Saturday, December 31, 2016

WTFK

Holy fucking Christ - is it really 12/31/2016?

How the hell did that happen?

I lost a day. Yesterday I was rendered incommunicado thanks to snow considerations.

Who the hell invented snow anyway? I ever meet that guy I will kill him. Not right away, though - I'll torture him first. Acid in the eyeballs, ice picks in the ears, a severed tongue. Then I'll wait two hours before I finally put a bullet in his head.

Another line I like from "FairyTale of New York" is during the give and take between the guy and the woman.

He says "I could have been someone", she says "So could anyone".

We all do that. I could have been someone. My life would have been better if................ We all look at it from our own perspective but the truth is everybody looks at their life that way.

Delusional. Nobody wants to accept their own reality and rightfully so.

I also did not fully explore another aspect of the song.

"Got on a lucky one, came in eighteen to one, I've got a feeling this year's for me and you; so Happy Christmas, I love you baby, I can see a better time when all our dreams come true."

Everybody knows dreams only come true on LSD.

Truth arrives later on in the song when the man and woman attack each other. "You're a bum, you're a punk, you're an old slut on junk; lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed, you scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, Happy Christmas your arse, I pray God it's our last."

Anyway it is December 31. The last day of the 63rd year of my life. I am thinking it over, been doing so all week. As soon as the lights went out on Christmas my stomach got all tied up in knots. Been there all week.

A fucked up retirement. Cancer.

These things got my head swirling.

I am not ready but I can't stop it. Midnight will come, a new year will begin, my 64th year of "life" will start rolling along.

Fucking unbelievable.

Tempting to dedicate 2017 to drinking whiskey in blues bars. Two things that satisfy my soul.

Can't do that, though. That would be like giving up. Then again, if I "try" in 2017 and fail I will have wasted another year, and the supply is dwindling.

I don't know how I'm going to approach the coming year. The tomorrow.

Don't know what I am going to "do" with what remains of my life.

Brain is conflicted. Emotions run strong. Confusion distracts. Disappointment thwarts hope.

Who the fuck knows.

Nope; Changed My Mind

The thought occurred to me that I should get drunk as hell tonight.

Then I could get up tomorrow and begin the day by puking. It would be symbolic of puking out 2016 and clearing the decks for 2017.

But I decided against it.

I have had too many hangovers in my life on my birthday.

Kind of ruins the day.

Friday, December 30, 2016

Oh, So That's How It Works

When four days feel like eight - every single fucking time - it is time to cash it in, baby.

Thursday, December 29, 2016

More

Jesus Christ, is it really December 29? 2016?

Holy Christ, what am I to do.

2017 is screaming up into my rear view mirror, about to pass me and become the future. The new reality.

Another fucking year.

I am bone tired of it all. Wasted on trying to make sense of it all; make something out of my life.

Still, the prospect of change is thrilling. So easy to delude yourself that next year will be different. Much harder to take that delusion and make it reality.

I latched on to "Fairy Tale of New York" by The Pogues as a great Christmas song this year. Partly for the harsh expression of reality, partly for the honest expression of delusion we all employ.

"It was Christmas eve, babe, in the drunk tank, an old man said to me won't see another one."

The harshness of getting drunkenly arrested on Christmas Eve, the harsh truth of the old man admitting he will not live to see another Christmas.

I like the reality of that.

"Got on a lucky one, came in eighteen to one, I've got a feeling this year's for me and you."

That line gets to my gut. Delusion. This year's for me and you.

We all do that at this time of year. Gonna be our year, babe. Things will turn around, we're finally gonna get the life we always wanted.

And one more year passes in dullness and disappointment.

Sameness.

I am hunkering down here. My brain is reeling with thought and anticipation. Some dread, a little bit of hope.

Desperation is a good word.

Of course that word applies to me on every January 1.

Thinking about insanity. Might have to get me some of that.

But I gotta get through the next three days first.

I get almost non-functional just before January 1. Feeling the pressure. Mentally shucking and jiving, swaying to and fro, indulging in delusion, hoping for results.

Gotta work today and tomorrow and that will feed my dark side. Get a lot of broken people shopping in the thrift store. You can tell by their faces, by their attitudes, by their comments, by the way they count change to pay for stuff.

Without drastic adjustment, that will be Carol and me before long. Got almost nothing by way of retirement. At some point, if things don't change, the house is the only thing that might save us. Assuming the real estate market cooperates.

Problem is I am not going to be an old man who relies on his kids for support.

Nor do I want them wiping my ass.

These are my thoughts on December 29, 2016.

Three days before I celebrate my 63rd birthday.

Fucking sixty three.

Margaret Compton

Margaret Compton was 85 years old and a royal pain in the ass.

Not everybody felt she sucked; in fact many thought she was delightful. Perky, functional, reasonably sane - not bad for an 85 year old broad.

But perceptions differ.

Ralphie fucking hated her.

Margaret worked in the local grocery store in this tiny town. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to keep in touch with "her" people. Wanted to keep active.

Every time Ralphie stopped in for a 12 pack or a bottle of wine or a jug of whiskey, she was there. Seemed like she fucking lived there.

He had no problem with old farts trying to stay alive, after all death was not number one on his wish list. He wanted to get drunk as many times as possible, wanted to get laid at every opportunity, wanted to ring every drop of insanity out of his life for as long as he possibly could.

What he did have a problem with was gossips, although Ralphie's definition of a gossip was pretty narrow.

He wasn't much of a communicator. In fact he hated conversation. People were so fucking boring and most had nothing to say. If you outlawed cliches most people would have no use for their tongues.

So when he got to Margaret's register and she just had to ask how he was doing, how the job was going, was that a new truck he was driving, how was his ex-wife's health, he almost went out of his mind.

Get in, get out. That was Ralphie's philosophy. Get out of work, pick up some booze, go home and drink it.

No distractions, no wasted time, no fucking bullshit.

But she just wouldn't leave him alone.

His impatience was poison as he waited in line each time, waited while Margaret interrogated every fucking person ahead of him. Even people with one goddamn item, people who should have been waited on and gone in one and a half minutes, who instead spent five minutes or more indulging the old broad.

It was Friday night and Margaret was robbing Ralphie of precious chunks of his weekend.

Impatience boiled over into anger.

When he finally got to the register Margaret's ridiculous, Shar-Pei wrinkled faced broke into her annoying hometown smile.

Ralphie answered her questions through clenched teeth, openly antagonistic, head down, tapping his boot on the creaky wooden floor.

The explosion came when she got around to asking about his ex-wife's health.

Slowly, Ralphie raised his head until he was looking Margaret Compton directly in the eyes.

