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.