Prologue to a uh

Why is it so difficult for me to play the game? 

The other day I was driving around late at night with a saxophone on the seat next to me and I was suddenly struck by all the meaninglessness everywhere.  I wish I had untold millions of dollars so I could purchase every DC Comics Archive which has ever been released in the history of mankind.  Then I would line them up on gorgeous oak bookshelves and drool while staring at the numbered spines.  Then I would pay voluptuous Latina prostitutes to read them to me while using my face as their footrests.  I think I’m going to buy the Criterion blu-ray of Days of Heaven today but don’t quote me on it.  I have been misquoted too many times before, especially by the left-wing muckrakers at The New York Times.  The Times is such a toxic periodical I sometimes wrap several copies around my face in the hopes the poisonous vapors will extinguish my futile existence.  Alas, it seems I’ve built up an immunity to toxins over the years, no doubt through my various criminal enterprises and well documented experiments with chemicals and narcotics.  

At some point in the next 457 days I would like to purchase another volume of the Superman Chronicles.  Holy shit I love golden age comic books.  There is an elegance and beauty in their simplistic art and storytelling.  If only my life were more like a golden age comic book perhaps I wouldn’t be such an ugly, fat-faced sack of garbage.  But I probably still would be.  Even in the golden age not everything was golden.  But Superman in particular I love because he has such a good and pure heart.  His is an example I catastrophically fail to emulate each and every day.  I always hoped Jim Caviezel would play Superman and he was my top choice for the role since the early forties.  However now it seems this was simply not meant to be.  Still, if Warner Bros. ever decides to make a live action filmic adaptation of Kingdom Come or any other type of future Superman story where the character is portrayed as a bit older then Caviezel would still be top choice.  Interesting how Caviezel stated playing Jesus Christ greatly damaged his career (though he also added he would do it all over again).  Interesting that this would be controversial.  I know far too many people who are not tolerant of any beliefs or way of thinking other than their own.  I have been described as a misanthrope.  I wish I had a future…anywhere.    

If I were tasked with selecting my favorite John Frusciante album I would no doubt start by dropping large piles of excrement into my rent trousers due to the stress.  Frusciante’s discography is rife with amazing material.  I can’t deny Shadows Collide with People holds a special place in my heart but could that be considered my favorite?  What about the bleak yet endearing Niandra Lades or the cleansing return to form To Record Only Water for Ten Days?  Still, I lean a bit towards The Will to Death but then I think: what about the acoustic elegance of Curtains or the stormy, impassioned The Empyrean.  And fuck, what about the electronic gumfuddlingly angular and brain-tittingly righteous PBX Funicular Intaglio Zone which I have pretty much listened to 897 times a day since it was released last year? 

Lately I have been having intense, burning while I urinate desires to purchase a synthesizer.  I’ve narrowed it down to 233 choices but I will likely only be able to afford 2.  After purchasing a synthesizer the next necessary purchase will soft slash hard ware for recording my great avant-garde musical expressions.  You, dear readers, will likely be the first to have their earholes blessed with my muzak. 

The older I get the more I become a stew of bizarre fetishes.  Truthfully, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I’ve recently been burning my way through a collection of used blu-rays.  There are so many books I need and want to read I sometimes wonder if I will ever find the time or if I am simply destined to die a worthless and ugly man.  The amount of time I spend doing things which mean nothing to me is shocking.  People are a mass of contradictions.  Something which is acceptable one moment is reprehensible the next.  Something flattering at dawn is offensive at dusk.   Something is coveted for a single minute and then forgotten in the following one.  No one is guiltier of this than yours truly.  

I loved her belt.  I wished to compliment her on the belt but I did not have the guts.  I didn’t have the testicular fortitude.  I didn’t have the chops.  I couldn’t cut the mustard.  That fact will haunt me for the rest of my days and render me impotent in the zaniest of situations.  How I long for a woman who would break a plate over my head.  If I am at all honest with myself and my constituents it wasn’t simply the belt I loved but also what was lurking underneath the belt.  Oh sweet glory.  And thank you department store for all the different colors.  Seeing is believing as they say.  

The treadmill scene in Season 8 of Dexter is one of the best scenes ever filmed in the history of television.  Those who have not yet seen it will know what I am talking about when they do and their lives will never be the same.  When next we meet you will all be telling me what amazing taste I have but the funny thing is I am already well aware of this fact.  

Batman Returns is my favorite Christmas movie and one of my favorite films of all effing time.  I love the divisive nature of this movie.  I love to love it.  That’s the great thing I can say about anything I love – from a piece of music to the most bizarre fetish – I love to love it.  I have felt so connected to the bass recently.  What a beautiful instrument.  It is the perfect instrument for me, how I love a fat bottom end.  Bass humping the face, that’s what I always need.  How I love a fat bottom end humping my face. 

For obvious reasons, Never Say Never Again is my probably my favorite James Bond movie.

I'll kneel before you if it will save lives

Last night I watched the movie Watchmen again.  It filled me with the same sense of unbridled joy which always comes with viewing this film.  How I love it so.  Immediately after I reached for my well-read but still well preserved copy of the trade paperback and started re-reading all my favorite parts – not realizing until untold hours later I had just re-read the entire story once more.  Watchmen truly is one of my favorite literary works and I often cling the trade paperback to my bosom the way a child clings to a beloved and comforting plush bear.  It is a fully absorbing and inspirational work.  Likewise the film also has a spot amongst my all-time favorites.  Mark my words: Watchmen (the movie) will one day be held in supremely high regard in the cinematic world.  I predict a 2001: A Space Odyssey-like resurgence in critical and popular opinion.  I am often correct about these things.  I wisely predicted back in my review of I'm With You by the Red Hot Chili Peppers blog post from September 4th, 2011 that Ben Affleck would one day don the cape and cowl of the dark knight (though some predictions I wish would never come true.  Still, I am doing my level best to remain optimistic). 

It’s occurred to me recently U2 are one of my favorite bands. This occurs to me at least once a week.  What more could possibly be said about Achtung Baby?   Tis’ only one of the greatest albums ever made and I say that with all the authority of a man who has not listened to nearly all of the albums ever made.  I feel so bad for those misguided fools who cut themselves off from entire decades of music.  What pathetic parasites that deserve all the hate in the world.  It makes me want to take hammer to nails and build a log cabin out in the wilderness where I would live off the land and never have to see their vile faces again. 