"This is how my ex-wife feels", he said, just before he punched Margaret in the face.

The people behind him in line, shocked into inaction,  gasped as she went down like a ton of bricks. Calmly, Ralphie opened up one of his Natty Lights and poured the beer all over Margaret's head.

"Have a nice weekend," he said just before he walked out the door.

Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

No Amount of Quiet Introspection

Tears mixed with blood; both flowed freely down his cheeks.

Once again he smashed the heavy glass ashtray against his increasingly fragile skull.

"I have to get these negative thoughts out of my head. That is what everybody tells me; have to get them out of my head."

This voice screeched in his mind.

They were right. They had to be right. Right?

His life was such a fucking joke. A cogent argument against the very concept of being alive.

No amount of quiet introspection had ever provided answers. He was lost, he had always been lost and now, as time was running out, he was desperate.

Pain and punishment. Pain and punishment. Cathartic, baby.

Psychological suffering was not enough. He had become immune to it. It had become a natural state of being.

Vicious, physical pain was the only option left and it made perfect sense.

Pain, blood, physical suffering - these are the things that get your attention. They can transform you, break you down to your essence; open a window into your soul that will reveal a truth too diseased to ignore.

Bam.

This time he slumped to the floor.

As his vision faded he realized that something felt off. Their logic did not sit well with his understanding of reality. His life as he had lived it; his life as he had felt it.

His essence was at odds with their advice; their fucking wisdom. He sensed this more than thought it.

Could they be wrong? These people with their homes and their smiles - were they fucking lying as he had always believed?

Maybe they did not understand him. Maybe only he knew what was right for him.

Weak as he was he managed to raise his arm one more time.

No way, he thought, no fucking way. My life could not be this fucked up if I knew what I was doing.

His intention was only to achieve catharsis. But he found he couldn't stop.

Peace was what he coveted. A peace he had never had.

The ashtray slammed into the side of his skull.

He died.

Oh Wow

And the thought occurred to him that, on Tuesdays, he would rather be dead.

Monday, December 26, 2016

Jesus Christ - Is 2017 Coming?

I dread this week every year, more so this year than most.

The week between Christmas and New Years Day. January 1. My birthday. 63 this year.

Torturous week as I try to put the brakes on. As I look back at another year in which I disappointed myself and think about another year that promises...............if I only..............

No no no, I am not ready for another year. Gotta make changes, gotta find true peace, gotta achieve at a level to make myself proud.

But I haven't made plans. Don't have a road map. Don't know what the fuck to do or which direction to take.

Anybody foolish enough to read these pages on a regular basis knows I go through this every year.

I love my birthday on January 1 because it is such a clean break, a perfect line of demarcation. New year for the world. New year of my life.

Being the introspective lad that I am, it is also the perfect time to review and reflect. The fact that it is a new year for everybody adds more weight to the fact that it is also my birthday.

Along with everybody else I am hoping for a better year. And I am marking the end of another year of my life and the beginning of another chance.

I make promises, I avoid promises, I make grand and sweeping statements, I say vulgar and direct things. I am all over the map year after year as I struggle to make sense and success out of this thing called life.

A little heavier this year. I semi-retired in 2016, which should have been a sweetly supreme moment. Turned out not to be as pretty as I hoped thanks to a misunderstanding with the social security administration.

I was diagnosed with cancer in August of 2016. Real eye opener, that one.

A year that should have been one of the best of my life came up a hell of a lot shorter than that.

I am bone tired with disappointment.

So here I am. Again.

Gonna do a whole hell of a lot of thinking over the next seven days. Tired of making excuses for myself. Tired of others making excuses for me.

I am a better man than I have shown the world. I have left a lot in the tank. What the world knows is only the tip of the iceberg. What I know is an entire ocean.

Got a saying hanging on the wall. Been there for years. Many years.

"To change one's life, start immediately. Do it flamboyantly. No exceptions. No excuses." William James.

That appeals to me on Day One of introspection week 2016. I need to flail and thrash about, and to make a lot of noise. I need to not back off, ever, under any circumstances, blowback or judgments.

I have been too careful over the years, which is bizarre because my personality is not a careful one.

I am a lunatic on a chain. Might serve me well to get my hands on a hacksaw in 2017.

We'll see. I will try to refine this as I go. I know you can't fucking wait to hear what I have to say.

I am tempted to wax dramatic and say that if I don't get to where I want to be in 2017 I will just fucking give up. Just lay about drinking whiskey and moving along like a subservient fool until they shut me up with shovel fulls of dirt.

But I am not there yet.

Coming To Truth

Why procrastination never works:

Tomorrow is always harder

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Harrison & Harrison Pipe Organ

Making a dump run today. Massive. Haven't been too consistent about it lately. Really don't care.

'Tis the time of year we have to pretend to care that our house is clean.

Anyway...................

I flip on NPR and am immediately blown away by beautiful music. Mind blowing, soul rejuvenating music.

They were broadcasting a Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from King's College in Cambridge, England.

Live.

I did some research. It is an annual tradition introduced in 1918 "to bring a more imaginative approach to worship". It was first broadcast in 1928 and is now broadcast to millions of people around the world. The only year it was not broadcast was 1930.

It is broadcast every December 24 at 3:00 p.m. (England time). I caught the tail end of it.

A piece featuring amazing organ music was playing when I tuned in. I cranked it up like it was the Allman Brothers. So much so that I turned it down a little - I was afraid I would explode my speakers.

I learned that the organ was a Harrison and Harrison pipe organ that had recently been repaired and refurbished. The dude from King's College talked in reverential tones about how much better the organ sounded now. About the effort expended to rejuvenate this instrument and the reward of experiencing such beautiful music.

I get so wrapped up in someone else's emotions when they talk about things that go directly to the heart. I wish I could have seen this guy's face; I wish I could have talked to him.

I don't know what the organ sounded like previously but the music coming out of it today blew me away. Blew me away. It touched my soul and my heart, it brought me out of my dump run lethargy and made me feel fucking alive.

Christmas is contradictory. When I hear music like I heard today I feel the magic. It moves me because it takes me away from reality to a gorgeous alternative reality.

That is what Christmas should do.

But I see and hear all the greedy fools selling and buying, all the insulting commercials, the fucking madness of it all and I want to vomit.

I caught the end of the broadcast and a guy said something like "When you leave here to day you are leaving majesty to re-enter reality. Hopefully the message of this broadcast can reach around the world. That message is love."

He also said something like "May the light of Christmas defeat the darkness."

I so want to believe in those sentiments. I ache to believe them. That you can experience something so beautiful it changes you and inspires you to go out and touch and change others with love and hope.

