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.