I watched the movie Out of the Furnace this weekend and before the feature presentation there was a slew of previews of coming attractions.  The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug arrives at the multiplex this Friday and even though I have no real interest or desire in seeing it I am certain I will.  Not sure what other movies I’m looking forward to this year.  November and December are those ultra-tacky months with all the miserable award-bait movies.  How the academy disgusts me.  How award-bait movies repulse me.  I don’t reckon The Hobbit will be an awards-bait movie (especially considering the not-great critical reception of its predecessor) so perhaps I should be more excited for that movie.  Honestly, I cannot recall when I was more looking forward to watching a movie as much as The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug.  I still need to get my hands on the director’s cut of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey.  I wonder what uncut goodness has been added to the film! Perhaps another 27 rousing hours in Bilbo’s house, washing dishes and singing songs!  Maybe another 19 hours of running in tunnels from horrible CGI goblins!  Perhaps each and every scene was simply extended even further, thus ensuring that a single line from the book now takes 59 hours to unfold on screen rather than the previously rushed 34. 

Fantasy fans are amongst the absolute worst when it comes to arguing about adaptations or taking personally a criticism of their favorite works.  So to that end I will just say to all you Hobbit fans (movie, I enjoyed the book) out there that I respect your opinion and believe there is room enough in this vast, ever expanding crazy universe for all types.  I will be there opening night for this new adventure in Middle-Earth though I am a bit worried since Benedict Cumberbatch played the Necromancer in the first one and is now playing Smaug in this one and I fear I may confuse the characters throughout the entire film!

Transitioning back to the more level-headed and calm world of comic book movies, all everyone on the planet has been discussing this past week is the announcement of Gal Gadot playing Wonder Woman and the news of this character set to appear in the upcoming sequel to Man of Steel which may or may not be a Superman vs. Batman movie (though it definitely has Ben Affleck as Batman).  I cannot recall another movie in the history of my worthless life which has subjected me to such a consistent and dramatic fluctuation of emotional highs and lows, each devastating in their impact.  To say the news of this casting broke the planet into a billion irreparable pieces would be the gross understatement of the millennium.  Reaction to this casting choice has been mixed at best with many folks and sites throwing out some particularly venomous comments.  I would not be much of a smelly comics fan if I did not throw my 2% of one dollar American currency into the mix so here goes less than nothing:

I am a huge fan of Wonder Woman and have been so for untold centuries.  It is true that she cannot claim the number one spot on my list of favorite superheroes on a particularly consistent basis though she can claim it at least a few times a year and this is something which cannot be said for 99% of the rest.  She is simply a great character.  I am deeply in love with her.  The combination of beauty, power, intelligence, compassion and sexuality is utterly irresistible to me and in a future blog post I would like to delve uncomfortably deep in what I find so fascinating and wonderful (haha) about this character (icon).  I have not seen any of Ms. Gadot’s work (for better or worse I tend to avoid the Fast and Furious movies) so I cannot comment on her acting.  At this point it is largely irrelevant anyway without any idea of the story or the size of her role.  Comic book movies have a rich history of casting not-as-well-known actors to great success.  As far as acting is concerned I am far more worried about Mr. Affleck.  So instead I am going to be a jerk and comment on her physical appearance like everyone else is doing.  Then I can happily be labeled superficial or chauvinistic or some other delightful thing.  She looks too skinny.  There.  I said it.  It’s all out in the open now.  It’s been twisting around in my stomach since I first saw the announcement. 

I know, I know, I’m being a superficial jerk but the look is without a doubt a significant part of this character (as are my heated S&M style fantasies).  I know, I know, I’m also not paying attention to history.  Plenty of actors have been deemed too skinny or short or out of shape or just wrong for these types roles and again and again have proven living jokes like me wrong (Henry Cavill most recently and Heath Ledger quite famously).  Why, just a couple years ago I was screaming to anyone in earshot how Tom Hardy did not look physically imposing at all and would not be a credible Bane but I was proven so wrong I should have been forced to watch The Hobbit: A Long Drawn Out Journey again before being subjected to  The White Stripes entire discography.  Additionally, from interviews I’ve seen, Ms. Gadot is very personable, very charismatic and yes, very pretty, which are all qualities inherent to the character.  I am ashamed of my fanboy self just as I try to resist his pull.  I want nothing more than to be proven completely wrong (as I happily often am) by a photo or piece of footage and to then be ridiculed for ever doubting.  I was so happy to hear that one of my favorite characters (from any medium) was going to finally have a big screen debut and I want that feeling to only grow.  And so I will focus only on that feeling from now on.  I am sorry Gal, you deserve so much better.  The negativity is all out of my system.  I can now be cautiously optimistic. 

Regardless of all the misgivings I've discussed in this insightful blog post I must now express pure happiness at simply being able to watch so many movies!  Watchmen, Out of the Furnace, The Hobbit, the upcoming Superman vs. Batman and introducing Wonder Woman and featuring Everyone in the World!  Regardless of whether I love or hate something I am just so gosh darn thankful to the powers that be for the opportunity to view it all!  And what a great time to be a nerd!  At what other point in cinematic history could we witness a Hobbit trilogy and the makings of a Superman vs. Batman movie?  Repulsion from director Roman Polanski is so captivating and the Criterion blu-ray so beautiful that I am tempted to simultaneously gouge out both my eyeballs with a horseshoe just from thinking about it.  I like to have binge marathons where I watch Repulsion, The American Friend and La Nave de los Monstruos 17 times in a row at 5 minutes past every hour. 

I have been thinking of getting the logo of my favorite XFL team tattooed on my back while waiting for the new season to start.  

What have they done to the earth?