But I think it is more like a vacation. You go on a magnificent vacation and everything hard about your life melts away.

Until you come home. And go back to work. And realize that your life still sucks.

I was 3,000 miles away from the origins of that broadcast and I was deeply moved. I imagine the people who were actually in the building were shattered in joy.

Still, I don't think any of us will have an impact in the world. I don't think we will make it better.

We go back to working and food shopping and bill paying and struggling to survive and all that beauty fades away.

For a short period of time, though, I felt something so strong it grabbed me and shook me and made me feel good.  It amazed me and filled me with wonder and appreciation.

That might have been Christmas right there.

Friday, December 23, 2016

And So It Goes

Christmas trees trace the arc of your life.

When we were younger and our kids were younger we made an annual trip to Vermont to buy a Christmas tree from Carol's brother Sarge.

Huge fucking trees. I'm talking 9, 10, 11 feet with a trunk so thick I needed plastic explosive to blow off enough to fit into the stand.

Eventually gave up on that and all that sap and got a fake tree. Pretty nice and still pretty big but not as big as the Sarge monsters.

Kids are gone, we are alone and older still. Now we have a tiny tree, maybe two feet tall, that we sit on  a table. Takes 3 minutes and 44 seconds to erect and decorate.

In a few more years I imagine Carol and I will just walk out into the yard and grab a twig. Bring it inside, sit it on top of the TV and admire its simple beauty.

And so it goes.

Thursday, December 22, 2016

Am I Getting Old?

Am I getting old?

Jesus fucking Christ. I just wiped out in my driveway while shoveling snow. Smashed my left knee.

There is a delightful sheet of ice under this beautiful fluffy snow we got this morning. I'm shoveling away behind my car and suddenly I'm on the ground.

What the fuck.

I don't fall down for any reason under any circumstance.

What the hell was that?

Happy Christmas

I am not going to say I feel no Christmas spirit in 2016; what I'm feeling is an alternative Christmas spirit, earthy and grounded in the truths of life.

More in tune with who I truly am.

As far as I know.

The holiday drives me crazy because it is so fucking in your face. Idiots driving themselves crazy with their Christmas shopping, spending money they don't have, obsessing over what to buy for Uncle Bob.

Even in the thrift store where my impressive career continues to unfold, the desperation and overspending are evident.

On the one hand, one might want to compliment these misguided folks for at least shopping in a frugal environment. On the other hand it is still evident these people are spending money they shouldn't and a lot of what they buy is so sad and pathetic.

Everybody knows that Christmas spirit is all about diamonds and gold and Lincolns.

In your face. Every fucking store downtown is now open late, desperately trying to lure unsuspecting victims into the lair to spend more money.

Every fool you deal with drips "Merry Christmas" from their lips. I don't have a problem with wishing people happiness; Christ knows the human race needs more of it (although we will never fucking learn, right up to the point that planet earth explodes in a spasm of hatred).

What I don't like is the mindlessness of it all; "Oh, shit, it is December - I gotta remember to wish every living thing a Merry Christmas." People automatically spit out those words.

The ones that mean it you can see in their eyes. Cool, man. But most people are already looking at their watches as they walk away from you wishing you a heartfelt merry.

Christmas lights. I dig 'em. Selectively.

I love old colonial houses with one candle of the same color in every window. I also love rundown houses with multi-colored strings of lights sagging along the side of the house. Something sadly hopeful about that.

I don't like houses that are elaborately decorated; people flaunting their wealth and trying to outdo the lesser humans of the world.

In your face. Fucking commercials on TV. Pounding you, hounding you, just driving you out of your fucking mind.

You stagger home from work crushed and disillusioned, desperate for three quiet hours of escape on the tube. What you get is 2 hours and 45 minutes of fucking Christmas commercials and 15 minutes of escape.

My Christmas this year reflects reality. The truth that most people are unhappy, that life is grossly cruel and unfair, and that Christmas is a momentary deflection.

I am trying to experience the day on a small but intensely personal, meaningful scale.

Somehow you got to get past all the fucking bullshit and manufacture some happiness in your heart. Get into the holiday quietly, reverently. Drop out for a day and take a look around.

At your home, your tree, your lights, your family; enjoy the food, enjoy the conversation, try to dig your love a little deeper for those who celebrate with you. Connect with truth, with what matters (if you can recognize it).

I do like the decorations because they take you out of your reality. It is like enjoying a mild high. They can get you out of your head.

Don't get distracted. Most of Christmas is bullshit. But the chance to stop (unless you are one of the increasingly growing number of humans who have to fucking work on Christmas day) is a unique thing.

The world stops on that day. Take advantage of it. Don't just piss it away.

Get to the real magic and avoid the manufactured magic.

Still, it is OK to dig sad Christmas songs, to think of broken people and fucked up lives. It is all a part of Christmas.

Embrace truth as you dig the family, the lights and the tree.

Don't make Christmas a lie.

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Mmmmm, Good Coffee

Right up until the very moment her husband died, Sara thought that killing him on Christmas morning might be pushing it.

I mean how cold-hearted do you have to be to commit murder on that day? It seemed so out of line with all the joy of the holiday - both real and manufactured - that maybe it was just too much. Too evil.

Almost seemed sacriligious.

However, when Jacques fell over dead right under the Christmas tree, Sara's good cheer went right through the roof. She had never experienced holiday joy so intense before. Ever.

She started hating the son of a bitch decades ago. At some point she just decided that he was a loser. A real fucking wimp. Spineless. Ball-less. A fucking dreamer.

Sara was a suck it up girl. Her philosophy of life, if you want to call it that, was that you just had to suck it up. And keep sucking it up, through poverty, soul crushing jobs, and a nonexistent future until you sucked it up right into the grave.

She considered herself perfect. Her opinions were gospel; anybody could see that and only a fool would disagree. Or a dreamer.

Jacques, however, believed that a suck it up philosophy condemned a person to a meaningless life of drudgery and loss; the ultimate waste of a life. Accepting life's bullshit seemed cowardly to him.

He aspired to more.

The problem was that Jacques got pinned somewhere between his dream and reality. Stuck with one, unable to move towards the other.

This drove Sara crazy. In her perfection she decided that Jacques had to die.

She slipped the tasteless, odorless poison into Jacque's coffee just before they sat in front of the Christmas tree to open their presents.

Jacques often got emotional on holidays. He felt that he and Sara had come a long way through life. On this morning, he told Sara how much he loved her and how good he felt about where they were in their relationship. He meant it with all of his heart.

As he spoke and Sara smiled, she was thinking what an asshole and a loser he was and that she hoped he enjoyed his last cup of fucking precious dark roast coffee before he keeled over and died.

