me ever (which I understand is all my fault) I am unable to imagine a fun and exciting future. I feel silly and childish and even more of a loser than usual whenever I envision any kind of positive future.
Is this a good thing ?? Is there a point we should discard dreams and focus on reality or is this a very bad thing ??? Should I allow myself to dream stupid dreams again ??
Also ... Amy Winehouse, would you ??
If I may answer your last question first...Amy Winehouse? Fuck yeah! As long as there was absolutely no talking. Singing would be encouraged, but none of that drunken Southgate gibberish. She's like a long-stemmed rose on a gravestone. After a full round of immunizations as though I were preparing for safari in West Africa and after donning two condoms, I'd hit it. But then I'm a bit of a slut. I'd probably do her mum too.
As for your fantasy question, I say dream a little dream. But here is what I do. I no longer dream of a brighter tomorrow for myself. I'm too much of a realist. Instead I just dream of an alternate present. Each new day brings with it opportunities to imagine life not sucking quite as much as it actually does. When I read about crime happening in my neighborhood, I just imagine myself as the hero who delivers a sound thrashing to the ne'er-do-wells who threaten the tranquility of my community. When I hear that our economy is spinning faster around the bowl and may soon go straight down the pipe, I imagine a pastoral existence where my food grows from the earth with little effort and my cherubic offspring provide all the entertainment I will ever need. And when the constraints of marriage begin to wear on me, I can imagine that cute girl at the supermarket checkout is really into older men and will lavish me with affection the next time I stop in for eggs and bananas. By comparison, Walter Mitty is a complete amateur.
So it's really the expectation that is the problem. It's okay to fantasize about better things, just don't hold out any hope of actually having them and you're on your way to happily frittering your life away. Sure, it's silly and childish, but then so is real life.
And now, my question:
Having turned forty, I can feel an impending mid-life crisis bearing down on me like a rabid Rottweiler riding a runaway freight train. How best to deal with it? Buying a Corvette is so cliché and I can't afford one anyway. An extra-marital affair is right out since I don't have the energy and can no more afford a divorce than I can the Corvette. I need something original and unexpected.
So what can I do to sow the last of my wild oats and burn off my quickly vanishing youth?
- billy(no longer a)boy
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
proposition.
I am the mo-ron who chose 'the bad times' as a theme. It's going nowhere at light speed (one word or two?), so I came up with a gimmick...
The Rotten Bastards Bad Advice Blog!
It goes like this:
I post a question; some sort of issue that's giving me all kinds of grief. The first of you weird fuckers to copy/paste the question into your own post, followed by your advice, in turn gets to ask a question. It goes on like that 'til we get bored of it, or until June.
(Obviously, you can still just write a piece to the main theme for this month, which is 'the bad times.' Doye.)
What say you?
Yeah? Good.
I'll start.
Dear RBBAB,
I have this friend, we'll call him WombyBoneClues (inside joke), and he's this brilliant, filthy bi-polar artist from Manchester who I'm totally in love with. Everything he creates is amazing, and it's even better because he thinks it's shit and chucks it in the bin, allowing me to dust it off sign it in the bottom-right-hand corner, and sell it!
Now obviously, I want to live with him and basically make exploiting him a full-time job, but I sort of have a wife and a kid. Oh, and another kid coming in August.
Also, I'm not gay, but the money could be worth it to let him take out his aggression on my sweet, virgin bum bum.
What, oh what, should I do?
Thanks in advance,
EmptyAssInAmerica
The Rotten Bastards Bad Advice Blog!
It goes like this:
I post a question; some sort of issue that's giving me all kinds of grief. The first of you weird fuckers to copy/paste the question into your own post, followed by your advice, in turn gets to ask a question. It goes on like that 'til we get bored of it, or until June.
(Obviously, you can still just write a piece to the main theme for this month, which is 'the bad times.' Doye.)
What say you?
Yeah? Good.
I'll start.
Dear RBBAB,
I have this friend, we'll call him WombyBoneClues (inside joke), and he's this brilliant, filthy bi-polar artist from Manchester who I'm totally in love with. Everything he creates is amazing, and it's even better because he thinks it's shit and chucks it in the bin, allowing me to dust it off sign it in the bottom-right-hand corner, and sell it!
Now obviously, I want to live with him and basically make exploiting him a full-time job, but I sort of have a wife and a kid. Oh, and another kid coming in August.
Also, I'm not gay, but the money could be worth it to let him take out his aggression on my sweet, virgin bum bum.
What, oh what, should I do?
Thanks in advance,
EmptyAssInAmerica
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
progress you can (quit) beat(ing) off to... (silver lining #129)
"The reabsorption of semen by the blood ... perhaps prompts the stimulus of power, the unrest of all forces towards the overcoming of resistances ... The feeling of power has so far mounted highest in abstinent priests and hermits" - Nietzsche
I quit masturbating, and finally got cracking on my internet novel. It's kind of a big project: 1/3 blogs from the characters, 1/3 videos uploaded by the characters and finally, 1/3 short film.
I'm probably going to need some help with it.
So, you know, get the dick out of your hand and contact me:
disconcertia@gmail.com (email/msn)
or
dozat@mac.com on aim.
Cool.
I quit masturbating, and finally got cracking on my internet novel. It's kind of a big project: 1/3 blogs from the characters, 1/3 videos uploaded by the characters and finally, 1/3 short film.
I'm probably going to need some help with it.
So, you know, get the dick out of your hand and contact me:
disconcertia@gmail.com (email/msn)
or
dozat@mac.com on aim.
Cool.
Friday, 24 April 2009
My Review of 'I Am Legend' (silver lining #128)
I wrote this back when it was in theaters, because it's not often that a movie comes out and I've already read the book. I submitted it to the local newspaper- no dice. Go figs.
"You should go see 'I Am Legend.'
Good shit.
I learned that Vampires (they get capitalized, because they're a race. A lot of people don't capitalize races, but I do, because I'm not a racist. Anyway,) burn like Jews.
Yours in Christ,
-Dozat"
I don't know. Maybe it was a racist paper.
"You should go see 'I Am Legend.'
Good shit.
I learned that Vampires (they get capitalized, because they're a race. A lot of people don't capitalize races, but I do, because I'm not a racist. Anyway,) burn like Jews.
Yours in Christ,
-Dozat"
I don't know. Maybe it was a racist paper.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
you want happy? i'll give you happy... (silver lining # 12,224)
Taken without permission from VICE Magazine.
Sunday, 19 April 2009
a moment of bliss
everyone remembers the one person in high school who you wanted to fuck but knew you had no chance with. this isn't the typical high school cunt who wouldn't even acknowledge knowing your name even if you were sodomizing her at gun point. this was the girl who was beautiful and painfully friendly but in the back of your mind you knew you had no chance with her. you may think you did when you were intoxicated and pounding one out thinking of her but the moment of clarity came to you quickly while you were cleaning DNA out of your belly button.
in a way this was more cruel than the previous situation because at times you were confused by this person's friendliness. as a teenager you were constantly thinking (and trying) to find ways to stick your dick into anything that shows slight kindness towards you. it took until you were grown up (or got laid for the first time) to realize that some people are just nice people and want nothing more. this lead to false hopes and wet dreams.
flash forward a few years later to see the same girl working at a grocery store. she's still friendly but has had a few kids. this has lead to a transformation in her appearance. she has gained some weight and looks haggard. smiling while talking to her, you know that for once you have a chance with her in her current situation. you think to yourself that maybe she is falling for the same thing you are doing to her that you did in high school.
you talk for a few minutes and have a genuinely nice conversation. leaving to the store you are smiling, not because of the payback you gave her from high school. you are smiling because you found out from her that her hot sister is single and maybe, just maybe, this is tearing her up inside.
in a way this was more cruel than the previous situation because at times you were confused by this person's friendliness. as a teenager you were constantly thinking (and trying) to find ways to stick your dick into anything that shows slight kindness towards you. it took until you were grown up (or got laid for the first time) to realize that some people are just nice people and want nothing more. this lead to false hopes and wet dreams.
flash forward a few years later to see the same girl working at a grocery store. she's still friendly but has had a few kids. this has lead to a transformation in her appearance. she has gained some weight and looks haggard. smiling while talking to her, you know that for once you have a chance with her in her current situation. you think to yourself that maybe she is falling for the same thing you are doing to her that you did in high school.
you talk for a few minutes and have a genuinely nice conversation. leaving to the store you are smiling, not because of the payback you gave her from high school. you are smiling because you found out from her that her hot sister is single and maybe, just maybe, this is tearing her up inside.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
For Fear of Falling Footwear
I really think there must be something wrong with me. My emotional retardation is such that I can never simply enjoy happiness when I find it. Just when things are going well, a smile on my face sets off an alarm. Suddenly aware of my contented state and knowing that it can never last, I begin to anticipate impending misery thus bringing about a self-fulfilling prophecy. And the happier I am the more profound the effect. As soon as I get caught up in the moment, a voice warns me that a fall from this emotional height would be devastating. I begin to imagine all the possible bad endings to my bliss and I am left waiting for the other shoe to drop and bring the whole house down. Such is the anxiety of my contentment.