I can’t be the only one who thinks the chorus melody to the song Alien by Britney Spears (track 1 off her new album Britney Jean) sounds like the pre-chorus melody to the song Behind Blue Eyes by The Who.  Or can I?  Spears’ new album is unusually restrained; a gentler, slower burn of a disc following the dance heavy trifecta of Blackout, Circus and Femme Fatale.  That does not inherently make it less interesting musically speaking or less vital in her catalog though this is not the only reason the album initially stands out as something of an oddity.  The shortened length and lack of promotion does make one initially wonder if the album exists more as an advertisement for her Las Vegas residency and less as a serious minded artistic statement (either way the timing is very likely not a coincidence).  Highbrow folk may be quick to point out the slew of writers and producers which worked on this record as something which would preclude any artistry whatsoever (I was almost tempted to follow this logic when I saw how much credit is given to the odious Will.I.Am).  

However I have always found something of a strange nobility and artistry in extremely glossy over-produced pop music and Spears’ oeuvre is no exception.  Certainly, Ms. Spears herself has stated this is a more personal work and one expressly crafted as a “thank you” to the fans.  And the songs themselves are already yielding trademark production intricacies along with some surprisingly yearning vocals.  The icy synths of this release cascade before me like a shimmering bubblegum snowfall.  In this way perhaps it would be better to draw comparisons to Nine Inch Nails’ 2008 album The Slip.  This was an album given minimal promotion (receiving more attention for the innovative way it was released rather than for any of the music), spawned only one single and was a good deal shorter than the releases which preceded and followed it.  Yet Trent Reznor also noted that The Slip was for the fans first and foremost and seemed quite proud of the work.  Years later it remains one of my favorite Nine Inch Nails releases.  Indeed, part of its charm is actually its shorter length and rougher edges which provide a fittingly dramatic counter-point to the more layered and polished records by this artist.  How Britney Jean will stack up in upcoming years and what place of stature it will fine in her catalog remains to be seen of course.  But I am interested to find out. 

It seems she is single now.  I remember with vivid Technicolor clarity the very first time I saw her.  It was a standard mournful, depressing morning – the likes of which rear their ugly faces at the start of each and every punishing day in my failed life – and I had fixed myself a lofty bowl of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes (the ones with the colorful cock on the box) and switched on the television, anxious to suckle a bit on the glass teat before beginning what was sure to be a miserable, worthless day.  Images flickered across the screen and before my eyes like flipping through a picture book of corruption: killers on the city bus, people slaughtering entire families, teenagers succumbing to drugs and gang violence, girls getting pregnant while in 6^th grade, racial discrimination, political corruption, wars overseas, wanton acts of terrorism everywhere.  Can one blame me for feeling disgusted?  What vile creatures we are.  

But then.  

Then.  

Then I happened I stop on the E! network and suddenly all the world’s problems and all the disgusting humanity wreaking (while also reeking) their typical and repugnant havoc across the planet seemed far away.  The smoke began to disappear and I could make out the figure of a woman.  A voluptuous goddess taming everything with her spirit of peace and nurturing and in that moment I felt all was going to be okay.  I set my bowl of aside and called in sick to whatever pointless job I had at the time.  The latest issue of TV Guide informed me I was catching the early stages of a 4 hour marathon and there was nothing which would tear me away from this pure, exquisite vision; she was love, she was everything. 

I watched her crack an egg open and allow the yolk to fall into her hand.  It stayed there for a moment and then slowly she allowed the liquid to slip through her fingers and into a waiting bowl before letting the entire yolk fall in after.  This was glorious, indefinable sex.  How wet my immediate surroundings became that day.  And everything from the pastels of her wardrobe to her hair – as dark and rich as the chocolate she loved to eat – to her teasing accented voice, only drew me deeper into her wonderful caloric web.  Oh how she savored her creations.  How I longed for her to roll me up as though I were a ball of cookie dough and playfully plop me into her mouth like all the delectable food she makes and then crush me between her glorious white teeth and then roll me against the roof of her mouth with her elegant tongue while her hot saliva begins to drown me.   Perhaps I would become inadvertently wedged in between two of her molars and she would have to be rough and push me out with said tongue.  And before she swallows me she tells me in her posh accent how tasty and yet how pathetic and ugly and useless I am.  Beautiful. 

Last night I had a rather horrifying dream involving a woman named Lynda with whom I actually went on a date a few months ago.  In the dream I found her somewhere – it felt like a house I used to live in but everything looked a little off – and she was extremely visibly shaken.  I asked her what was wrong and she related to me a history of alien abduction, with 5 experiences taking place all within the past two weeks.  She started to cry while describing the appearance of the aliens and suddenly I was able to see them too and I then joined her in the crying.  I spent the rest of the dream desperately trying to convince her that she was dreaming or suffering from strange hallucinations but I did not truly believe this.  When I awoke I spent the rest of the night with the blanket pulled over my head, still trying to convince myself her experiences in my dream were only dreams themselves.  It did not entirely work.  

I really don’t think this texting thing is going to catch on. 

A fight to the death in the tunnel of love

If there is one thing I am attracted to in a woman it is when she uses a Bumpit in her hair.  I once worked at a very high profile jewelry store in a commercial mall where I frequently racked up millions of dollars in sales – earning a commission on every penny sold which I would immediately turn around and invest in low risk mutual funds in wise anticipation of the market dipping.  Each day, while walking through the mall on the way to the jewelry store I would pass a Mexican restaurant which employed literally thousands of tempestuous waitresses.  During this moment in my daily sojourn I would turn my head in their direction and walk using only my peripheral vision.  I would pay particular attention to a delightful and full-figured hostess (as full as a ham on rye sandwich stuffed with delicious meat and dripping condiments) who happened to sport a Bumpit.  I do not believe she ever caught my lecherous leers and likely knew nothing about the rich array of fantasy she inspired.  I imagined climbing her Bumpit enhanced hair like a mountain, only to lose my foot on some uncertain strands and fall screaming to my death.  I imagined her lowering her head and charging me like a bull and crushing my stomach with the iron like strength of her Bumpit where I would then subsequently die of internal bleeding and in extreme pain.  I imagined a swarm of enraged killer wasps flying out from her hive like hair and stinging me millions of times until those wonderful final, feverish moments. 