Ten minutes later Jacques dropped his cup, clutched at his throat, and looked wild eyed at Sara as he choked and gasped for breath.

She wondered what he thought as she looked back with a smile and flipped him off.

As Sara looked at his body under the tree she suddenly realized it was the best present she had ever gotten.

"Merry Christmas, you fucking loser", she said as she slipped on the expensive bracelet Jacques had given her.


The Machinist

Holy Christ Jesus, if you want to feel alive and riveted for 98 minutes, watch "The Machinist" starring Christian Bale.

Dark, disturbing, intense - it will pull you out of your sorry reality into a world so dark you may never come back.

Which, of course, would improve your existence exponentially.

Christian Bale's performance is fucking amazing. You cannot take your eyes off his tortured and emaciated appearance; you cannot help but try to bury yourself into his brain.

Gobble it up this week - it will improve your Christmas mood measurably.

(Editor's note - My goal in 2017 is to achieve the emaciated look Bales does in the movie. Remember - no weight loss is too excessive.)

XOXOXO

Monday, December 19, 2016

Finally

Finally got a TV in the bedroom.

Now I can spend my days off smoking opium and sipping absinthe in bed.

On the days I have to work I skip the opium.

A Christmas Poem

Christmas Eve, Alone

Christmas Eve, alone,
in a motel room
down the coast...
near the Pacific-
hear it?

they've tried to do this place up
Spanish, there's
tapestry and lamps, and
the toilet's clean, there are
tiny bars of pink
soap.

they won't find us
here:
the barracudas or the ladies or
the idol
worshippers.

back in town
they're drunk and panicked
running red lights
breaking their heads open
in honor of Christ's
birthday. that's nice.

soon I'll finish this 5th of
Puerto Rican rum.
in the morning I'll vomit and
shower, drive back
in, have a sandwich by 1 p.m.,
be back in my room by
2,
stretched on the bed,
waiting for the phone to ring,
not answering,
my holiday is an
evasion, my reasoning
is not.


Charles Bukowski

People Who Died On Christmas Day

James Brown     2006

W.C.Fields        1946

Charlie Chaplin  1977

Denver Pyle       1997     What do you mean who is Denver Pyle? Are you serious? He played Uncle Jesse on "The Dukes of Hazzard". Wake up, will ya?

Dean Martin       1995      The King of Cool, baby. I read a biography on the man in which he was described as a menefreghista, Italian for "someone who simply did not give a fuck". This is why, although Sinatra sucked up to the mob guys, the man the mafiosos respected was Dino.

Everybody Knows

"Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows that the war is over
Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

Everybody knows that the boat is leaking
Everybody knows that the captain lied
Everybody got this broken feeling
Like their father or their dog just died

Everybody talking to their pockets
Everybody wants a box of chocolates
And a long stem rose
Everybody knows".......................


"Everybody Knows",   Leonard Cohen

Sunday, December 18, 2016

A Sorry Life

At one point in his life Vincent Van Gogh made regular use of a deaf man as a model.

The man was impoverished and lived in some sort of public facility, where his life was horrific.

Van Gogh described him as "homeless, wifeless, childless, friendless and penniless".

That pretty much covers it all, folks.

A Definition Of Happiness

Bullets ricocheted off walls, glasses and dishes shattered and windows smashed as Jacob unloaded another clip from his beloved Glock 17L.

17 bullets to a clip allowed him to release a lot of pent up anger in quick, furious bursts.

He knew the cops would arrive any second but really didn't give a shit; he was past the point of no return. Had been there for years, really, but somehow had managed to keep his demons at bay.

But a man can only take so much.

One burst pretty much wiped out the bottles sitting on top of the bar and this made him smile. The irony of killing what had killed his pain for so long and allowed him to function as expected, was not lost on him.

He apologized silently for the sickening waste of life fluids.

He did however have a bottle of his beloved on the floor right next to him. JTS Brown. A Kentucky bourbon Jacob learned about while watching The Hustler. Bottom shelf, but if it was good enough for Fast Eddie Felson it was good enough for him.

In a way he identified with Fast Eddie. The darkness of his life; the fighting and clawing and scratching, the never ending struggle and the minimal, unsatisfying victories. Except Jacob knew he would never experience that ultimate victory. He had cemented his future when he started blasting away, and there was no winning in it.

Only death.

Which was OK. Preferable, actually.

Jacob wasted his life working to preserve a lifestyle he did not believe in and that effort killed him a long time ago, much more so than the bullet he had planned for his brain would ever do.

People walk away from things; they give up or start over. Jacob could have walked away, should have walked away but never did.

He used to agonize over the inability to move in a different direction and wonder why he never did.

Not any more. What is the point of analyzing a life? No fucking point at all.

We all piss it away; we get lost and confused, weighed down like a body thrown overboard and then it is all over.

Too late. Too fucking late.

Life becomes a joke. You approach it as if you were an alien studying human lifeforms. Every situation seems ludicrous, nothing feels real. And nothing seems to matter.

That's when you start not giving a shit. That's when you invent a definition of happiness, no matter how twisted, and stick to it no matter where it leads.

Which is how Jacob wound up on the kitchen floor happily blasting away at his piece of shit house. The house that had suffocated him with its eternal mortgage payment. The tomb where he lived as the walking dead.

He grabbed the bottle of JTS Brown by the neck and tipped it up to take a long, slow, satisfying drink.

Jacob heard the sirens in the distance. Fucking neighbors must have made the call. Why couldn't they leave him alone? Why couldn't everybody just fucking leave him alone?

He had done his homework. Thank God for the internet. He knew exactly where on his skull to place the Glock to produce the nastiest results. Had practiced in front of the mirror many times.

He wanted as much blood and brain spread around as possible. So that even in death he could create turmoil.

They were on the bullhorn now. Trying to get Jacob to give it up.

Give what up? What a fucking joke. He had nothing. No past, no future, no happiness, no life. And this bullshit about living in the now? What a load of crap. Made more sense to die in the now.

One last swallow of JTS Brown. Delicious.

He started singing: "Champagne don't drive me crazy, cocaine don't make me lazy, ain't nobody's business but my own; candy is dandy and liquor is quicker, you can drink all the liquor down at Costa Rica, ain't nobody's business but my own."

Jacob fired a shot through the hole where the living room picture window had been.

As the barrage of police bullets assaulted his house he placed the Glock up against his head.

And smiled.

Saturday, December 17, 2016

Two Years (Pain Makes It Longer)

Two years ago yesterday my brother-in-law Sarge died. Two years ago today my nephew Jonathan died.