My only recourse seems to be self-medication. A good and proper dose of the right substance keeps the higher functions occupied while letting the reptile brain bask in the buzz like a lizard on a warm rock in the sunshine. Sure it's only a temporary fix and the same problems will still be waiting, possibly worsening, during my mental vacation. But right now, who gives a shit? The appeal is obvious. Happiness is a warm crack pipe. It's no wonder that alcoholics and other addicts return again and again to that sweet release from the uncertainty, the randomness, and the sheer boredom of day-to-day living, replacing it with a pharmacological fixed grin. The psychological craving for the narcotic effect lingers even after the physical sickness of withdrawal has passed. Once you've smoothed out the bumps, taking away life's highs and lows, there is nothing left to do but kick back and enjoy the ride. From one of my favorite films, Drugstore Cowboy: "Most people don't know how they're gonna feel from one moment to the next. But a dope fiend has a pretty good idea. All you gotta do is look at the labels on the little bottles." What a comfort. Fortunately, I don't have an addictive personality else I would have been lost long ago.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
back-handed free associations (silver lining #11,004)
Tomorrow is my son, Jackson's first birthday, which makes me think of cake. Which makes me think of Hedberg. Which makes me think of Shawcroft.
Which makes me think of Panamint.
Which has made me smile almost as many times as the last 364 days with my new best friend on earth.
So, there's that.
Which makes me think of Panamint.
Which has made me smile almost as many times as the last 364 days with my new best friend on earth.
So, there's that.
Monday, 13 April 2009
The Jesus Bunny
I'm entertained by the idea that Easter's most prominent figure is the Easter Bunny. Further, Christmas is better defined by Santa Claus than the birthday of the savior of mankind. I find it charming that the birthday, death, and ressurection of God's son is not entertaining enough for us. We have to add in novelty figures like giant bunnies that hide treasures in plastic eggs and fat, white men that sneak into our houses and leave us gifts, asking for only cookies and milk in return. I never see kids lining up at the malls to sit on Jesus's lap (insert Catholic Priest zinger here). I guess Jesus doesn't get us to buy candy and food coloring in April or shit-tons of needless gifts in December. Whatever the explanation, I find the reality hilarious.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
apartment living (silver lining #10,884)
Someone just drove into my nook of the apartment complex in a teal, ninety-something Toyota Tercel. He parked between two covered parking spots, half-blocking each of the cars in the stalls, and honked.
His horn played the theme from 'Gremlins.'
Thinking of how someone with balls that enormous could clown-car them into a Tercel makes me happy.
Very happy.
His horn played the theme from 'Gremlins.'
Thinking of how someone with balls that enormous could clown-car them into a Tercel makes me happy.
Very happy.
Monday, 6 April 2009
GEICO (silver lining # 10,768)
i lost my job almost 6 months ago,
but i'm saving a shitload of money on health insurance.
but i'm saving a shitload of money on health insurance.
Come here Ren you big lug
- Steph sent me a text message saying she would like to drink red wine with me. I met her that
same day with her big tits and a frown in 2006. I fucked her two days later and I fucked her
about a week ago. She's never mentioned it but I'm sure she is covering for a girl I
haven't met yet. Three years and I don't know her surname. It's got too long to bring it up
again. She's about ten years younger than me and I do not joke to say her name may be
moderate.
Still, she is all I have right now, so to speak.
Have you ever fucked a frozen cushion with glass stabbed in it?
Have you ever kissed a lizard?
Like a tongue is transporting some disease into your mouth in a hurry.
We get on and I don't care when she goes in the morning.
The girl I was fucking before Steph got pregnant and gave birth to a boy on June the 7th
2005. I am a witness to it and it was grotesque, she did puke and shits whilst rolling and
screaming on a big blue ball. I kept myself under control with the Frank Booth mask they
provided for her.
Momentarily Over the next year I have this baby in my home.
I didn't enjoy that time.
According to his Mother he did a shit in the bath and ate some of it. That was the only
interesting thing he did that year.
Some time in late 2006 he was born again.
He became amazing and we began to hang out like brothers.
He never speaks ill of his step dad, I get great comfort in that.
He rarely speaks to steph for he knows some shit that I am vague about and I inherit his
wisdom.
I'll be collecting the kid tomorrow with a grin on my face like the end of a brisk park jog
in summer.
I never jogged. I have been brisk in a park when I tried to lose my virginity to a girl resembling Gail Tilsley in 1989.
You get the point.
Sunday, 29 March 2009
The Confession of Sariel Thrawn
Those of you who have reached this point in the tale will know that I have much to confess.
More than most.
But it was not always so.
There was a time when this soul of mine was pristine and unfettered.
Pure and clean.
When I think back, it seems like so long ago. Another life. Another world. Another person.
I have, since that time, done innumerable things worthy of confession.
Crimes and misdemeanors.
My name has become famous. Or infamous.
Depending on your point of view.
Unspeakable acts of wanton cruelty.
The evil of the Georgetown incident would be enough to condemn billions of souls to hell's embrace.
But it was not billions.
It was me.
Nor is there a hell, except for the one I've made. For myself and for those around me.
The weak and the strong have been crushed under my boot-heel.
I have gladly choked the life out of kith and kin.
Feeling my brothers throat crumble in my hands. The tendons and muscles in his neck tightening twisting.
Struggling.
But it wasn't enough.
It's never enough.
The strength of Sariel Thrawn was too great.
But I confess, it wasn't always this way.
I confess that once I was a kind-hearted man. Who loved his brother.
I confess that there was a time when I was innocent and guiltless.
I confess that the man I was would despise the animal I have become.
This is my confession.
This is my life.
More than most.
But it was not always so.
There was a time when this soul of mine was pristine and unfettered.
Pure and clean.
When I think back, it seems like so long ago. Another life. Another world. Another person.
I have, since that time, done innumerable things worthy of confession.
Crimes and misdemeanors.
My name has become famous. Or infamous.
Depending on your point of view.
Unspeakable acts of wanton cruelty.
The evil of the Georgetown incident would be enough to condemn billions of souls to hell's embrace.
But it was not billions.
It was me.
Nor is there a hell, except for the one I've made. For myself and for those around me.
The weak and the strong have been crushed under my boot-heel.
I have gladly choked the life out of kith and kin.
Feeling my brothers throat crumble in my hands. The tendons and muscles in his neck tightening twisting.
Struggling.
But it wasn't enough.
It's never enough.
The strength of Sariel Thrawn was too great.
But I confess, it wasn't always this way.
I confess that once I was a kind-hearted man. Who loved his brother.
I confess that there was a time when I was innocent and guiltless.
I confess that the man I was would despise the animal I have become.
This is my confession.
This is my life.
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Coup de Grâce
Okay, I'll cop to it. I killed the little towheaded bastard.
I must say in my defense that it was a mercy killing. He had been dying for over ten years. I only finished the job.
By the end, his crooked-toothed smile had disappeared and I just could not bear the pitiful look in his sad blue eyes any longer.