Day after day I would stare into that glorious restaurant, imagining what I would say to her if given even half the chance.  I wanted to reach my hand out with the promise of taking her away from all the sweaty resignation of common, everyday life.  In that scenario I liked to imagine her pulling out a heretofore hidden machete (perhaps carefully stocked away inside her towering Bumpit hair) and swiftly chopping off my arm at the elbow Jason Vorhees style.  After years of careful consideration I finally decided I would walk right up to her and say, “Hi, is that a Bumpit in your hair or are you just happy to see me?”  I said this out loud to myself in a quiet and red colored room to get a feel for how the words sounded when making contact with the air.  The cleverness of this line caused me to erupt in childlike fits of laughter and the joy was so great that I was only able to quash my enthusiasm by taking a sharp and sterilized Exacto knife [which I’d pilfered from a local middle school science lab after doing a presentation there on monotremes (egg-laying mammals) – a subject which I became something of an expert on after a lengthy study abroad and following several papers which were published in widely respected periodicals Scientific American and Popular Science] and making three 5.9 inch cuts along the inside of my left thigh.  I then doused the cuts in rubbing alcohol and sat on my bed staring at a hole in the wall where I was convinced lived a man who had seven kids, each of them telling me to commit unspeakable acts.  When I finally worked up the courage to step foot inside that restaurant and speak to this woman I was crushed to find she had quit.  For the following eleven weeks I ate 9 double cheeseburgers a day in order to cope with the loss.  At the end of each day I would look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and tell myself it was all going to be okay and one day I would be able to love again. 

There is a big ugly hole in things and I do not know how to fix it.  This cannot be what was intended.  I once called it a social disease (cleverly quoting from Bon Jovi) and was told I sounded like a Republican.  What is this horrifyingly empty life we create for ourselves?  Every single day I have at least one moment which borders on sheer panic as I confront things so profoundly empty and repulsive.  Some of these things want to reach out and touch me.  Some of them even have intimate knowledge of me and are so blind they actually believe there is a point.  There is nothing inside any of them and sometimes I have to wonder if they are real or simply a terrifying illusion from a tortured dreamer’s mind.  In those instances I am not sure who exactly the dreamer is…but I think I know where he or she or it may be living.  Oh god please get away please don’t touch me don’t come near me why do you talk to me why do they all talk to me how can they not see how disgusting it is how wrong all of it is why all this waste and emptiness how we can go on thinking that everything is okay fuck it is so repulsive it is so fucking repulsive please don’t let me see it anymore oh god what is happening all the thoughts inside my head are crashing against one another I can’t think at all I can’t see anything except horrible ugly fucking faces and one massive creeping soul that eats every fucking thing exists only to eat and hate and fuck endless fucking oh please oh god oh please what is happening to me

At long last the trailer for The Strange Colour of Your Body’s Tears was released yesterday. I watched it 267 times while at work and an additional 471 times while relaxing in my posh flat and sipping on a glass of Pinot Noir.  I have often found myself wishing my life would begin to mimic the plot outline for a Giallo but so far this has not come to pass.  Needless to say this is going to be one of those movies I look forward to almost as much as my own demise and the months will pass like millennia until I am finally privileged to view whatever limited release it may have.  Additionally, since the waiting and anticipation has been so intense – and coupled with my passion for the horror genre, Giallos and anything with a surrealist kinetic style – I will surely convince myself I love this film regardless of how truly amazing or truly awful it is.  I wish I had a future, anywhere.     

It’s that time of year again ladies and germs!  The time has come where I prepare a list of my favorite movies, music and reads of two-zero-thirteen.  My lists are going to set the whole town on fire!  Hold on to your asses because these next few weeks are going to see a lot of great updates and hog-wrangling excitement!  It’s going to be the literary equivalent of someone shooting their spunk into your eye and then slapping you across the face with a lightly seasoned poached salmon.  Can anyone guess right now what my favorite movie of ’13 is?  I will give you all a hint: it could be a cute and clever movie about slugs that enter a racing competition.  Still can’t figure it out?  Don’t worry, in time all will be revealed.  However I can for sure tell you that The Strange Colour of Your Body’s Tears will definitely be on my list of the best movies of 2014!  Already a freebie and the year hasn’t even started yet!

That’s right, you keep pumping em' out and we’ll keep paying for em'. 

Could it really be about the plight of the Native American Indian?

Today is a day we devote to stuffing large amounts of fattening foods down our gaping maws and wondering what stores we are going to frequent afterward in order to secure the most righteous deals on merchandise.  Eating is such an amazing experience.  On Thanksgiving I like to eat until I am stuffed and then I like to stick my fingers down my throat like a crazed infant and vomit that succulent combination of turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, yams, and pumpkin pie into the great porcelain bowl like a fascinating piece of abstract performance art.  Few things in life give me as much pleasure as tossing my cookies.  This cleans my stomach out so I can commence with the ritualistic binge drinking.  I purchase several 18 packs of Tecate (cervesa con caracter) ahead of time as well as several bottles of inexpensive red wine.  As the night progresses I drink and I puke and I am reminded of all the steadfast realism I see when I move the red curtains and look out my window at night.  I cannot say why but for some reason the sight of the distant street light fills me with incomparable dread, especially when it is green.  I don’t know where I was when I realized my life is a dream.  Funny how secrets travel.  I have been considering purchasing a gigantic box set of the show Gatchaman but who knows if I will ever have the intestinal fortitude to go through with such an audacious act.  Who amongst us has not harbored fantasies involving being subjected to electrocution by raven haired goddesses from the south?  I once met an individual claiming to be a deity from another dimension who was half man, half woman.  This person offered me gifts which were blinding blue in color.  I was afraid to look at this individual.  When describing me, many people say music was my first love.  I understand the hyperbole but in actuality my first love was a girl named Melissa.  She would call me “Raisin-Bran” on occasion as a diminutive jest on my name.  She’s dead now. 