Lately I have been having some fun in here with death and torture and cruelty.

Why not? It is fun to imagine your worst enemies or generally vile people as dead. Fun to picture yourself lighting their hair on fire, throwing acid in their face or stomping on their fingers.

The death of family members and friends hurts. A lot.

Assuming you love them.

It is quite possible to lose a family member that you just don't give a shit about. Nothing wrong with that. There is no reason for death to trigger automatic mourning if you feel nothing.

2014 packed a brutal death punch by taking two family members in two days. Everybody was reeling in sadness and in shock.

The pain went so deep, the losses so huge, that time became amorphous.

From one perspective I cannot believe two years have gone by. From another perspective it feels more like ten.

Sarge was 59. Jonathan was 27. If you add their ages together you get one life. Separately, their deaths were viciously premature.

The Christmas of 2014 was devastating. Christmas comes along with its promise of celebration and lights and the decorating of life. Now, for our families, it brings with it sadness and memories and a sense of loss.

And that will never change.

My relationship with Sarge did not carry the burden of negativity that the tag "Brother-in-law" often suggests.

I loved the man. I respected the man. We had a lot of fun together; we had many thoughtful and quiet moments together.

I hope I was more than just his pain in the ass brother-in-law to him.

I experience deep regrets when I think about Jonathan. I never got to know him as a man.

His troubles with heroin began around the age of nineteen so I did not see much of him in the last years of his life.

But he was my brother's son. His only son. My nephew.

I knew him to be intelligent, quick-witted, talented and accomplished. At least I got to see him grow from infancy and to know him a little as a young man.

I hate 2014. I hate that Sarge and Jonathan died. Those deaths hurt us all and changed our lives. Changed who we are.

Two years is two years. Time goes by and is measurable.

I think the reason it sometimes feels like ten years since 2014 is because the wounds went so deep; because death on consecutive days changed our families forever.

I think it feels like ten years because of who they were.

Sarge was an immense human being. Loved and respected by so many people it is almost impossible to comprehend.

Jonathan had potential. His life should have been magic. And it would have been had he chosen another path. He leaves an enormous void.

We all feel pain at Christmas; now and forever.

I think of Sarge, I think of Jonathan, I hurt and I shed a few tears.

That is what life is since 2014.

Insanity

Psychiatrists define insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

I define insanity as living in New England. Or any other area where snow is a major participant.

Life is hard, baby - what crazy person would decide to make it harder by living in an area that is coldly uncomfortable and plagued by the wild inconvenience of snow.

Give me hurricanes, give me wildfires, give me rattlesnakes and scorpions, give me earthquakes - but give me warmth.

And no fucking snow.

Of course I am going nowhere. Snow will plague me to the grave.

Where, of course, I will be regularly covered in snow.

Decisions I Have Made Recently That Will Radically Alter My Life's Course

None

A New Fucking Year On The Horizon, Baby

I am going to commit 2017 to wine, Philip Seymour Hoffman, dark chocolate, and Leonard Cohen.

Friday, December 16, 2016

Feces Cup

Joachim kept a feces cup secreted below his workstation.

Condescending customers got an extra condiment on their sandwiches, as Joachim smiled inwardly and triumphantly at their self- delusion, naive trust, and disregard for consequences.


Thursday, December 15, 2016

How Vicious Mankind

Did you know that in the 19th century people could pay to mock inmates at insane asylums?

Words

"There may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke."

Vincent Van Gogh

If You Want To Die

If you want to die,
keep treating me the way you do;
condescension signs your death warrant.

If you want to die,
keep looking at me the way you do;
I'll pluck your eyes out.

If you want to die,
keep talking to me the way you do;
I'll sever your tongue and feed it to
your dog.

If you want to die,
keep stabbing me in the back with your words;
I'll crush your spine with a sledgehammer.

If you want to die,
keep laughing at me the way you do;
I'll be laughing as you bleed out.

If you want to die,
keep being you;
it is the fastest track to your demise.

Fuck it.

You are not worth the effort.


Truth, Obviously

The only way to co-exist with humanity is to remain completely aloof.

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

A Fine Restaurant Indeed

I work in a thrift shop.

Humble job, humble pay, wounded ego.

Directly across the street from where I work is a restaurant named O Steaks & Seafood.

A vicious restaurant where vile people hang.  Scurrilous dogs all. Pretentious, condescending, smug individuals. Patrons who pay $15 for macaroni and cheese and feel good about it. People who pay $15 for macaroni and cheese because it makes them feel good about their success in life and my lack of it.

They mock me. Every single night of the week. At least the nights I work. Which is four. That is all my fragile ego can handle. These people are relentless, like the honey badger. Heartless.

I close the store. Tuesday through Friday.

I did not want this responsibility. I did not want any responsibility. I want to be left alone. I want to collect a meager paycheck for anonymous work.

Life refuses to cooperate. You know the feeling. It is why you beat your children.

Instead I supervise, I answer questions, I solve problems, I deal with difficult people.

Just like the patrons of O do. Corporate successes all of them. They earn $250,000 a year plus bonuses.

I earn $9.50 per hour.

I close the store. The benefit to that is, if I am lucky, I get 45 minutes of sweet, elusive peace every night between the close and the time I leave. It's what I live for.

That is if I don't get a rush of deranged shoppers at the very end of the night. That is if one of the volunteers doesn't hang around after six telling me every detail of her boring life, which is rapidly coming to a close.

The only thing on my mind when I report for duty at 1:45 is the prayer that I will have 45 minutes alone at the end of the day. I check my watch 67 times between 1:45 and 6:00.

In exquisite agony.

When I get a peaceful 45 minutes, I revel in them like a corpse resurrected from the dead.

Jubilant. Until I leave.

I turn out the lights, lock the doors behind me, turn to the walk and come face to face with O.

Walking that walk to the street I feel like a dead man walking. All eyes upon me.

Large plate glass windows look out into the street or in into excess, depending on your perspective.

They wait for me. They wait for me to leave. They know my schedule.

Checking their Movado watches, slowly they rise, creating a ripple effect like an ocean wave that breaks unevenly.

One guy stands up against the window, grabs his crotch and flips me off. One woman blows me sweet, sarcastic kisses. Another woman, emboldened, lifts her blouse up and presses her breasts against the glass.

Not very nice.

They laugh in unison. Acid drips from their lips.

When it is warm outside some verbally mock me from the outdoor deck.

"Hey thrift shop boy - wanna come in for steak & seafood? Wanna sit down for a drink? Oh sorry; forgot -  you can't afford it. Besides, you're gonna have to dress better than that to hang with us, loser. Where did you get your clothes - a fucking thrift shop?"