I decided to put him out of our misery.
He knew that it had to be done. He was expecting it. There was a look of resignation, if not relief, when the end came.
Good riddance, I say. He was morbidly shy and had always felt inferior. There was just no place for the timid, tender-hearted little pansy in this man's world.
Better off dead.
When I look at old photographs of him now, I feel a small pang of remorse. But mostly I feel resentment at missed opportunity and squandered talents.
There were many others who were complicit in his death, but they were only doing what came natural. They were just living their own lives.
No, I'm the one who did him in. I cannot blame anyone but myself.
He needed killing, as they say, and I was only too proud to bring down the axe. His murder was my rite of passage and I accepted the task willingly.
The killing stroke was delivered and he was dead even before he hit the ground.
I did not look back. There was no body to hide. I just stepped into his shoes and walked away.
Emotionally bronzed, I raised up the shield that he had always been too weak to carry against the slings and arrows.
And what of all the baggage that he had dragged along by his chains?
I still keep it in a secret safe place. I return to it only rarely when I can shed my armor.
I pick through the scabs and scars and occasionally catch a glimpse of his ghost.
And then I stand up straight, put on my trappings once again, and get on with our life.
I must say in my defense that it was a mercy killing. He had been dying for over ten years. I only finished the job.
By the end, his crooked-toothed smile had disappeared and I just could not bear the pitiful look in his sad blue eyes any longer.
I decided to put him out of our misery.
He knew that it had to be done. He was expecting it. There was a look of resignation, if not relief, when the end came.
Good riddance, I say. He was morbidly shy and had always felt inferior. There was just no place for the timid, tender-hearted little pansy in this man's world.
Better off dead.
When I look at old photographs of him now, I feel a small pang of remorse. But mostly I feel resentment at missed opportunity and squandered talents.
There were many others who were complicit in his death, but they were only doing what came natural. They were just living their own lives.
No, I'm the one who did him in. I cannot blame anyone but myself.
He needed killing, as they say, and I was only too proud to bring down the axe. His murder was my rite of passage and I accepted the task willingly.
The killing stroke was delivered and he was dead even before he hit the ground.
I did not look back. There was no body to hide. I just stepped into his shoes and walked away.
Emotionally bronzed, I raised up the shield that he had always been too weak to carry against the slings and arrows.
And what of all the baggage that he had dragged along by his chains?
I still keep it in a secret safe place. I return to it only rarely when I can shed my armor.
I pick through the scabs and scars and occasionally catch a glimpse of his ghost.
And then I stand up straight, put on my trappings once again, and get on with our life.
Sunday, 22 March 2009
Mr Whippy is moonlighting
I shut curtain
I hear breath
I do not like
I fear
I admit I swore
I swore to my mam and dad
I tear
I never asked for this
I am becoming a stooge for some....
I will regret this, I'm sure I will regret....
3 Hail Mary's & an Our Farther
I am tree
I am football
I am the dirtiest knees in Barrow
I am an altar boy
I am crimped on neck by Canon.
Ok scratch all that shit. I saw all the bullshit as a kid, I saw that cunt canon cunt every time I had to do my time at church. I picked the duty as alter boy in school when some sister came round and asked for nominations. Me and Pete Craig put our heads together and decided it would be better to shake a bell than look at an old girls crotch whilst genuflecting.
I don't remember much, I had to wear that Lacey fucking thing, like a big doily over my head bordering a black gay suit with flaps. The "Lamb of God" or "Wafer" came in a massive transparent sack from some wholesalers. I grabbed hand fulls to eat or jam in my pockets for later.
When it was showtime I forgot my role every time. When the big man sticks the wafer up in the air, you got to ringading! When he did something else with the Tabernacle, I think? ringading! & some other shit. I forgot then, I'm not gonna remember now.
That cunt, Canon Nally, would clasp my neck and squeeze, squeeze and fucking squeeze every time I was on ringing duty. You know, if I could beat his head apart I would do. I'd fucking destroy that fucker any moment from..
He's dead, he died years ago.
Fat, bald fuck.
They have this candle in the Catholic churches called the "Eternal Light" which never goes out.
As a child I was amazed.
As a child I put it out and was more amazed.
I hear breath
I do not like
I fear
I admit I swore
I swore to my mam and dad
I tear
I never asked for this
I am becoming a stooge for some....
I will regret this, I'm sure I will regret....
3 Hail Mary's & an Our Farther
I am tree
I am football
I am the dirtiest knees in Barrow
I am an altar boy
I am crimped on neck by Canon.
Ok scratch all that shit. I saw all the bullshit as a kid, I saw that cunt canon cunt every time I had to do my time at church. I picked the duty as alter boy in school when some sister came round and asked for nominations. Me and Pete Craig put our heads together and decided it would be better to shake a bell than look at an old girls crotch whilst genuflecting.
I don't remember much, I had to wear that Lacey fucking thing, like a big doily over my head bordering a black gay suit with flaps. The "Lamb of God" or "Wafer" came in a massive transparent sack from some wholesalers. I grabbed hand fulls to eat or jam in my pockets for later.
When it was showtime I forgot my role every time. When the big man sticks the wafer up in the air, you got to ringading! When he did something else with the Tabernacle, I think? ringading! & some other shit. I forgot then, I'm not gonna remember now.
That cunt, Canon Nally, would clasp my neck and squeeze, squeeze and fucking squeeze every time I was on ringing duty. You know, if I could beat his head apart I would do. I'd fucking destroy that fucker any moment from..
He's dead, he died years ago.
Fat, bald fuck.
They have this candle in the Catholic churches called the "Eternal Light" which never goes out.
As a child I was amazed.
As a child I put it out and was more amazed.
my admission of guilt
anyone who has read my previous entries may know that i don't have a problem admitting fucked up stuff that has happened in my life. part of what makes you grow as a person is realizing that you are a fuck up like everyone else and getting shit off your chest. in a way this blog is like an anonymous counselling for me. so i will follow this with a list of things i like to get off my chest and since i am lazy, they will be in point form.
- if i am in a relationship i have a tendency to become infatuated with the person. no clue why, i don't have any mommy or daddy leaving issues. i just do.
- i was a mommy's boy until i was about a teenager. maybe it's because she was more lenient and let me do things i wanted that my dad wouldn't.
- i often think of what things would be like if i wasn't around. not in a suicidal sense but in a morbid fascination of if i died tomorrow, who would be at my funeral? call me emo but to me it's almost more of a curiousity of who i have impacted in my life.
- i cannot hunt or fish because i cannot kill animals. if it was a life or death situation it may be different. i still eat and have no problems killing insects. at the same time i have no problem striking another man if i have too.
- of all the substances i have put in my body i would have to say alcohol is the worse.
- i have never had a prostate exam cause i don't want a finger in my ass.
- i often have the thoughts that maybe i could have saved a relationship if i didn't react suddenly to stuff that seems trivial now
- although i am a crybaby, i haven't cried in over a year. it's not that i don't feel upset or sad anymore but maybe that i know things will be okay.
- the majority of my time online (outside of work) i spend looking at porn. it's not really an addiction or habit but it's similiar to the same way a stock broker might constantly look at how a stock is trading.
- i shit quite often (3-4 times a day) and i piss quite regularly too.
- i have a soft spot in my heart for hair metal. although they knew they weren't serious and they made music only so they could fuck more groupies, they weren't pretencious about it like many musicians now a days.
- i read quite a few biographies and sometimes think of how unexciting my life is.
- there are certain movies i won't watch because of memories i have tied between the movie and certain people i've had in my life.
- part of me hates confrontation and the other part loves the adrenaline rush and the escape from monotony.
- i don't know if i know the difference between love and infatuation.
- i wonder if there is anything after death but i doubt there is
- i buy shit that i rarely use. maybe because i am often bored?
- when i write these blogs i like to pretend i may impact someone's life when in face i really know it's just taking up space.
- if i am in a relationship i have a tendency to become infatuated with the person. no clue why, i don't have any mommy or daddy leaving issues. i just do.
