I was jazzed as all get out yesterday when I went to the
grocery store and saw that Count Chocula was back in stock! Just one of
the many reasons why October is THE month. I promptly purchased 49 boxes
and 33 gallons of Darigold whole milk.
These phantom clowns are becoming more prevalent. I don’t think I can stop what is going to happen. These occurrences are not really surprising. I suspect – as I have always – that we ourselves are manifesting a very particular type of evil, born from our inherent sinful nature and nurtured through our growing hate, corruption and insatiable desires. A dear friend recently told me the dignity of our race is slowly decaying. Perhaps we have simply run our course. I myself woke up several times last night in a panicked state, reaching for old books and clutching at pendants, clinging to symbols. Is there anything true in our hearts? I’m not sure who or what was also present in the room with me but these encroaching forms are growing much stronger. Are false idols participating in our downfall? Is there no sin we have not embraced? Are these born of my own evil? Or is someone else – maybe several – also participating, perhaps even more actively than we suspect?
You know, Joe’s Garage has some utterly fantastic music and songwriting but I would love a version without all the concepty spoken word parts and interludes. Or if they had just made those separate tracks instead of incorporating them directly into the songs. Damnit, it would be so easy! Still, I can’t fault the ambition. By the same (is it? I’m not sure it is) token I’d forgotten how much I love the song Munchies for Your Love by Bootsy Collins. I listened to it last night on the way to and from the cinema. What a great tune; real thick, groovy and evocative. Great album too I should add. I can still recall where I purchased it, what I purchased alongside it and where and when I first listened to it. What an artist! Incidentally, the feature film I viewed was Hell or High Water. Real sweaty Texas noir! I highly recommend it.
I’m not saying I like Inferno more than Suspiria. But then again I’m not not saying it. Maybe I enjoy them both equally though in (slightly) different ways. Is that allowed? Maybe it isn’t as slight as I think. Maybe I should just say “in different ways.” It is certainly a rich piece of art. Italian horror, I heart it. On a semi-almost-completely-unrelated note I was watching the movie Al Compas del Rock and Roll (from the Golden Age of Mexican Cinema) last night and I very nearly suffered a cardiac event. Seams. I sometimes wonder what my world would be like if everything were in black and white and those are some of the most blissful moments of my catastrophically failed life. Santa Sangre is also something I have been unable to wash off my brain but it is definitely much more a piece with the former rather than the latter. She said no compute. Don’t not compute. I never realized the connection until now, how wonderful. A couple of the absolutes greats, one already gone but never forgotten. Thank You that I could see both of them. And all of us still here simply going mad.
There is more Yamila out there, much more. I can feel it. It’s the only thing that gets me up in the morning. My life’s mission is far from complete. I almost bought the book Chariot of the Gods last night but I just couldn’t pull the trigger on that one. I also thought about buying a book about baseball (baseball is my life) and a book or horror short stories. I think I’ll buy one or all of these very soon though so don’t worry.
Memories come back to
me in an awesome wave: I walk into a room and immediately look over at the
gloriously large dry erase board and the see the word “EARTHFUCK” written in
capital letters. I will never learn the
meaning of this word or why someone felt the need to emblazon it upon the board
but I know in that very moment it is a something which will stay with me to the
end of my days. I have a slim notepad
clasped in my greedy hand and a quivering joyless grin on my face. I do believe I was not as well shaven as I like
on that particular day. The
clickity-clack of callused fingertips on keyboards was running rampant, as was
the dire sound of shite modern rock. The
discussion becomes heated: inappropriate remarks, color commentary, a plethora
of ignorant statements. At one point I call
a woman named Vicky a fool to which she replies, “I’m the fool?! You’re the one doing fucking lunges!” She’s right: during the tense discussion I
did run through a few sets of lunges, it’s important to stay limber even in the
worst of times. I give her retort a
hearty chuckle and the situation diffuses itself shortly thereafter. My attention then turns to another woman, one
whose name I still cannot bring myself to say aloud or even write
(incidentally, the last time I attempted communication with her was roughly 1.5
years ago when I texted her a picture of a modern art piece by Damien Hirst
though she did not respond. It’s understandable,
Hirst is one of one of the divisive artists of the modern era) but she is the
real reason I’d braved the frigid elements that day and made the long icy sojourn
to that basement level room. My God,
more than anything about that excursion I remember with joyous clarity that she
was wearing dark patterned hosiery with black high heels. She crosses her legs and absentmindedly lets
a shoe dangle of the tip of her right foot, exposing her sole. Does she know? Does she know that I want her to use my face
as her personal footrest after a long hard sweaty work day and tell me how
fucking pathetic I am (and still am), what a fucking loser I am (and still am),
how I long for those pantyhose encased soles to crush my face and block off my
air supply? I think she knows. Her smile is tender, her blue eyes kind. She goes to work on what I present her with
and, as always, her work is divine. You
helped to form me. I will not forget. You know, recently I
also found myself wishing to have a choker forcibly placed around my neck with
a short chain attached to it which connects to leather restraints binding my
wrists. I always imagined the aforementioned
(in yesterday’s post) Jackal with the shaved head perpetrating this and
more. I wonder if these thoughts are in
anyway related to those memories?
The first actor to play
a live action Lex Luthor was also the first actor to play a live action Commissioner
Gordon. That is a hell of a legacy and striking
a great balance between fictional good and evil. Lyle, I doff my hat to you and tonight I will
drink excessively to you.
I hope they have a copy
of The Wailing.
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