What I have written above has absolutely no value.  It is not remotely entertaining nor is it in any way, shape or form an insightful commentary on Thanksgiving or life in general.  However I can recall with numbing clarity watching the movie Carrie for the first time when I was a wee youngster.  My mother was in the room with me and when I inquired about the opening scene – which I did not understand at all at the time – she refused to elucidate on the subject.  Despite this, I never became a large fan of Brian DePalma’s work; Carrie is still my favorite movie of his (though it is far down on the list of my favorite Stephen King books).   Those who know me best know I have very little use for holidays.  One does not need a designated day on the calendar to eat like a pig.  This is obvious because people do it every day, me included.  A person also has the capacity to be thankful for anything on any given day (I think).  These days the only benefits I find in holidays are the days off from work they provide (admittedly, this is a huge boon) and the TV specials.  A Garfield Thanksgiving still beats my hirsute ass into puckering submission.  Why must we all be such dull programmed automatons?  What has happened to everyone in the entire world?  Strangle me please!  If she were standing before me I would beg this of her.  How I adore Italian food.  Carrie is phenomenal though.  I must buy this motion picture on blu ray immediately that I may watch it 59 times in a row every Tuesday for the next 17 years.  Only then will I ever have a prayer of advancing my invented universal language (consisting of tongue clicks and guttural noises) into the more scholarly circles at Harvard and Yale which determine the future of our fair planet.  I listened to a lot of Vicente Fernandez this week.  Of his more recent albums folks often cite Para Siempre as the best and though it is excellent I think I may actually prefer its follow-up Necesito De Ti.  If only she would punish me for this transgression.  As previously alluded to, Italian food is so glorious. 

I witnessed two things of nigh indescribable ugliness this week and they were both in the same place.  I will never forget those eyes.  Grotesque, disgusting bulging eyes.  They were the eyes of some ancient evil and belonged to a hideous, bloated bird like creature with an insatiable hunger.  The worst thing in those eyes was the knowing.  There was a definitive knowledge and acknowledgement there despite all the protestations of innocence.  Time had elapsed; it could not have been simpler.  Before me, the life of a monster not worth preserving.  If only I’d had two freshly sharpened Ticonderoga number 2 pencils at hand then those repulsive ungrateful eyes would not have bothered me so.  And what is behind door number 2?  Why, only a glorious pale entitlement.  A giant tall glass spoiled milk.  That is a brilliant and shockingly apt description.  This thing was looking for ways to exterminate innocence and bring an end to something pure, if for no other reason than this thing has nothing of value underneath all the artificial niceties.  This slime covered alien beast is equally as horrible and intrinsically wrong as the bird like monster.  The violence inflicted in the past was deserved and not nearly enough.  All those fancy toys cannot hide the truth and that is true ugliness.  No crossing rivers for this thing, only fire.  I became complicit in these acts and I may never be able to come to terms with this fact.  The only hope of salvation lies in offering the innocents an opportunity for retribution. 

It is hard to believe a year has passed since she went away.  For the entirety of that year I was unable to listen to her music.  Today, finally, I was able to listen again.  As always, beautiful.  Wherever she is, I hope it is a better place than this.    

This year – as in most years of my utterly failed life – I am most thankful for luchadoras and denier, but especially the combination of those two.  

I made a vow on the night of their deaths...

My mind reeled and careened off the tracks due to an assaultive wave of desire of passion.  There were colors – so many colors – and oh, how they glistened.  It was cave walls made of soft rainbow clay and I wanted to rest my cheek against them and taste all the different shades.  So many explorers in this vast and disturbing universe yet surely none would ever be capable of scaling the great walls that daily threaten to envelop every decent thing which stands.  Some would no doubt try and discredit my eyewitness testimony and point to the blood and butterfly generating chemicals which were surging to critical points of contact in my grotesque body.  Please forgive the endless longings yet how I yearned to hear the words.  “Patetico!” “Feo!” “Asco!”  How I longed to hear these words and many more followed by beautiful, mocking and cruel laughter.  Tears stream down my face at the slightest thought of any of this.  One second of reminiscing and my tears water fields which stretch on for miles.  As everything began to coalesce and culminate I started to experience the tremors in my hands and legs which only come from the blessed and inevitable gush.    

In the mysterious land I am beckoned to her and completely unable to resist.  The commands – tan dulce – are melodic in my ears.  A second time around.  How unexpected and yet how utterly joyous.  I cleared everything away, scattering the strange creatures inhabiting my mind.  Stacks twenty miles high were shoved off to the side and the focal point of the day suddenly experienced a profound shift.  Quivering with anticipation I opened the door.  My brain was convulsing inside its skull

And concluding both of these mysterious nigh-conspiratorial encounters was the same action – an action which sealed the obsession and ensured a slavish devotion.  A simple glance, barely lasting two consecutive seconds, a simple glance backward to ensure all eyes were where they were supposed to be.  How could there have been any doubt?  Surely, the pundits would never have doubted.  No, the goddess must have known.  Yet she desired to see the full strength and influence of her power, knowing others are helpless to think or fend for themselves.  Of course full concentration was in the equatorial area, a sumptuous hemisphere encased in black.  To be drawn into that orbit would surely unlock heretofore unheard of spiritual delights. 

It never hit me until recently that Darth Vader was a racecar driver.  What origin story compares in disappointment level to Darth Vader’s?  I would say Hannibal Lecter’s is equally disappointing from a pure story sense but overall does not compare since very few people actually saw or read Hannibal Rising whereas the entire world has watched Episodes 1 to 3 (since I love to suffer I regularly watch Hannibal Rising and The Phantom Menace back to back, taking breaks only to listen to my Hinder and White Stripes albums!).  If anyone can think of an origin story more disappointing than Vader’s please let me know!  Sometimes I am confused and believe my father is actually Country music legend Ronnie Milsap but up until now I have always been able to remember this is simply not the case.  Only time will tell if I always be able to pierce through the veil of fantasy to see the reality within. 

I was in a department store not too long ago purchasing a Roman Polanski film, a Kung-Fu movie and the first two Phantasm flicks when I was stopped by an apparently homeless man who also happened to be deaf.  His clothes were unclean and unkempt and he sported a big wooly lumberjack beard which I admired but did not covet.  His eyes were a piercing blue and his hair messy and receding.  He handed me a tattered three-x-five card with a written request for donations.  I took out a BIC pen (nothing writes like a BIC) from the inside left pocket of my pea coat and wrote on the card in my trademark block letters: Sorry, I do not know how to read.  I handed the card back to him with a look of stark and frustrated confusion and then promptly exited store. 