- i was a mommy's boy until i was about a teenager. maybe it's because she was more lenient and let me do things i wanted that my dad wouldn't.
- i often think of what things would be like if i wasn't around. not in a suicidal sense but in a morbid fascination of if i died tomorrow, who would be at my funeral? call me emo but to me it's almost more of a curiousity of who i have impacted in my life.
- i cannot hunt or fish because i cannot kill animals. if it was a life or death situation it may be different. i still eat and have no problems killing insects. at the same time i have no problem striking another man if i have too.
- of all the substances i have put in my body i would have to say alcohol is the worse.
- i have never had a prostate exam cause i don't want a finger in my ass.
- i often have the thoughts that maybe i could have saved a relationship if i didn't react suddenly to stuff that seems trivial now
- although i am a crybaby, i haven't cried in over a year. it's not that i don't feel upset or sad anymore but maybe that i know things will be okay.
- the majority of my time online (outside of work) i spend looking at porn. it's not really an addiction or habit but it's similiar to the same way a stock broker might constantly look at how a stock is trading.
- i shit quite often (3-4 times a day) and i piss quite regularly too.
- i have a soft spot in my heart for hair metal. although they knew they weren't serious and they made music only so they could fuck more groupies, they weren't pretencious about it like many musicians now a days.
- i read quite a few biographies and sometimes think of how unexciting my life is.
- there are certain movies i won't watch because of memories i have tied between the movie and certain people i've had in my life.
- part of me hates confrontation and the other part loves the adrenaline rush and the escape from monotony.
- i don't know if i know the difference between love and infatuation.
- i wonder if there is anything after death but i doubt there is
- i buy shit that i rarely use. maybe because i am often bored?
- when i write these blogs i like to pretend i may impact someone's life when in face i really know it's just taking up space.
Friday, 20 March 2009
Admissible
I'm in love.
There.
I said it.
Bring on the cliches.
Bring on the taunting.
I'm taking all comers.
The fact is, I'm happier now than I can remember being for what feels like forever.
And whether it lasts another week or forever, at least I'll be able to say "I felt something once. And I liked it."
Is this a confession? Or is it merely an admission?
I'm not sure.
The word confession gives the sense of owning up to a wrongdoing. And I've definitely done no wrong here (at least not yet).
So I admit, I'm in love.
As for a confession...
I remember stealing cash and various products from a former employer. Thousands of dollars worth.
They had no idea. I had free food and drink.
Win. Win.
There.
I said it.
Bring on the cliches.
Bring on the taunting.
I'm taking all comers.
The fact is, I'm happier now than I can remember being for what feels like forever.
And whether it lasts another week or forever, at least I'll be able to say "I felt something once. And I liked it."
Is this a confession? Or is it merely an admission?
I'm not sure.
The word confession gives the sense of owning up to a wrongdoing. And I've definitely done no wrong here (at least not yet).
So I admit, I'm in love.
As for a confession...
I remember stealing cash and various products from a former employer. Thousands of dollars worth.
They had no idea. I had free food and drink.
Win. Win.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
A BLACK & THE HEX
I've always been broke and I always will be. The past has been my fault and the future the fault of a black man and I. There have been flourishes of money times in my stretch of life thus far but it gets spent almost instantly. I'm thirty four and more broke than I ever have been. I've been unemployed for just over five weeks, the first time in around 12 years. I applied for job seekers allowance over the phone to this cranky woman, a bear of a woman, I imagined. I forgave her for this though as she had a pleasant voice and I felt as if I knew her after the thirty five or so minutes of me saying 'yes' and 'no', mainly 'no'.
Somewhere between her, an interview, me lying and signing that dole form, everything got lost and I had to go through the same failure steps again with a much more chipper lady. Within a week, nothing. I call up and demand a supervisor, a cheque comes the next day for sixty four pounds and seventeen pence.
I am delighted.
This was a couple of days ago.
A couple of years ago I'm standing in a queue at the ATM of Barclays bank opposite where the Starbucks is now in Nottingham City centre, it's a warm day, the sun is out. I'm probably wondering if the machine will spit me some of the vile green backs and definitely wondering why the big black dude in front of me is holding an umbrella as there is no sign of rain. I get to the machine, I'm quizzed as to which service I require next. The big dude has left his card in the machine. I take a quick look around the corner to see him walking away from me, far enough away for me to steel his earnings. All of a sudden I'm on one of those vibro machines that people use to vibro shit or lose weight with. I press the cash button then the hundred pound button and I'm dissolving in paranoia as the machine "Nuuuuuurs" away. It fucks out a hundred as I'm looking for a camera.
I should have got more?
I shouldn't have taken any! I should have fucked him over for a grand, will they let you take that much?
I was raised racist, fuck him! He doesn't know how to structure his day around the weather let alone know how to retrieve a card, fuck him!
A fresh birth has more mettle than...
The walk home from there was in tradition of Henry Hill and I have lived a life much the same as his ever since. I don't have a monkey on my back I have this big rich looking nigger with an umbrella.
So I confess, I stole from this guy who I don't know and never will lest I show the cops my wrists for a hundred quid. The fuckers ruined me, I'm sure of it. I do loops around ladders to reverse the burden.
Somewhere between her, an interview, me lying and signing that dole form, everything got lost and I had to go through the same failure steps again with a much more chipper lady. Within a week, nothing. I call up and demand a supervisor, a cheque comes the next day for sixty four pounds and seventeen pence.
I am delighted.
This was a couple of days ago.
A couple of years ago I'm standing in a queue at the ATM of Barclays bank opposite where the Starbucks is now in Nottingham City centre, it's a warm day, the sun is out. I'm probably wondering if the machine will spit me some of the vile green backs and definitely wondering why the big black dude in front of me is holding an umbrella as there is no sign of rain. I get to the machine, I'm quizzed as to which service I require next. The big dude has left his card in the machine. I take a quick look around the corner to see him walking away from me, far enough away for me to steel his earnings. All of a sudden I'm on one of those vibro machines that people use to vibro shit or lose weight with. I press the cash button then the hundred pound button and I'm dissolving in paranoia as the machine "Nuuuuuurs" away. It fucks out a hundred as I'm looking for a camera.
I should have got more?
I shouldn't have taken any! I should have fucked him over for a grand, will they let you take that much?
I was raised racist, fuck him! He doesn't know how to structure his day around the weather let alone know how to retrieve a card, fuck him!
A fresh birth has more mettle than...
The walk home from there was in tradition of Henry Hill and I have lived a life much the same as his ever since. I don't have a monkey on my back I have this big rich looking nigger with an umbrella.
So I confess, I stole from this guy who I don't know and never will lest I show the cops my wrists for a hundred quid. The fuckers ruined me, I'm sure of it. I do loops around ladders to reverse the burden.
Monday, 9 March 2009
The Confession of a Hater
I have to confess something, not because it feels good to state, but because I’m curious if anyone else out there has similar feelings: I don’t think I truly like one person. Not my friends. Not my family. The only people I seem to like are those that I don’t know very well and as soon as I get to know them better, my likeness towards them disappears. The closer you get to look at someone, the more glaring the imperfections. Even Pam Anderson has Hepatitis. They are either stupid, crazy, annoying, or stupid crazy-annoying. Am I self-righteous? Too judgmental and unforgiving? Perhaps just a grumpy fuck. Is the prescription to stay far away and experience life through binoculars or to be consistently disappointed? Change myself, you say? Fuck you. What a popularly held, but completely ridiculous concept. How many lives have been ruined because of one person’s hope that another would change? I think relationships are much like life: bursts of greatness marred by excessive tedium. The occasional creation of an excellent inside joke placed within weeks of boring, repetitive, meaningless conversation. I suppose it’s better than being alone all the time, but not much.
Saturday, 28 February 2009
Spare Change
Perhaps I’m just too old and cynical to truly believe that real change is going to come. If I were still the angry young man and a naïve idealist, I would have campaigned for the cause and been caught up in the excitement of having something to believe in after so many years of wandering in the political desert. But now I’m the middle-aged guy who is still angry but knows that it doesn’t mean shit. Examples will be made of a very few of the most egregious offenders, but the majority of the business criminals will still sit in their fine feathered nests and wait for the time when they can once again run amok with a friend in the White House. Real change in this country is only going to be effected through drastic measures.
