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.