Uproarious laughter. Vicious, amoral killers.

One night, a Bentley was parked on the street in front of the store. First spot on the corner.

Gorgeous car. I appreciate the finer things in life. I like to look at them and dream my dreams backwards.

At first I thought it was a Rolls Royce. As I got closer I realized it was a Bentley.

As I was admiring it a man came running out of O Steaks & Seafood and said "Get the fuck away from my car, you ragamuffin. You are not worthy to be within 100 feet of it. Why don't you find yourself a dark doorway to curl up in for the night? Preferably in another neighborhood. And get yourself some better clothes."

What a lowlife piece of shit. But he was dressed quite nicely.

Sometimes I stand there, across the street from this opulence and imagine scenarios.

I picture crotch boy choking on a large chunk of his $66 Kobe NY Strip. He clutches at his throat as his genteel friends look on helplessly. He falls to the floor blue and dead.

Or

I visualize the woman who sneaks a flask in her purse passing out from alcohol poisoning. She is rushed to the hospital where every one of her internal organs shuts down and she dies.

Leaving her children in the care of her alcoholic and abusive husband.

One day soon, and I know it's coming, I will make a lot of money. It is inevitable. Life's reward, right?

When I do I will dine at O Steaks & Seafood, taking to heart the lessons I have learned.

I will face the thrift shop and wait for the closer to walk out. As he approaches the street I will pound on the plate glass window, grab my crotch and flip the asshole off.

I know a fucking loser when I see one.

Just Occurred To Me

When I am in reality I am where I do not want to be.

Monday, December 12, 2016

Words

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.


Charles Bukowski

Words

"I wish they would only take me as I am."

Vincent Van Gogh

Sunday, December 11, 2016

Soft Lovin'

He was nervous about the idea at first, but the deed turned out to be cathartic.

There was this guy at work, Samuel, who was a royal pain in the ass. Always loud, always talking, stubborn and unreachable.

A first class piece of shit.

He drove Barry crazy and, because of their stations in the warehouse, Barry had to stand next to him all day every day. Eight solid hours of torture again and again, not counting overtime.

Barry was weak. He liked his drink and he didn't like to drink alone. So he drank with Samuel, who was one step removed from being a raging alcoholic and always good for a few freebies.

This meant more time together but Barry handled it better because, well, he was drunk and some of the booze was free. Drunken numbness makes pain tolerable. Hell, it makes life tolerable. Throw in a few on the house and heaven was right here on earth.

However, on this night Samuel took it all too goddamn far. Bragging about Trump's victory, prophesying that Trump would save the working man. Talking shit one time too many.

Barry had a high IQ. He couldn't swallow Trump or his lies. And he especially could not swallow fanatical Trump supporters who talked out their ass.

All he wanted on this night was some peace, a break from his troubles, maybe some soft lovin' to ease his worried mind, if he should get so lucky.

Instead he had Samuel. And fucking Trump.

Samuel was reeling but Barry invited him back to the house for a night cap. He had done this once or twice before and regretted it, but tonight he had a plan.

He let Samuel drive himself over with the hope that he would pass out and slam into a tree, but the son of a bitch made it there safely.

As they walked into the house Barry maneuvered himself behind Samuel to grab the baseball bat that was standing in the corner. And hesitated for a few seconds as Samuel swayed back and forth.

Resolve overtook indecision. He raised the bat and swung for the fences, smashing Samuel square on the side of the head. Barry grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out into the back yard.

And then he wailed. Blow after blow raining down on Samuel's body. Barry heard bones crunching and still he could not stop. It was as if every trouble in his life, every worry and unhappiness was fueling his rage.

Eventually he had to stop from sheer exhaustion. He could not raise his arms.

But he could kick. And kick he did.

The first kick threw him off because it was like kicking a rag doll. Broken bones in a sack of skin seemed oddly weightless.

It felt so weird he could not stop himself from indulging in ten or fifteen more kicks, just to experience it fully.

Eventually, wiped out, Barry sank to the ground.

He felt good. Felt like he had accomplished something.

And he got a good work out to boot.

Yup

When you are young you think you will be young forever.

When you are old you know you won't be old for long.

Saturday, December 10, 2016

Seed Silently Sown (There is Hope)

"She tried to have hope and trust, though it was hard to believe that the future would be anything else than the harvest of the seed that was being sown before her eyes. But always there is seed being sown silently and unseen, and everywhere there come sweet flowers without our foresight or labour. We reap what we sow, but Nature has love over and above that justice, and gives us shadow and blossom and fruit that spring from no planting of ours."

From "Scenes of Clerical Life", by George Eliot.

In a situation of decreasing hope and possibilities, these words inspire me by stepping outside the constricting options of black and white.

By Way Of Comparison

We, my age group, my generation, are in a deeply meaningful stage of our lives.

Those who inspired us when we were young are dying off, leaving enormous voids. Friends and relatives are dying too.

These realities coalesce to define a grim truth. And to inspire introspection. To consider fate in all its unpredictability.

My friend Phil turned me on to the death of a high school classmate.

Barry Kaplovitz. He was 62 and died on November 30 of - fucking cancer.

I was an honorary member of what I call the Jewish contingent. Had a lot of Jewish friends in high school.

Some were part of the inner circle of insanity; those with whom I drank and smoked pot and generally pursued insanity with extreme prejudice.

Some were friends in other ways. Barry Kapolovitz was one of these.

I have not been in contact with him since high school; no contact since 1972 when we were both eighteen years old.

Something made me want to read his obituary. I don't know why. But I did and it hit me hard.

Here it is:

"Kaplovitz, Barry J. Political consultant of Winthrop, passed away November 30, succumbing to cancer. He was 62.
Born in Boston to Maxwell (1913-1991) and Fay Ediss Kaplovitz (1921-2011), Barry graduated from Winthrop High School in 1972 and the University of Chicago in 1978.
Returning to Boston he joined the gubernatorial campaign of Edward J. King as an issues adviser and served the King administration in that capacity.
Subsequently he joined a political consulting firm and soon formed his own company, BKA, Inc., focused on ballot referendum, gubernatorial and legislative contests around the US.
He pivoted to clients in TV broadcasting eventually, providing advice to stations in the Midwest and Florida.
His passing is mourned by a sister, Susan Kaplovitz, and cousins Ellen Kaplovitz, Nessa Kleinglass, Phyllis Snyder, Alan Pyenson, and Gary Stone.
Barry will be greatly missed by friends, neighbors and associates, with whom he enjoyed spirited dialogue and discussion.
The loss of this generous, good-humored, and ever-optimistic person leaves us all broken-hearted."