Whether through simple blind greed or intentional mismanagement, the overlords of the past decade have left the house in shambles and yet still claim that only they can fix it. It really seems that such ruination could only have been perpetrated with the express purpose of undermining the incoming administration. They knew that the election was lost even before the campaign began, so they just fiddled while the empire burned and said, “Don’t worry about the mess. Let the nigger clean it up.” Those who are accustomed to having servants will always think in such terms. The right wing is now decrying the onset of socialism in America and the downfall of freedom and liberty as we know it. Which freedoms? Do they mean the freedom of choice between Coke and Pepsi, Burger King and McDonald's, Walmart and Walmart? No need to worry. They will always have that freedom albeit with less money to spend. Those who cry the loudest about losing their rights seem to only care about the right to maintain a personal arsenal of weapons and to make Christianity a government institution. The conservatives are screaming about big government taking over our lives, but they never said a word when Bush expanded the government’s surveillance program far outside of the Constitutional box. It seems they only really fear big government when they are not in charge of it. Only when it involves expanding social programs does it become a problem for them. Funny that those who feel the most entitled to living the good life sneer and bemoan government entitlements for the needy. I for one fear big business far more than I fear big brother. The government is not ever going to get any smaller or less powerful, so let it least take care of the basic needs of its citizens. Expand the welfare programs and put every poor man on the dole. And legalize drugs so he can get high if he wants. Maybe then at least he won’t be breaking into my house and stealing my shit. It may be socialism, but, as an admitted leftist, I’m ready to sign up as an instructor for the reeducation camps. Let the banks fail, let the automotive industry die like the dinosaurs, and let all the fat cats take a swan dive from their Wall Street windows. Nationalize everything and we’ll divvy up the bill when it comes. Give me socialised [sic] medicine and government-funded education. Pry all the guns from the cold dead fingers of the owners just like it says on their bumper stickers and make the goddamn churches start paying their share of the taxes. Can we make a difference? Yes we can, comrade.
Whether through simple blind greed or intentional mismanagement, the overlords of the past decade have left the house in shambles and yet still claim that only they can fix it. It really seems that such ruination could only have been perpetrated with the express purpose of undermining the incoming administration. They knew that the election was lost even before the campaign began, so they just fiddled while the empire burned and said, “Don’t worry about the mess. Let the nigger clean it up.” Those who are accustomed to having servants will always think in such terms. The right wing is now decrying the onset of socialism in America and the downfall of freedom and liberty as we know it. Which freedoms? Do they mean the freedom of choice between Coke and Pepsi, Burger King and McDonald's, Walmart and Walmart? No need to worry. They will always have that freedom albeit with less money to spend. Those who cry the loudest about losing their rights seem to only care about the right to maintain a personal arsenal of weapons and to make Christianity a government institution. The conservatives are screaming about big government taking over our lives, but they never said a word when Bush expanded the government’s surveillance program far outside of the Constitutional box. It seems they only really fear big government when they are not in charge of it. Only when it involves expanding social programs does it become a problem for them. Funny that those who feel the most entitled to living the good life sneer and bemoan government entitlements for the needy. I for one fear big business far more than I fear big brother. The government is not ever going to get any smaller or less powerful, so let it least take care of the basic needs of its citizens. Expand the welfare programs and put every poor man on the dole. And legalize drugs so he can get high if he wants. Maybe then at least he won’t be breaking into my house and stealing my shit. It may be socialism, but, as an admitted leftist, I’m ready to sign up as an instructor for the reeducation camps. Let the banks fail, let the automotive industry die like the dinosaurs, and let all the fat cats take a swan dive from their Wall Street windows. Nationalize everything and we’ll divvy up the bill when it comes. Give me socialised [sic] medicine and government-funded education. Pry all the guns from the cold dead fingers of the owners just like it says on their bumper stickers and make the goddamn churches start paying their share of the taxes. Can we make a difference? Yes we can, comrade.
Friday, 27 February 2009
yes we can.
as human beings it seems that it is our natural instinct to blame others for our short comings. it is easier to blame someone else than to admit we fucked up. if people have a horrible life they blame it on their parents for not loving them enough (except in cases of incest where the opposite is obviously a problem). it is now my turn to tell a story that may have had a traumatic effect on me and turned me into the person i am today. i feel that in telling this story i will inspire others to do the same and we can unite. through this unification we will find ways to stop hunger, AIDS and snooty cunts who think you are interested in what they are saying when really all you want to do is to see if their bush is shaved or not. enough with the malarky, here's my story.
it was while i was in kindergarten that this event happened. it wasn't a girl saying i was ugly or getting the shit kicked out of me that effected me, it was the teacher.
i wore sweat pants like many boys did at the time. comfortable, durable, and easy to take off in case any girls in my class wanted to play doctor during recess. i had a problem with these pants though. whenever i would take a piss in a urinal i felt a need to pull the pants and my underwear down to my knees and to show off my bare ass while i pissed. while my parents may have found it funny, they didn't tell me to quit taunting the pedophiles with this behavior. a fellow student named jeff decided to though.
jeff smack or slap me on my bare ass while i was pissing. this obviously caused a commotion and i didn't appreciate his hijinks. in hindsight, it may have been better to pull up my pants when i started to scrap with him but i guess anger took over. anyway a slapping fight between the town of us started and my sweat pants and underwear were hanging around my knees. maybe in some undeveloped countries showing your dick while fighting is a ritual for showing your manliness but i ended up looking like a fucking idiot.
the slapping fight continued for a bit until the teacher came into the bathroom and broke up the fighting. remember that my pecker was still out when she came into the bathroom and split up the ruckus. the next part is where my memory fades but i remember her spanking both of us. now i don't remember if she spanked me while my pants were around my knees but for the sake of the story, she did.
jeff and i were both punished for our hijinx. we weren't allowed a snack during snack time. for some weird reason i remember that it was chili that day and i thought that if i sniffed alot, the smell of the chili was the same as eating it and so i wasn't missing out. i can't remember what i ate two days ago but can remember this incident from twenty years ago. i'm a fucking mess.
so that's my story. let the others come out and post similiar stories so humanity can grow.
it was while i was in kindergarten that this event happened. it wasn't a girl saying i was ugly or getting the shit kicked out of me that effected me, it was the teacher.
i wore sweat pants like many boys did at the time. comfortable, durable, and easy to take off in case any girls in my class wanted to play doctor during recess. i had a problem with these pants though. whenever i would take a piss in a urinal i felt a need to pull the pants and my underwear down to my knees and to show off my bare ass while i pissed. while my parents may have found it funny, they didn't tell me to quit taunting the pedophiles with this behavior. a fellow student named jeff decided to though.
jeff smack or slap me on my bare ass while i was pissing. this obviously caused a commotion and i didn't appreciate his hijinks. in hindsight, it may have been better to pull up my pants when i started to scrap with him but i guess anger took over. anyway a slapping fight between the town of us started and my sweat pants and underwear were hanging around my knees. maybe in some undeveloped countries showing your dick while fighting is a ritual for showing your manliness but i ended up looking like a fucking idiot.
the slapping fight continued for a bit until the teacher came into the bathroom and broke up the fighting. remember that my pecker was still out when she came into the bathroom and split up the ruckus. the next part is where my memory fades but i remember her spanking both of us. now i don't remember if she spanked me while my pants were around my knees but for the sake of the story, she did.
jeff and i were both punished for our hijinx. we weren't allowed a snack during snack time. for some weird reason i remember that it was chili that day and i thought that if i sniffed alot, the smell of the chili was the same as eating it and so i wasn't missing out. i can't remember what i ate two days ago but can remember this incident from twenty years ago. i'm a fucking mess.
so that's my story. let the others come out and post similiar stories so humanity can grow.
I think we can
I like to think that the world has turned a page.
Or even opened an entirely new book.
I am hopeful.
But let's be honest.
Reality has a knack for crushing a man's dreams.
