Adrift

There's a lot of debris in my brain, meandering on the currents of my stream of consciousness, often getting caught in little whirlpools. This debris, in theory, is collecting on the shore into a form. A novel. So far, I've got about three quarters of the frame, part of a wall, and a lot of fucked up decor. But it hasn't quite begun to resemble its full shape.

I can see all the ideas out there, in the foamy chaos of my brain. Drifting, just out of reach. All the pieces are there, I just can't seem to get them to the destination, put them together.

I want to kill Warren Ellis. He writes like a caffeine driven robot of semiotic destruction. I don't actually want him dead, I would then be sad without his words. But I want someone to forcefully restrain him and dose him with transindustrial quantities of whiskey so that he is too incoherent to form complete sentences and maybe, while he's stumbling around naked trying to find his cigarettes, I'll have time to put the debris together.

I'll have a novel, and he'll have written approximately a billion words of fiction, articles, and blogs. But I'll have a novel damn it.

Some days, you just pray for a storm.

8:43 a.m., Westbound on ***** Avenue (Rorschach Up)

Dead cat on the road to work, today. Bloated from gasses inside, tabby-stripes looked like big lines of smeared mascara. Meat baking on the asphalt, food for the hungry gutters of a feral city. Victims of her parasitic, internal-combustion spawn.


I hate seeing dead cats on the road, or dead dogs, or any of the animals routinely preyed upon by the freeways and streets. Cars, not wolves or pumas or even hunting tribes of men with dark skin are the modern predators. Steel and plastic and glass sharks trolling the black lanes, with empty human minds guiding them. They kill without caring and warning. Only the growl of the engine, the primal screeching of tires and the rhythmic, ceremonial sounds of music vibrating through the windshield is there to even acknowledge their predation.


The bodies melt on the streets under a desert sun turned violent by the concrete and iron and shards of brown bottle scattered like seeds on the sidewalks and parking lots. I often wonder what is growing from it all, what phantom non-vegetation creeping from the cracks, creeping vines of metropolitan entropy grown strong on the diet of festering meat, anxiety and blackened air.


I offer up silent words for the souls of the dead, fed the city so it might continue to thrive in the sands and the sun. Not a prayer, more an invocation. How long before It eats the rest of us?


At night you can smell her, feel her shifting. The sounds echo across endless miles of hard, constructed surfaces. The wind blows, and this sweet, rotted and musky scent drifts on the air. Not human, not animal. It smells of diesel exhaust and putrid water, sweat and stale beer, burnt rubber and cheap perfume, despair and dried blood.


I see visions of the hordes dead cats and dogs, coyotes, legions of crushed cockroaches and dessicated scorpions rising forth like mottled tide of scuttling vengeance. It consumes everything in its wake, a geophage, scouring this flesh, cleansing like terrestial maggots.


And this… is what happens when I give up caffeine.

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.

Er, blog?

Oh yeah. I have a blog. Shit.

Is it just me, or do other people sink in and out of reality on a fairly regular basis? I don’t mean the Right Wing-stick-your-fingers-in-your-ears-and-scream lalalala-pretend this-shit-isn’t-happening reality schism. I’m talking more like I’m driving through the mountains, enjoying Reality FM playing all your classics and every time you pass a peak, it fades into static. When the broadcast comes back, the song has changed, the world looks a little more fractured, and everything makes just a tad less sense.

So, I sort of come to again, resurfacing into the turbulence of the world around me. I’m watching the TV while I try to explode my heart this morning (see also: Running on a treadmill) and I see one of those lawsuit commercials. I have a lot of theories on why these monstrosities run so much during the early morning, but that’s a topic for later. The commercial at hand was for Mesothelioma, that rather nasty result of inhaling too much asbestos if I’m not mistaken.

In said commercial (they call themselves a public service announcement, yet it was a law firm that bought air time for their pending civil suit) they described Mesothelioma as a “serious form of cancer.”

Serious cancer. As opposed to all those light-hearted, whimsical types people have. “No, no, I have serious cancer. Not your girly, ascending bowel cancer.”

Every so often, I worry I’m getting a bit too sociopathic. But then I watch the cattle-call for law suits, please sue someone with us because they didn’t know that X insulation or Y medicine, at the time, was dangerous. Life not going the way you want? Blame someone. Blame anyone. But not yourself. You’re a moron, and obviously you shouldn’t be trusted to wipe your own ass.