That is quite a life-resume, both professionally and personally. Sounds to me like Barry lived his life.

Congratulations, Barry on your successes. I hope beyond any other consideration, that you were happy.

By way of comparison:

Testa, Joseph R.................................................

Friday, December 9, 2016

Jesus The Wimp

Just exercised five days in a row. FIVE!

Rode the recumbent exercise bike every day this week. So far.

It is not entirely outside the realm of possibility - I pull it off every once in a while. But it ain't easy.

Sometimes I'm lazy, sometimes I'm depressed, sometimes I'm tired, sometimes I have too many picayune, bullshit things to do.

I am a warrior, though.

I exercise a lot more often than friends and family give me credit for. I can safely say over the course of my miniaturized life I have exercised more often than not. And over the past five years I have been singularly dedicated.

Still I remain fat, slow moving and generally unaware, so friends and family condemn me as sloth-like.

Doesn't matter. I know who I am.

Kind of.

Here's my dilemma. What do I do now? Go for six in a row? That would be truly unprecedented.

My natural inclination is to run out and buy a jug of premium whiskey and a double rack of pretentious beer and spend the weekend lying on my back on the living room floor, dead drunk, as dark movies light up the television screen.

By way of celebration.

There are pros and cons to that plan.

Con - Carol would pretend to stumble every time she stepped over me, furiously kicking me in the head in the process.

Pro - The cats would take turns sleeping on my chest.

I am not a solid decision maker. I considered turning to Jesus for advice, but what the fuck does he know? He is a goddamn wino and a pacifist. Probably never exercised one day in his life.

Let's face it - he does look a bit like a sally boy.

It's a lot to ponder. A crushing burden, as it were.

I'll figure it out.

Salvation or destruction. A fascinating dilemma.

These are the crossroads that make life interesting, baby.

Thursday, December 8, 2016

Speculate, Gesticulate and Hesitate

I shut down the shower and stand immobile for thirty seconds or more.

Just digging that warmth. Feeling so relaxed and comfortable and warm............

Always, I hesitate to push the shower curtain aside and step out. What could possibly be waiting out there to replace this relaxed feeling of easy comfort? This warmth...............

I speculate we all hesitate to leave the shower.

As we all wish we had hesitated to leave the womb.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Laughing Out Loud

"Whaddya want me to do? Whaddya want me to DO!"

She kept asking that question until he had no choice but to kill her.

Jesus Christ, she had been driving him crazy lately with her nit picking criticisms, her sarcasm, and her accusations. How much aggravation was one man supposed to take?

Everyone has their goddamn opinions but Christ, some people just take it too far.

GOP's he called them. Grossly Opinionated People.

They know everything. They are always right.

What the fuck is that? No human being is perfect. Not even close. And one person's opinions are meaningless to the next person in line.

It is all about context. And perception.

Goddamn it.

"Whaddya want me to do? How can I change to make you happy?"

He didn't mean to kill her. That wasn't the plan at all.

Christ, once you got a corpse on your hands you're taking it to a whole different level.

He just wanted to change her perspective. Teach her a lesson. Make her more receptive to his point of view.

So he tied her to a kitchen chair. For three days.

He had knocked her out with a loving blow to the head. With his favorite baseball bat, which he affectionately named "The Club". He had hit a lot of home runs with that bat as a kid. Kept it around as a reminder of simpler times.

As he was tying her up a smile flashed across his face. Visions of the Three Stooges popped into his head. Specifically the episode where Shemp has a nasty toothache. Another character is tying a string around Shemp's tooth and Moe enthusiastically says "Tie a nice sailor's knot."

That's how light-hearted he was. He meant no harm.

By day three though, even considering she'd had no food, no water, he could not believe how weak she had become. It was pathetic.

He expected her to suck it up but it was obvious that was not going to happen.

That is when the switch got flipped.

He fed her cereal; made her think he was softening up. She had a hard time with it through the tears and the fear, but she choked it down.

An hour later after the sleeping pills did their work, she slept soundly in her chair. He slipped a plastic bag over her head, secured it snugly around her throat, pulled up a chair so they were knee to knee, and watched her die.

A while later he came out of what felt like a trance. Initially disoriented and lethargic, he quickly came alert as he realized what he had done.

Shit. What the hell was he going to do now?

A glance at the clock told him he had to be in to work in an hour. He called in sick. Told them he wasn't quite himself today.

Walked into the living room, settled comfortably in the recliner, turned on the TV and dialed up Seinfeld re-runs.

Two minutes later he was laughing out loud.

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Words

"So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
"Cause oh that gave me such a fright
But I will hold as long as you like
Just promise me we'll be alright"

"Ghosts That We Knew", Mumford & Sons


"Don't let us get sick
Don't let us get old
Don't let us get stupid, all right?
Just make us be brave
And make us play nice
And let us be together tonight"

"Don't Let Us Get Sick",   Warren Zevon

Monday, December 5, 2016

Lost In Translation

Charlotte: "I just don't know what I'm supposed to be."
Bob: "You'll figure that out. The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you."

Bob: "It gets a whole lot more complicated when you have kids.
Charlotte: "It's scary."
Bob: "The most terrifying day of your life is the day the first one is born."
Charlotte: "Nobody ever tells you that."
Bob: "Your life, as you know it.....is gone. Never to return. But they learn how to walk, and they learn how to talk.....and you want to be with them. And they turn out to be the most delightful people you will ever meet in your life."
Charlotte: "That's nice."

Please watch this movie. It is a painfully honest examination of the unpredictability, the unbalance and unfairness of love, as well as the reality of marriage.

Absolute Truth

A man who was born to appreciate the finer things in life but can't get to them..................kills.

The Brown Buffalo and NH Governing

The vast majority of the books I read are used.

I am not one of the idle rich. The illuminati, the glitterati or any of the privileged class that can afford brand new hard cover books.

That's crazy, right? Who is loose enough to go out and buy brand new books? Seems like an unattainable dream. I mean you have to be a member of the landed gentry to be that extravagant.

So I accumulate mountains of gently used books.

The upside to this economic reality is that I occasionally come across hand written notes and dedications in the books I acquire.

"Merry Christmas, Uncle Don. May 1987 be happier than 1986 was."

"Thank you for all you help, love and support. Marie."

"Happy Birthday, Dad. Hope you enjoy this book as much as I did. Feel better. Love, Bob."

I am paraphrasing but those are three that I vaguely remember. I have come across many dedications like that, written into the inside front cover of the book.

I love it when that happens. It makes me stop and realize that somebody gave this book as a gift to make someone else feel better. It connects me in a tenuous way to someone else's life.

It creates an awareness of others' suffering, their happiness, their love.