The whole encounter caused me to erupt in fits of orgasmic laughter (I always laugh immediately following an orgasm, I think most honest people would admit to the same) and I stumbled through the streets choking on my chuckles, chortles and guffaws.  Since I like to park my motor vehicle – a very expensive and yellow colored hybrid which I purchased as a declaration for my raw animalistic love of the environment – at least 5.9 miles from intended destinations I was able to enjoy a long mirth filled walk where I repeatedly fell in love with myself due to my own rapier wit.  I say repeatedly because after a few minutes I would drop deep into the self-loathing phase where I would consider randomly running into the streets with the hopes that a sturdy SUV would strike me so hard I would fly over the vehicle like a trapeze artist before slamming into the unforgiving pavement and inhaling a mouthful of gravel.  I imagined myself struggling to move with so many dislocated and shattered bones and then from the corner of my eye I see a semi-truck barreling down the road with the driver is too busy tending to the cup of McDonald’s coffee he/she spilled on his/her lap to notice me and then so many big wheels crush my head like a watermelon and the road is covered in pieces of skull, chunks of bloody flesh and squishy brain matter as though a macabre carnage filled piñata had just been whacked open at a young lad’s true-life horror themed birthday party.  However this did not happen and I eventually made it back to my car. 

In a cruel twist of fate I laughed so hard during the journey I inadvertently pulled several muscles in my stomach and chest and collapsed at the door of my vehicle, intermittently wheezing and screaming in joviality-draining pain.  I managed to dial nine hundred and eleven and humbly request an ambulance which promptly arrived some forty-five minutes later.  I blacked out for a long period of time but when I awoke I was in the hospital and a team of the finest medical professionals were sweating and slaving to save my miserable life.  I stayed at the hospital for nine months while in deep recovery and during this time I fell madly in love with my physician – a raven haired goddess with eyes as black as a cold winter’s night and hips which could scarcely fit through the door.  My passion for her was so intense that forever more I have been impotent unless my romantic partner is wearing rubber gloves.  Such is the price of wisdom. 

I want to write a book that has a group of characters on a quest for some mystical crystals which are the only things capable of saving their world.  There aren’t enough quests in books these days.  It broke the piss and shit out of my heart to see Shia LeBouf (puke) is starring alongside Mads Mikkelsen (swoon) in the soon to be released stateside Charlie Countryman.  I will watch it opening day and consume a large bucket of hot buttered popcorn while wishing Shia would never appear in another movie again and Mads would play every part in every movie for the rest of eternity.  Then I will go home and put on my pajamas (which these days consists of a cut-off Hard Rock Café T-Shirt and neon pink thong) and promptly go to bed. 

The problem with Congress is they’re all liars!

And no one heard at all, not even the chair...

I feel sorry for a shocking amount of people.  Yet it needs to be said my feelings of pity are often tinged with feelings of resentment.  The amount of willing ignorance on display is truly staggering and sometimes I slap myself in the face repeatedly just to provide some sort of distraction.  I think one day we will all metaphorically open our eyes and realize how much we missed out on during the course of our small, meaningless lives.  Oddly, one of the things which makes my mental testicles itch the most is when people tell me they are open minded when they clearly are not.  It is those people who most deserve to be cast down into the pit for all eternity.  It is truly a shame more people cannot think like me.  Lately, I have been considering a career in video game soundtracks despite having no musical talent and no real interest in playing video games.  The first album I listened to today was “Heroes” by David Bowie.  I tend to listen to this album 27 times every hour on the hour.  I wish I could swim like dolphins can swim. 

Recently I found myself in a little “Mom and Pop” store called Wal-Mart.  I ended up there after a caustic and sweaty night of binge drinking and claim jumping.  I originally considered removing the wooden framing and sharpening the glass edge of my window and then laying down on the sill and letting the window drop down and close which would effectively chop of my own head where it would then fall and bounce like a beloved and well played soccer ball on the grassy knoll below.  However I ultimately decided against this because I have not yet had a chance to purchase the blu ray release of Phantasm II and I could not possibly quash my existence without seeing the fidelity of the transfer with my own three eyes.  I do recall before ending up at The Mart I was drinking Bourbon in a little dive off the interstate with a bail bondsman who sported a navy blue blazer and slicked back hair.  We discussed baseball, the NASDAQ and the best brands of chewing tobacco.  Abruptly, he terminated our friendly banter, picked up his crocodile skin briefcase and vacated the premises without so much as a “goodbye”.  I threw back a shot of El Capitan tequila and winced as it slid hot down my throat like the seeds of so many steamy lovers.  Then I drove with the speed and ferocity of a man just escaped from an insane asylum and on his way to brutally violate and murder those who had put him there and I did not rest until I reached my destination.

While frolicking around Wal-Mart I happened to spot a woman who made me stop dead in my slacks and stare inappropriately and with nothing but pure and feverish lust in my heart, the type of lust that can only be caused by a extra sized, thick-thighed and mountainously-derriered woman squeezed into unashamedly tight clothing (in this case black pants and a white collared shirt which are always weaknesses of mine).  Her skin was tan and her hair black, starkly pulled tight and ending in a classic ponytail.  My jaw was slack and my pants constraining and I immediately wished to submit myself to her mercy.  It was only after further staring and a traverse through the filthy and stained memory canals of my mind I realized I had seen this woman before, many times before and I knew exactly.  Truth be told, she was one of the first who had initiated the dark and fetish filled cycle of sexual hell which had slowly and perversely taken over my grotesque existence. For years I had managed to escape her joyously crushing and blissfully suffocating grasp but there was no hope now.  A smoker smokes when the chips are down.   And so my obsession was born anew, free to gather its legions once more. 