Human beings have achieved much in the last few thousand years.
Fire, the wheel, language, clothing, electricity, space exploration, genetics.
And because we've already done so much, I continue to hold out hope that we will do more. Much more.
Sure, it's easy to remain cynical. Especially when all we ever hear is bad news.
But bad things have always happened and will continue to happen.
Somehow we've managed to rise above and move beyond the horrors and the limitations of a corporeal existence.
I guess it's up to each of us to do the best we can.
Yes, we can help the poor.
Yes, we can eliminate hunger.
Yes, we can cure disease.
Yes, we can travel to the stars.
Yes, we can evolve.
Sure, having a black man in the white house may not amount to much in the end. But I'm hoping that it will at the very least be symbolic of something greater.
An era of rationality, love and hope.
I feel like the world is changing and for the first time I feel like it's changing in the right direction.
Or even opened an entirely new book.
I am hopeful.
But let's be honest.
Reality has a knack for crushing a man's dreams.
Human beings have achieved much in the last few thousand years.
Fire, the wheel, language, clothing, electricity, space exploration, genetics.
And because we've already done so much, I continue to hold out hope that we will do more. Much more.
Sure, it's easy to remain cynical. Especially when all we ever hear is bad news.
But bad things have always happened and will continue to happen.
Somehow we've managed to rise above and move beyond the horrors and the limitations of a corporeal existence.
I guess it's up to each of us to do the best we can.
Yes, we can help the poor.
Yes, we can eliminate hunger.
Yes, we can cure disease.
Yes, we can travel to the stars.
Yes, we can evolve.
Sure, having a black man in the white house may not amount to much in the end. But I'm hoping that it will at the very least be symbolic of something greater.
An era of rationality, love and hope.
I feel like the world is changing and for the first time I feel like it's changing in the right direction.
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Success In Failure
[Inspired by Tomby's post.]
You know, I often describe myself as a failure. But then I look back, and I can't regret the life I chose. Everyone knows the creative arts are a tough business. As I like to put it; a one-way ticket to poverty, addiction, insanity and death. And that's if you "make it."
10 years in music, 10 years in comedy, while also writing everything from porn to award-winning speeches to fanzine reviews and comix, and my only real mark has been left on other musicians and comics, and a tiny handful of fans.
But I've met a LOT of cool and interesting people. At times, I've lived a life that would make Nero say, "That's a bit much." I've indulged in about every vice, and regret very few. I was a favorite niche performer at two separate fetish clubs' events.
I gamble regularly, including a monthly poker game at my house. I've always been a porn junkie, from the time I discovered my Grandpa's collection of Olympia/Grove Press books. (Which included everything from Burroughs and Nabokov to The Story of O and A Man And A Maid.)
And drugs? All of them. I even broke my "no more illegal drugs" rule -- which has kept me "clean," but drinking and smoking for over 15 years -- once, to shoot ecstasy right before it was made illegal. (Although I had done MDA before.) Me + cocaine = very, very bad. I'm lucky crack wasn't around at $10 a pop. However, when I was a heroin addict, I was arguably at my most productive, working a day job in a chemical plant and getting regular gigs as a musician nights. The problem with heroin is when you can't get it, or get really good stuff and OD. (I did once.) I preferred the pharmaceutical Dilaudid anyway, when I could get it. Quitting really does suck, but in a different way from cigarettes: Quitting dope makes you feel like you're going to die for a couple weeks, from a real physical need -- like not being able to take a shit for the rest of your life. Then it gets better. I quit smoking for a year once, and I wanted a cigarette every fucking moment of every fucking day.
I learned a lot from LSD, and was popular as a "guide." That's where my "nobody goes to the hospital, nobody goes to jail" rule originated. I could turn a bad trip around with some markers and a roll of paper. But eventually, I felt I'd gone from learning the interconnectedness of the universe to watching cartoons and giggling.
I wish everybody could have a safe, positive environment to try LSD in at least once.
I just read an article about how every drug should be legal "except crystal meth." That whole panic cracks me up -- we were doing crystal ("crank," the exact same drug) in the '80s like crazy. Get this: The Air Force still gives Dex to its pilots. But, like crack before it, the drug warriors need one absolute bugaboo to keep the charade going.
I have hepatitis C as a consequence of my drug use. (And, ironically, the refusal in the '80s to enact needle exchange programs -- instead informing us to clean our needles with bleach. Which killed the HIV virus, but not the then-unknown Hep C.)
Totally worth it. I'd just like everyone to be honest: People do drugs because drugs are fucking FUN. They have drawbacks, each and every one. But if people are made aware of the actual risks, (often the worst of which are prison and dealing with hardcore criminals, or the expense of a black market product) instead of bullshit propaganda (smoke weed and you'll shoot your brother), they could weigh them rationally.
I am not rich. I am not famous. But then sometimes I rethink my "failure:" I've appeared on 40 episodes of a television show which Bill Moyers called "the most interesting weekly half hour of social commentary and criticism on television."
I've been quoted in the New York Times, and had a clip of me shown on ABC news.
I've seen just about every punk band from the '70s and '80s live, and opened for several, and met many more. Would it be cooler if I'd had a hit song than it was opening for SWANS and Sonic Youth on their first show in Minneapolis? Having Paul Cook and Steve Jones party at my apartment? The feeling of just being there, to see a brand new movement in music, fashion and art develop -- and being part of it? Would I trade all that for commercial success?
In comedy, I was always proud of my writing, but I was a notoriously inconsistent performer. I could never tell why the same material that killed the night before, ate it the very next night. I stopped getting mean and pissed off when I was having a bad show, which helped, but I never, ever got confident.
What really killed me was that, in the span of two years, every club that booked me for more than three nights (from Des Moines, to Grand Forks, to Memphis, to Madison -- where Jim Taugher was the ONLY booker crazy enough to book me and Stanhope together) closed. At the same time, Tribble's hotel venues changed management and wanted "PG" comics.
Stanhope, in true form, said, "Maybe that should tell you something."
But I had the respect of guys like Stanhope. Lines and tags I gave them came out of some of my favorite comics' mouths. (Once you give a line away, you never take credit for it. I once had someone say they saw this great comic, and if I knew him. They then proceeded to tell me a joke I'd swapped to him.) Likewise, I had lines given to me by comics I worshiped.
I got to do time at the LA Improv, where the staff treated me, an absolute nobody, like a king. I got to do a show in New Auburn, MN, in a house where the living room had been converted into a bar after the VFW burned down. The whole town, about 80 of them, showed up starving for entertainment, and just poured out the love -- and the free drinks.
I used to do a bit about the new puritanism, and how we need to LIVE. That bit ended with, "When I go out, I want to go out with lungs that look like Swiss cheese, a liver the size of a basketball, a raging hard-on, a needle in my arm, and a goddamned SMILE on my face!" After one show, a guy came up to me and told me he'd come down to cheer up -- his girlfriend had dumped him, and he was actually feeling suicidal. But that bit had made him realize there was plenty of fun left to be had in one life.
How could I trade that moment for anything?
So I did fail in one sense: I forgot to sell out. Okay, I didn't really get the opportunity. I also used to say, "My artistic integrity ends right around the point payments on a Corvette begin."
But we only get one shot at this life, and many believe we only get this one.
I've had a lot of fun, and been awed at the respect I've been given by those much, much more talented and successful than I have been.
But most importantly, I've made people laugh. I've entertained people when they were at their lowest. I've even inspired people to try music, or comedy or writing themselves.
I can live with that. I can die with that.
You know, I often describe myself as a failure. But then I look back, and I can't regret the life I chose. Everyone knows the creative arts are a tough business. As I like to put it; a one-way ticket to poverty, addiction, insanity and death. And that's if you "make it."
10 years in music, 10 years in comedy, while also writing everything from porn to award-winning speeches to fanzine reviews and comix, and my only real mark has been left on other musicians and comics, and a tiny handful of fans.
But I've met a LOT of cool and interesting people. At times, I've lived a life that would make Nero say, "That's a bit much." I've indulged in about every vice, and regret very few. I was a favorite niche performer at two separate fetish clubs' events.