Not five minutes later, there was another lawsuit commercial, this one for any recent patients of open-heart surgery who also had to undergo dialysis. According to this commercial, some patients may have been given medication that caused kidney problems, including failure.

So, of course, the smart move is to ramp up huge lawsuits attacking the very doctors, nurses and drug companies who, just coincidentally, saved your heart from melting in your chest. That’ll show them to try and, you know, HELP sick people. Bastards.

Let me clarify. I believe the Healthcare industry, in particular for-profit drug companies which regularly push new products past the FDA so quickly their head spins are in dire need of reformation. But throwing litigation around like they’re dinner mints seems a less than ideal way. But that’s just me, and as we all know, I’m disconnected from reality.

But not so disconnected I couldn’t avoid the media blitzkrieg about Michael Jackson’s death. There were birds on my patio squawking about that. We have truly reached an age that unless you’re in a cave somewhere and the stalactites get crap reception, some information just can’t be avoided.

But much as I complain, that’s a good thing. I like to think that, in the age of instantaneous information, people will not longer be able to justify ignorance. “I didn’t know!” Wrong, you did. Companies won’t be able to hide the side effects of their products, politicians won’t be able to pretend ignorance, people will not be able to sue rabidly..... no, that's far too Utopian of a concept.

Sorry, reality disconnect. See you on the other side of the mountains.

The Last Act of Defiance

Borrowing the title from an Exodus song (from the album Fabulous Disaster. Thrash metal circa 1989).

Lately I've felt little inclination to interact with the outside world or play about in the online realms. Might be a touch of information overload or a malaise of apathy. Or the fact I've pretty much stopped drinking and that was about the only real inspiration I had for clawing my way up the bodies of enemies and proclaim my greatness and magnificence to the world. Now, if I could be arsed to make the climb, I'd mutter "Fuck off" and take a piss of the edge, and crawl back to my cave. But it seems like too much work.

There's a sense of anticipation all around. The air is thick with worry and all moist. Like the world is waiting for something to happen. Or maybe it's just me waiting for something interesting to rise up, many-tentacled, and chew the corners off reality and shit them into some interesting new form. Yog-sototh and Cthulhu, are you listening?

Just one zombie, that would make it all seem worthwhile. A mad scientiest unleashing a plague of mutant locusts that devour all the nylon in the world and bleed fire from their carapaces. Something. You're fucking killing me here.

Where's a giant radiation-breathing dinosaur stomping down cities when you need 'em?

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.

Not dead yet..

Still blogging also, amidst Nanowrimo chaos. But I've confined most of my operations here

http://www.myspace.com/chaoshangover

Open profile, so if ye want to peruse anonymously, you can. But I encourage you to add me and thusly have the freedom to properly hate monger and post criticism to your hearts desire.

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.

Furniture shopping

I was looking at the furniture we bought for the new apartment (we moved in about three weeks ago). Somehow, all my choices ended up being what we bought. Even after I was banned from the furniture store, or even furniture shopping with the girlfriend ever again.

It's not my fault, frankly. After the seventh or so time a salesperson asked me if I needed help, or not-so-smoothly tried to sell me on whatever vomit-looking bedroom set happened to be near me at the time, I stopped feeling the compulsion to even feign politeness. The salesbastard who asked me not once, not twice, but three fucking times if he could make some suggestions, I asked him if he could recommend which particular type of material best hid blood and semen stains.

Questions of "Did you have a particular set up in mind?" "Yes," I said, "which of these couches is most likely to not break under the weight of a horse?" or "Sure, I know it would look great with cherry wood, but if you force someone's face into it, how likely are they to smother?"

What I got was not horror or shocked silence. No, instead, I watched these saleswhores attempt to come up with an answer, fumbling through "Well, uh, I imagine" or "I'd bet it could problably withstand leather bindings, I guess..."

Defeated, I gave up and was asked by my girlfriend to go wait outside. Before I made it to the doors, one last sales person assured me he could really get me a deal. I said "Dude, if I wanted a whore in a bad suit to suck my dick for money, there are websites. Fuck off."

Sales. It's not a job, it's a religious cult with white shirts and fugly ties instead of death shrouds. From twenty feet away, they look and smell the same, vultures reeking of carrion and their own filth. Except I'd rather have a vulture vomit the decaying remains of a week-old road kill on me than sit through a timeshare presentation. I have limits, after all.

The furniture looks nice. I keep thinking what would really tie the room together would be the corpse of one of those salesbastards hanging over the entertainment center, however.