I bit off all my nails then drove home with a Tom Waits mix tape blasting out of my cheap speakers which blew out years ago.  It took me 7 different tries before I successfully unlocked my door and subsequently stumbled in.  I was greeted by my invisible cat Leonard and then I poured myself a hearty bowl of Frosted Flakes (which I ate with a plastic spoon I’d procured from a Chinese place in the mall eatery) and proceeded to have a miniature Dennis Hopper marathon with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, Blue Velvet and The American Friend.  The first of these makes me laugh; the second makes me jump and dance with joy while the last makes me weep uncontrollably.  I collapsed to my hands and knees and crawled out to my humble balcony and prayed for the strength to lift myself over the guardrail and plummet to my death below.  I love imagining my head splattering on the concrete like a fleshy watermelon with hair where upon pieces of bone and chunks of meat and brain splatter across the ground as though an overzealous child had sampled a lovingly prepared nachos and salsa platter and – upon realizing he despised their taste – decided to hurl it across the impeccably paved walkway.  Sometimes I imagine one of my eyeballs popping out due to the force of impact and rolling several yards away where it is eventually stepped upon by a hapless passerby who is the first to discover the grisly remains of my freshly rotting corpse.  The other day while having a drink with a mathematician I was delighted to find out the waitress’s name was Janeth.  I wondered if she would object to me calling her Miss Janeth but did not have the courage to ask.  In my diseased head I will forever more think of her as Miss Janeth. 

The other night I watched the feature film The Counselor directed by Hollywood mainstay Ridley Scott and starring a gaggle of hip stars including Michael Fassbender, Penelope Cruz, Cameron Diaz, Javier Bardem, Brad Pitt, Rosie Perez and John Leguizamo.  It also happens to be the first original screenplay by novelist Cormac McCarthy, author of The Road, No Country For Old Men, Blood Meridian (or The Evening Redness in the West) and a slew of other great reads.  Despite this most impressive of pedigrees (so impressive I briefly considered downing a bottle of sleeping pills so I would not have to face my inherent inadequacies one more miserable time) the movie actually turned out to be quite the mess.  But oh what a mess!  A bold audacious mess far removed from the homogenized Hollywood horseshit good ol’ Ridley has been excreting out in recent years [excluding Prometheus of course (which I – like most people – absolutely loved)].  The scenes play over and over again in my mind, spinning around like a mad carousel.  While the cold surfaces and icy aesthetics are totally in keeping with the Scott style it can be truly said the characters are 100% pure unfiltered McCarthy.  I often found myself wishing I was Brad Pitt’s character and that feeling of empowerment stayed with me long after the credits rolled where it was just me in the theatre wondering where I would head for my daily post movie theatre binge drinking session.  The movie has left an indelible impression on your truly and I plan to watch it at least 57 more times before it leaves the local multiplex. 

I never met a man I didn’t meet.  

"Wanna fight?" I asked the police officer.

Everything looks better when lying on the floor.  Dozens of empty bottles line the counter tops and window sills of my posh flat.  Many of these bottles are green while others are brown and some are simply clear (my favorite color) once all the beautiful red or pink (the colors of amor and passion) liquid has been siphoned out.  It has always been in my nature to swallow and the first swallow slides so wonderfully down my throat and into my stomach.  Oddly, I always feel the first one – the first deep one that is – more in my head, at the bridge of my nose right between my glassy fish-eyes.  It seems strange but the feeling starts as a heaviness before giving way to a wonderful lightness (it is here I always remember Portia De Rossi’s fantastic memoir).  It is reborn inside of me and cries like an infant, wanting more and more.  Its cries tug at my bloody heartstrings and the music they play is oddly beautiful atonal free-form jazz.  I cradle and comfort it and give it everything it desires.  How can I not?  When it looks at me with pleading eyes and grabs my pinky and giggles between joyous and greedy suckles.  I rarely notice the forked tongue which sometimes slips out.  

The floor always yields the greatest and most furiously explosive forms of intimacy.  Doble Sentido.  These perfect words echo down the dark and dank inner corridors of my mind, ringing in the air like a haunting refrain.  For a brief instant I remember a televised interview I watched with Lisa Marie Presley promoting the release of her debut album but I quickly push this out and away.  Doble Sentido, I repeat it.  And then glorious and shiny visions of technocumbia burst into my brain, showcasing the brightest colors of the spectral rainbow and all accented by beautiful blacks, tans and creams and glitter.  Voices harmonize in the background and I am unable to recognize the mysterious words they sing.  But their voices are honey and as the sugary sweet melodies encircle us all I know I am blissfully helpless to escape any of this.  One by one they take their turn and I take mine.  With a smile they point toward the floor and it is immediately apparent where my lips belong, where they have been dying to venture for the entirety of their existence, before that even.  I have never been more anxious or nervous in my entire life.  The leather separates and the sound is a gate opening to paradise.  And it is here the combinations of flesh, fabrics and of course – the top secret addition – that wondrous by-product of hours upon hours spent dancing in the bright lights, all come together to create the intoxicating and entrancing perfume which has never existed anywhere else in the universe.  Their eyes are all knowing and tell me how unworthy, how pathetic and degenerate I am.  Thoughts and sensations race through me in equal accordance with my surging blood and they all threaten to overtake me.  The denier.  Oh the denier, such a wondrous measurement, such texture and such scents and such sheen.  This is what first penetrated itself into every corner of my psyche and birthed the monster of desire.  The ticking of a clock pounding inside my skull.  I saw the imagery so rich in thick delights, back and forth, underneath one another and somehow being unnaturally heightened becomes the most natural thing in the world, so many vueltas, being confronted by full and tempestuous heart and sole.  As they continue to sing and mock I am lost in the world they have created: the reinforced and glorious tips, the smell of color and sharpness and the crushing of so many sacred and perfumed arches.  Somewhere, two ripe plums explode. 