I gamble regularly, including a monthly poker game at my house. I've always been a porn junkie, from the time I discovered my Grandpa's collection of Olympia/Grove Press books. (Which included everything from Burroughs and Nabokov to The Story of O and A Man And A Maid.)
And drugs? All of them. I even broke my "no more illegal drugs" rule -- which has kept me "clean," but drinking and smoking for over 15 years -- once, to shoot ecstasy right before it was made illegal. (Although I had done MDA before.) Me + cocaine = very, very bad. I'm lucky crack wasn't around at $10 a pop. However, when I was a heroin addict, I was arguably at my most productive, working a day job in a chemical plant and getting regular gigs as a musician nights. The problem with heroin is when you can't get it, or get really good stuff and OD. (I did once.) I preferred the pharmaceutical Dilaudid anyway, when I could get it. Quitting really does suck, but in a different way from cigarettes: Quitting dope makes you feel like you're going to die for a couple weeks, from a real physical need -- like not being able to take a shit for the rest of your life. Then it gets better. I quit smoking for a year once, and I wanted a cigarette every fucking moment of every fucking day.
I learned a lot from LSD, and was popular as a "guide." That's where my "nobody goes to the hospital, nobody goes to jail" rule originated. I could turn a bad trip around with some markers and a roll of paper. But eventually, I felt I'd gone from learning the interconnectedness of the universe to watching cartoons and giggling.
I wish everybody could have a safe, positive environment to try LSD in at least once.
I just read an article about how every drug should be legal "except crystal meth." That whole panic cracks me up -- we were doing crystal ("crank," the exact same drug) in the '80s like crazy. Get this: The Air Force still gives Dex to its pilots. But, like crack before it, the drug warriors need one absolute bugaboo to keep the charade going.
I have hepatitis C as a consequence of my drug use. (And, ironically, the refusal in the '80s to enact needle exchange programs -- instead informing us to clean our needles with bleach. Which killed the HIV virus, but not the then-unknown Hep C.)
Totally worth it. I'd just like everyone to be honest: People do drugs because drugs are fucking FUN. They have drawbacks, each and every one. But if people are made aware of the actual risks, (often the worst of which are prison and dealing with hardcore criminals, or the expense of a black market product) instead of bullshit propaganda (smoke weed and you'll shoot your brother), they could weigh them rationally.
I am not rich. I am not famous. But then sometimes I rethink my "failure:" I've appeared on 40 episodes of a television show which Bill Moyers called "the most interesting weekly half hour of social commentary and criticism on television."
I've been quoted in the New York Times, and had a clip of me shown on ABC news.
I've seen just about every punk band from the '70s and '80s live, and opened for several, and met many more. Would it be cooler if I'd had a hit song than it was opening for SWANS and Sonic Youth on their first show in Minneapolis? Having Paul Cook and Steve Jones party at my apartment? The feeling of just being there, to see a brand new movement in music, fashion and art develop -- and being part of it? Would I trade all that for commercial success?
In comedy, I was always proud of my writing, but I was a notoriously inconsistent performer. I could never tell why the same material that killed the night before, ate it the very next night. I stopped getting mean and pissed off when I was having a bad show, which helped, but I never, ever got confident.
What really killed me was that, in the span of two years, every club that booked me for more than three nights (from Des Moines, to Grand Forks, to Memphis, to Madison -- where Jim Taugher was the ONLY booker crazy enough to book me and Stanhope together) closed. At the same time, Tribble's hotel venues changed management and wanted "PG" comics.
Stanhope, in true form, said, "Maybe that should tell you something."
But I had the respect of guys like Stanhope. Lines and tags I gave them came out of some of my favorite comics' mouths. (Once you give a line away, you never take credit for it. I once had someone say they saw this great comic, and if I knew him. They then proceeded to tell me a joke I'd swapped to him.) Likewise, I had lines given to me by comics I worshiped.
I got to do time at the LA Improv, where the staff treated me, an absolute nobody, like a king. I got to do a show in New Auburn, MN, in a house where the living room had been converted into a bar after the VFW burned down. The whole town, about 80 of them, showed up starving for entertainment, and just poured out the love -- and the free drinks.
I used to do a bit about the new puritanism, and how we need to LIVE. That bit ended with, "When I go out, I want to go out with lungs that look like Swiss cheese, a liver the size of a basketball, a raging hard-on, a needle in my arm, and a goddamned SMILE on my face!" After one show, a guy came up to me and told me he'd come down to cheer up -- his girlfriend had dumped him, and he was actually feeling suicidal. But that bit had made him realize there was plenty of fun left to be had in one life.
How could I trade that moment for anything?
So I did fail in one sense: I forgot to sell out. Okay, I didn't really get the opportunity. I also used to say, "My artistic integrity ends right around the point payments on a Corvette begin."
But we only get one shot at this life, and many believe we only get this one.
I've had a lot of fun, and been awed at the respect I've been given by those much, much more talented and successful than I have been.
But most importantly, I've made people laugh. I've entertained people when they were at their lowest. I've even inspired people to try music, or comedy or writing themselves.
I can live with that. I can die with that.
Saturday, 31 January 2009
It's About God Damn Time
Some say the end is near. Some say we’ll see Armageddon soon. I certainly hope we will. – Tool (Ænema)
I’ve always held a great fascination with post-apocalyptic literature and film. Something that takes place after the shit has hit the fan and the remaining humans must cope with the breakdown of society. I want to see the population culled by at least three billion and my family and I will live among the ruins with the other survivors. I do not expect zombies or vampires or a rage virus, but we are due for a cleansing epidemic of some sort. Something that happens rapidly on a global scale before we even know what hit us would be great. The resulting collapse and disorder would damage infrastructure somewhat, but hopefully leave some technology intact. I don’t want to go back to the Stone Age; I just want to see real bears on Wall Street and the end of the white man’s reign. That end may be coming sooner than you’d think. From Maynard, Mayans, and McKenna the message is clear. The actual date may be in dispute but they agree that December of 2012 is going to be an interesting time in history. It just might possibly be the end of it.
The civilization of the ancient Mayans was based upon both unimaginable savagery and an advanced understanding of astronomy. When they weren't ripping out still-beating hearts, their High Priests mapped the heavens and created precise language and tables to chart the movements of celestial objects. The end of their 5,126-year Long Count calendar is marked by the winter solstice and the alignment of the sun with the center of the Milky Way galaxy. That date is December 21, 2012 on our Gregorian calendar. There are some scholars who claim the actual date will be the 23rd, but what’s a mere 48 hours in a 5,126-year cycle? The Mayans left no record of what would actually happen on this date, but time ends here for some reason. Maybe it’s time to make human sacrifice fashionable again before God gets angry and eats the sun.
On the other end of the technological scale, the psychotropic philosopher Terence McKenna also mapped out the arrival of what he called the Transcendental Object at the End of Time. According to his theory, which I will not pretend to understand fully, we are moving towards this Object at an ever-increasing pace through both technological advancement and psychedelic experimentation. The Object is simultaneously moving towards us in its own incomprehensible fashion. We will confront this Object on December 12, 2012, the day some have termed the Omega Point. Predictably, the Object will appear much like the monolith in Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey and I suppose we will all grunt and shriek before it and then someone will hurl their bone-white iPod against it. McKenna, along with computer programmers, provided a mathematical model to prove his theory though the development of his Timewave Zero software. The program carefully maps out history and its conclusion is that 12/12/12 is the day that the appearance of the Object will rupture reality. The most interesting part of McKenna’s theory is that the Unknown can be experienced by many, but by each in their own way. Thus the fundamental religious mind may attempt to grasp this unknowable by seeing it as the appearance of the Virgin Mary or the second coming of Jesus or Judgment Day while the New Age or scientific mind might envision it as a visitation by an alien race. McKenna also hedged his bet by imagining a wide range of possible phenomena occurring on this date. From the extreme “soft end” in which nothing perceptible actually happens to the extreme “hard end” in which the oceans boil and the stars fall as written in Revelations.
