Heat Wave

This town doesn't have humidity. We have this continual pollution factor that's liquid the way coagulating blood is liquid. It fills the air and fucks up breathability, visibility and sanity. Smog, smoke, dust, exhaust, dirt, sand, debris, chemicals. The air here has texture, flavor, complexity. Inhaling in this town is more than just respiration... it's Russian Roulette with periodic table of the elements.

On bad days, they tell children and old people to stay inside. Why? For fear of their lungs exploding I imagine. Or maybe because there's a paranoia of a race of mutants spawning at bus stops. They even recommend masks that can help filter out the larger particles. It's a dry heat, but it's a dry, toxic vapor of death that doesn't cause as much discomfort as a swamp, but will actually strip off two layers of dermis when the breeze picks up.

It's like a shield, keeping out fresh air, rain, and happiness. It's a dry heat. Much like a nuclear wind.

Cinematic

Wasn’t it in the eighties that the basic romantic film formula was: hot but unpopular girl longs for hot, popular asshole who never noticed her while said girl ignores her caring, nerdy guy friend? And by the end of the movie said girl realizes it’s actually her friend she’s in love with and blah blah yay they end up happy? You can pretty much tell this was written by a guy who failed miserably in romance in high school and had to express the pain in the form of a movie script.

Now the formula seems to be as follows: blatantly hot girl longs for blatantly hot guy who for some fucking reason is “out of her league?” so she turns to her equally hot but totally egotistical, hyper-masculine womanizing, um, friend? who for some weird reason helps her understand the greasy male id in order to make herself more ideal for the man she desires. The twist of course is she falls in love with handsome scumbag and somehow turns him into an almost likable, decent fellow.

Very clearly, this was written by a woman who failed miserably at love, likely by always wanting that very unavailable yet-oh-so-appealing man who slept with her but obviously never actually called back.

Yes I’m generalizing. I can do that. It’s fun. Particularly because the films themselves are terrible, sweeping generalizations yet so many people go see them and in turn seem to think it has some sort of real life application. Like this lady I work with says she has no interest in wasting her time on unrealistic, fantasy-type films but absolutely loves “Sex In the City.”

Yes that fine, full-bodied taste with a hint of cashews and cinnamon is indeed the flavor of epic irony.

She didn’t like when I pointed out that Kim Catrall looks like a wizard, beard and all, in subdued lighting. And despite my protests, they will not let me wear a kilt (a dress kilt even) for professional dress days. I’m tempted to site cultural bias and file some sort of complaint, if I get bored enough.

Year 9

So we're on the cusp of the new year, effectively the day we somewhat arbitrarily as a culture decided to say the old shite's done, let's dig in for a new pile of steamy goodness.

I don't much by into the hype, don't create resolutions, don't think of it as a fresh start (seriously, change is moment to moment, in small bits, these boundaries are complete constructions) but I do like to use it for some reflection. A check point, if you will, of convenience. Within the depths of a glass of tequila (likely me last for a long time), a chance to consider if where I'm at is where I want to be, and if I'm pointed in somewhat close to the right direction.

It is a time to evoke the spectres of chaos looming through the haze of cigar smoke, stare the past in the face with bloodshot eyes and say hey, fucker, we're done. Even if it's not quite done with me. Because even though we can't change the past, it continues to fuck with us. The past is brain-damaged monkey dangling out of reach from the branch of the tree of life, hurling it's shit at us. The things we do have a way of popping back up on us, even if we've forgotten all about them. And it frequently likes to wank off at us, mockingly, humping the air madly in arousal at our transgressions, our mistakes and our failings.

So as you step into the New Year, be ready to duck.

This will be a year of chaos. And that's a good thing. Because you can always depend on the break down of order, on things never maintaining the status quo. Use it to your advantage.

Chaos Bits

My coworker looks over at me today and says "Does Motorhead at high volumes actually cure disease?" Silly question. Of course they do. It's an immuno-stimulant that allows me to deal with this insufferable corporate whoredom.



It's summer, so that means tequila. Lots of it. After 4+ days of 114 degree heat, the thought of bathing in it is becoming very attractive. I sit out on the patio with a glass of something pricey and properly snobby (but not fucking Patron) and listen to trees scream at ultrasonic frequencies because some dickhead decided a decidous oak tree native to the northeastern part of the country should fit in just fine the fucking desert, you know, despite the lack of seasons or water or soil with actual nutrients.



Yes, with enough tequila, you can hear the trees scream. You generally also become super strong, witty, and can drool with pinpoint precision.



Really, there should be more saxaphone in black metal. It's a properly chaotic sounding instrument. Trust me on this.



I've rarely given much thought to my wardrobe. The other day I was looking at my clothes and I realized that other than garments specifically needed for work, I have bought nothing new in this particular department in a very long time. Possibly due to the seizures and projectile vomiting that occured in three previous attempts to get through a department store. Something about the eye-fuck seasonal colors and the toxic vapor cloud hanging over the perfume section. Next thing you know my friend is throwing water in my face and I've got bits of someone else's clothes and flesh hanging from my teeth and was quoting Oscar Wilde in broken Yiddish. Or so he claims.



You know what I haven't done in a while? Bowling. Just saying.