I like to lie on my floor and stare at the headlights flashing across my bedroom walls.  My mouth is frequently dry and the sensation of rusty blades somehow cutting through my thoughts is quite prevalent.  Often in these moments the futility and uselessness in almost everything strikes and I feel its weight against my chest.  Why is everything (especially myself) so repulsive?  The walls start to bleed and I start to cry and I cannot figure out how this disease has spread to everyone.  As though we vomit our sickness on the face of anyone we meet.  Is there anyone truly deserving of salvation?  Fear always grabs me around the throat in these moments and sometimes I pull a blanket over my head and sometimes I grab a knife and cling it to my chest the way a child would a teddy bear.  It is here where I can most easily believe my own lies.  I tell an average of five hundred and fifty seven lies every hour.  I try to tell as many of them on the hour as possible but even for a man of my considerable skill that is not always possible.  Sometimes I like to buy seven loafs of Albertson’s brand white bread and use one for my pillow while letting a few of the unwrapped loafs rest tenderly on my pale hirsute body.  I like to then toss one gingerly up into the air and catch it, sometimes adding another loaf into the mix which creates an awesome and grainy juggling effect.  The last loaf I use to decorate my room with delicious slices of bread, sometimes nailing them to the wall – after using my handy Craftsman stud finder – so they will not blow away when the next powerful Nor’easter comes tearing through my humble burg.  “Loaf” and “loaves” are probably two of my favorite words of all time while bread is something which always has and always will occupy a place so special in my heart that the mere thought of it sends me into a catatonic state of sweaty bliss wherein I promptly defecate in my rent trousers and tear my shirt open in a manly and reverent tribute to bodybuilding great and Hollywood favorite Lou “The Glue” Ferrigno.   

I am lying on the floor right now because I am too afraid to stand up and look outside the window.  He (or was it they?) was/were correct in the assertion there are no more lines to cross or barriers to break.  Everything I know and feel is held together by the thinnest of threads.  I frequently find myself at something of a moral crossroads and though I have heretofore never faltered in taking the perceived path of the righteous I cannot deny that each and every time I find myself at this choice it is the path of the wicked which looks increasingly more attractive.  It beckons me with a siren song.  Everything holding us together can be broken down in a single instant.  I see it happening just over the horizon and it is the most horrifying sight.  The streets will turn to rivers of our blood.  Lately I’ve been seeing strange things out of the corner of mine eye.  They are fast and dark and frightening but when I turn my head to look they are already gone. 

I love the taste of makeup.

"I'm one of you!" I screamed

I am falling deeply in love with Mads Mikkelsen and I do not know where this love will take me. 

I remember dearly the sound of sleep.  It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard.  I burst into tears at the thought of never hearing it again. 

The questions came – as they invariably do – and I did my best to provide honest answers.  Still, lies always have a way of sneaking through no matter how hard I try.   Did I recognize the dangers inherent in my actions?  Of course I did.  I always do. But I never exert any self-control.  I am just like everyone else in that regard.  We all do exactly what we want.  Everything was magenta and black and a strange and wonderful color I could not identify.  I stared into it as long as possible but always had to look away as it began to hurt my eyes and damage my insides somehow.  Combinations which emphasize tactile and olfactory sensations often yield the best and stickiest results.  It is especially that latter aspect which I find most mysterious and captivating in this particular instance.  I can feel everything changing, the way the air changes right before a storm.  Is it even possible we would be willing to open ourselves up to such simultaneous dangers and pleasures?  Is there any version who actually knows the desires of the hidden heart?  There is so much blackness and subjugation and endless trails of shining leather and soft lace.  How is it that I could ever hope to rest my face against the polished steel of such honeyed and abrasive words?  I waited so very long.  She is looking down when she tells me to kiss it.    

There is no one with any strength left.  I have come to believe there may be no one hearing the thoughts inside my head.  There is singing and harmonizing and my desires are filthy and deranged.  Electricity courses through my veins and I am unable to differentiate between the human and machine sides of myself.  I gesticulate and fling my limbs about in a matter which can scarcely be labeled as “dance” or even anything approaching rhythmic.  Rather, it is much closer to a seizing or perhaps convulsions before a much anticipated conclusion or unexpected transformation.  I was driving when I realized that every single thing in the entire world grinds me down with inadequacies and perhaps no one or nothing is more culpable in this matter than yours truly.  I began to grip the wheel with one arm crossed over the other – exactly how we had been instructed not to do while back in ye old driving school (where I first learned the dangers of ingesting certain chemical compounds).  For the next seventeen minutes I had no less than four thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine separate urges to drive my car into some fatally hard surface such as a brick wall or thick meaty telephone pole.  I even considered steering it off a bridge and laughed maniacally at the thought of the uncontrolled descent and the cold water which would blanket my final moments.  What has happened to all of us?  How can there be so much wasted ambition and useless lives in such an easy place?  So many coupons and free rides and government dollars and smoke and condoms and secretions and accidental babies.  I am never not amazed at how many of us make monumentally idiotic decisions over and over again out of fear. Pathetic and repulsive are such polite words which do a disservice to the magnificence of the disease.  I woke up in the middle of the night not too long ago and saw my bedroom door open even though I always close it before going to bed.  There was a figure standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the meager moonlight spilling in through the window blinds.  I saw long and unmaintained hair which may have been grey or white and noted broad shoulders and a large build but could make out no other details.  I could not even discern if I was looking at a man or a woman. 

I am fairly certain someone attempted to murder me today while I was at work by slipping an untraceable poison into my water bottle which would have made me appear to have a simple and common heart attack.  But I clutched my jiggly belly, threw my head back and laughed heartily after dumping the water down the sink and throwing away the water bottle.  People can try and kill me but I will never die.  No matter how close I get I will always rise from the ashes once more. 

Recently I purchased the album “S & M” by Metallica.  It is a 2 disc live set where the boys in blue tear through some of their most revered classics replete with orchestral accompaniment.  Those who know me best know I have a particular brand of hatred for rock musicians who attempt to shoehorn orchestra into their songs.  All those strings are simply never necessary and only give the music a rank and sour odor of cheese left out in a humid room.  My initial reaction to this set was positive but I am beginning to wonder if this was simply a reaction to having a new (to me) and live Metallica album to feast on with my ear holes.  Subsequent listens have proven less immediately satisfying and more and more the string arrangements have become aggravating.  As is the case on 99% of albums like this they sound forced in there for absolutely no reason and clutter the music in really disgusting ways.  We shall see over the coming decades how my views on this album change. Kylie Minogue actually released a similarly styled live album a year or two ago which turned our far superior and does not fall within that 99%.  Does this mean Kylie Minogue is better than Metallica?  It’s hard to say in this day and age. 

Oh sweet Gloria.  The sound of a lusty chainsaw lops off the top of my head and my pleasure sensors are tapped and stimulated by sharp and brightly colored nails until the ground is nothing but glistening puddles at your glorious nylon covered feet.