I’m hoping for the hard end. Let’s just shoot this lame horse and move on. It is high time for the holier-than-thou to get sorted out and for the Facebook status quo to end. Sure there are going to be loved ones that suffer in the end, but they are all suffering anyway. We have reached the nadir of western civilization and it is high time to put it out of its misery. So just how does one prepare for the end of time? I’m not joining a cult on a compound or building an ark, but I’m going to make damn sure I’ve got plenty of booze on hand during those weeks and maybe even “an heroic dose” of psilocybin if I can score it. The end is nigh, so let’s all get high. I’d like to see that Transcendental Object in a McKenna state of mind. I’m ready to board the spaceships and see the stars up close or for the Rapture to come and clear the place of Christians. Even if it did go down biblically and we were all left standing in line behind the velvet rope waiting for St. Peter the bouncer to let us into heaven like it was the hottest new gay disco in town, I welcome the change. I’m up about the downfall of mankind. To quote still more song lyrics, “It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.”
I’ve always held a great fascination with post-apocalyptic literature and film. Something that takes place after the shit has hit the fan and the remaining humans must cope with the breakdown of society. I want to see the population culled by at least three billion and my family and I will live among the ruins with the other survivors. I do not expect zombies or vampires or a rage virus, but we are due for a cleansing epidemic of some sort. Something that happens rapidly on a global scale before we even know what hit us would be great. The resulting collapse and disorder would damage infrastructure somewhat, but hopefully leave some technology intact. I don’t want to go back to the Stone Age; I just want to see real bears on Wall Street and the end of the white man’s reign. That end may be coming sooner than you’d think. From Maynard, Mayans, and McKenna the message is clear. The actual date may be in dispute but they agree that December of 2012 is going to be an interesting time in history. It just might possibly be the end of it.
The civilization of the ancient Mayans was based upon both unimaginable savagery and an advanced understanding of astronomy. When they weren't ripping out still-beating hearts, their High Priests mapped the heavens and created precise language and tables to chart the movements of celestial objects. The end of their 5,126-year Long Count calendar is marked by the winter solstice and the alignment of the sun with the center of the Milky Way galaxy. That date is December 21, 2012 on our Gregorian calendar. There are some scholars who claim the actual date will be the 23rd, but what’s a mere 48 hours in a 5,126-year cycle? The Mayans left no record of what would actually happen on this date, but time ends here for some reason. Maybe it’s time to make human sacrifice fashionable again before God gets angry and eats the sun.
On the other end of the technological scale, the psychotropic philosopher Terence McKenna also mapped out the arrival of what he called the Transcendental Object at the End of Time. According to his theory, which I will not pretend to understand fully, we are moving towards this Object at an ever-increasing pace through both technological advancement and psychedelic experimentation. The Object is simultaneously moving towards us in its own incomprehensible fashion. We will confront this Object on December 12, 2012, the day some have termed the Omega Point. Predictably, the Object will appear much like the monolith in Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey and I suppose we will all grunt and shriek before it and then someone will hurl their bone-white iPod against it. McKenna, along with computer programmers, provided a mathematical model to prove his theory though the development of his Timewave Zero software. The program carefully maps out history and its conclusion is that 12/12/12 is the day that the appearance of the Object will rupture reality. The most interesting part of McKenna’s theory is that the Unknown can be experienced by many, but by each in their own way. Thus the fundamental religious mind may attempt to grasp this unknowable by seeing it as the appearance of the Virgin Mary or the second coming of Jesus or Judgment Day while the New Age or scientific mind might envision it as a visitation by an alien race. McKenna also hedged his bet by imagining a wide range of possible phenomena occurring on this date. From the extreme “soft end” in which nothing perceptible actually happens to the extreme “hard end” in which the oceans boil and the stars fall as written in Revelations.
I’m hoping for the hard end. Let’s just shoot this lame horse and move on. It is high time for the holier-than-thou to get sorted out and for the Facebook status quo to end. Sure there are going to be loved ones that suffer in the end, but they are all suffering anyway. We have reached the nadir of western civilization and it is high time to put it out of its misery. So just how does one prepare for the end of time? I’m not joining a cult on a compound or building an ark, but I’m going to make damn sure I’ve got plenty of booze on hand during those weeks and maybe even “an heroic dose” of psilocybin if I can score it. The end is nigh, so let’s all get high. I’d like to see that Transcendental Object in a McKenna state of mind. I’m ready to board the spaceships and see the stars up close or for the Rapture to come and clear the place of Christians. Even if it did go down biblically and we were all left standing in line behind the velvet rope waiting for St. Peter the bouncer to let us into heaven like it was the hottest new gay disco in town, I welcome the change. I’m up about the downfall of mankind. To quote still more song lyrics, “It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.”
Thursday, 22 January 2009
judgement day
the idea of a judgement day to me means that someone slaves their life away in the hopes that after the game is over they get a prize. it's kind of like when you are younger and you only play a sport such as baseball or football in the hopes that after the game is done you go out for ice cream and not a vicious ass fucking by your local priest or drunken uncle.
in order to judge there must be a certain viewpoint which is right. now this ultimately means that one path, and possibly one religion, is the right away.
"we pray to as many different gods as there are flowers
but we call religion our friend"
i should get trashed for this quote, and rightfully so as it is from a jewel song. and as a side note, am i the only one who thinks that all her songs sound like they should be for tampon commercials? getting back to the point or lack of one, is it to say that on the day of reckoning that we might be judged on something which most of us feel is wrong but others don't?
maybe the catholic church (or as i like to call them, NAMBLA) and the few priests who practice lil boy fucking will be the ones right and we will be punished for not partaking in this extra curricular activity. or maybe those great tribes in africa that worship a shrub and believe woman shouldn't be allowed to have that pesky clitoris will be the chosen ones.
if this is judgement day i think something should be done about it. all the gods in the world should have a royal rumble like wrestling match where the winning god can judge all the mere mortals. this will make sure that the god you chose is a fucking winner. the only problem with this idea is that the atheists will be fucked.
"I swear to fuckin God I raise Hell
and make the white man call me MASTER"
in order to judge there must be a certain viewpoint which is right. now this ultimately means that one path, and possibly one religion, is the right away.
"we pray to as many different gods as there are flowers
but we call religion our friend"
i should get trashed for this quote, and rightfully so as it is from a jewel song. and as a side note, am i the only one who thinks that all her songs sound like they should be for tampon commercials? getting back to the point or lack of one, is it to say that on the day of reckoning that we might be judged on something which most of us feel is wrong but others don't?
maybe the catholic church (or as i like to call them, NAMBLA) and the few priests who practice lil boy fucking will be the ones right and we will be punished for not partaking in this extra curricular activity. or maybe those great tribes in africa that worship a shrub and believe woman shouldn't be allowed to have that pesky clitoris will be the chosen ones.
if this is judgement day i think something should be done about it. all the gods in the world should have a royal rumble like wrestling match where the winning god can judge all the mere mortals. this will make sure that the god you chose is a fucking winner. the only problem with this idea is that the atheists will be fucked.
"I swear to fuckin God I raise Hell
and make the white man call me MASTER"
Monday, 12 January 2009
30 years young and as joyful as ever
Deserve?
What the fuck?
Who among us can honestly say they deserve a goddamn thing?
I don't and I'm sure as shit that neither do you.
Life is not a fucking gift. We are not fortunate.
We just are.
That's it.
Don't go looking for answers kid, because you ain't gonna find any. All you're gonna find is a deep, dark abyss. And when you're staring down into that hole, the only thing you'll see looking back is yourself.
Make your choices, take your shots, live your life.
Or don't.
It's entirely up to you.
What the fuck?
Who among us can honestly say they deserve a goddamn thing?
I don't and I'm sure as shit that neither do you.
Life is not a fucking gift. We are not fortunate.
We just are.
That's it.
Don't go looking for answers kid, because you ain't gonna find any. All you're gonna find is a deep, dark abyss. And when you're staring down into that hole, the only thing you'll see looking back is yourself.
Make your choices, take your shots, live your life.
Or don't.
It's entirely up to you.
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