Nobody gives books as gifts anymore. That is a shame.

I think that is one of the most intimate gifts you can give to a reader.

Of course, people are afraid. "I'm not sure what the hell he reads; hell he may even have the goddamn book already."

Hence - gift cards.

I get it. Still, speaking as a reader, I can think of no more meaningful gift. Especially when it is inscribed with a personal note.

But I digress. Just finished reading "The Autobiography Of A Brown Buffalo" by Oscar Zeta Acosta.

You don't know who that is. I am willing to bet my house on it. But that's OK. He is part of my inner circle.

If you do know who he is (was) we should be friends. We are simpatico. I cannot find enough (any?) people in NH who share my interests. Not even close. Hence, my boredom.

I was turned on to him by Hunter S. Thompson. Also a member of the inner circle.

This is what I love about having a focused interest in a specific lifestyle or type of entertainment or point of view. One thing leads to another.

You find a writer that you love, he inadvertently turns you on to a musician that you end up loving, other writers you end up loving, actors and intellectuals you end up loving.

All with a similar approach to life.

Magic.

Anyway, I am plowing through the book and I come across a piece of paper. State of NH House of Representatives stationary with the name, David Cote, and title, Assistant Minority Whip.

Under the heading "Tasks" he wrote: ID stone and location, map, photographs, vital record research, obituary research, historical research, municipal history.

Under "Questions" he wrote: How many plots, date range, monitor archives dates.

Under "Budget" he wrote: Mac Book, Publishing & printing, advertising costs.

Who the hell would not be interested in a note like that? Researching gravestones. Groovy, baby.

I love it.

Aw shucks, I guess buying used books ain't all that bad.

P.S. - Did some research. David Cote is currently seeking his 18th term for the 2017-2018 session of the NH House of Representatives. He is a democrat, of course.

No fucking republican would be interested in the life of Oscar Zeta Acosta.

P.S.S. - Just for fun I e-mailed the man about our common interest. I'll let you know if anything comes of it.

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Just Thinking

Wouldn't mind becoming a priest. Or some other overrated faux prophet preaching pretension to the vulnerable. Seems like a pampered way to slide from cradle to the grave.

Some Words

"Either kill me or take me as I am, because I'll be damned if I ever change."

Marquis de Sade

If You Knew A Guy

If you knew a guy who prepared for work, occasionally, in the following manner, you would condemn him as insane.

First, a shot of absinthe. 140 proof. 1 and 1/2 ounces of this infamous liquid consumed slowly and appreciatively over a 45 minute span.

Then, a couple of hits off the pipe.

Not crack, for Christ sake - weed.

Next, off to work.

You would condemn this man.

I call him hero.

When The Dead Are Our Friends

There is this woman I have to work with who drives me crazy.

You know the kind I'm talking about; the kind of person whose every personality trait rubs you the wrong way and makes you want to pluck their eyes out.

She is a volunteer, which makes the situation even weirder for me.

We work in close proximity so there is no escape.

The only saving grace is that she is only around two days a week to torture me.

Still...................................it is enough to make me vomit blood in anticipation of the work day.

Crazy day Friday. Holiday madness, big doin's in Concord. Thousands of greedy muthas on the streets intent on wrapping their fat, greasy fingers around the biggest bargains.

Even though it means dining on dog food for the next six months.

So the store was stupid busy. Thankfully I love retail so it was a real treat for me to be in the middle of all this madness.

Ms. Satan works on Friday so my natural enthusiasm was dampened.

A couple of hours in she tells me she has to split for a while to attend a wake. Some older family member.

Oh my God I was exultant. I toasted this dead person in my head, thanked them for having the consideration to provoke a wake in the middle of this heinous shift.

Bear in mind, this was an older relative of Ms. Satan, and she is mid seventies. So this person was ready to die.

I am fairly cold hearted but not entirely so. Ms. S had a nephew croak on her recently and that guy was only fifty something years old.

This bothered me. I look at every premature death as my own. I figure it could be me.

Lets face it - I am in the danger zone. Bombs are dropping all around me folks, I was recently nicked myself. This is no time to be complacent.

If it was a child that died I would have been devastated.

But it was an elder statesman. Ms. S didn't seem all that bothered about it so it must have been an acceptable death.

It was for me.

Holy shit she was gone for two hours.

Two blessed hours that I did not have to deal with her obnoxious personality and conversation.

This freed me up to enjoy retail madness in all its glory.

Thank you, dead person.

You made my day.

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Sweet Visions of Release

Retail is a vicious and blood drenched sport.

Shoppers are scurrilous dogs - there can be no escaping that fact. Underdeveloped intellectually and psychologically, they seek gratification in being waited on. Makes them feel superior.

Even though they are less consequential than the shit beneath the shoes.

Who are these people? What mutation resulted in the shopper psyche?

Strange people, wandering around the store with an unnatural, Satan-like light in their eyes. Pawing through racks of clothes, choosing this, discarding that.

"Can I set these things (all 18 of them) down here while I continue to shop?"

"Sure, if you have a death wish. If you want me and mine to feast on your liver tonight."

Slithering into the dressing room to try things on. Loving themselves in the mirror. Like clothes will wash the stink off of their rotting souls.

Leaving stuff behind. Lots of stuff. Some on hangers, some on the floor. The hangers themselves tangled together like thoughts in an otherwise empty head.

Wrestling with tangled hangers is more frustrating than dealing with life itself; it provokes feelings of great vengeance and furious anger.

Visions of mutilated shoppers provide the only relief.

"How much did you charge me for that green sweater? It's supposed to be a dollar, you know."

"How much will you charge me to remove your head with a scythe?"

Closing time. One of their kind approaches the counter with a cart filled to the brim with clothes and fucking Christmas ornaments and that VHS player they just had to have to validate their stubborn clinging to the past, like a demented nonagenarian who recites names of childhood friends while forgetting to bathe.

The clock ticks past closing time and three other creatures wait impatiently behind idiot shopper #1, who babbles incoherently as precious purchases are rung up.

You wish with everything that is in your heart for the power to make her head explode just by thinking about it. Picturing brain bits slowly sliding down the walls as shopper #2 steps up to take her place.

Undaunted.

Retail is the jungle, baby. It makes killers of us all.


Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Things He Longed To Know

He wondered, if you have a really sharp knife and you choose an exact spot, can violation of the flesh be almost effortless?

If you avoid bone, can stabbing someone be like slicing a pat of butter from your butter dish?

It would appear so. At least on the surface.

Can it be that easy? Nothing is that easy, right?

It would take some research to discern this but he was not afraid - he was a reader. He enjoyed looking things up.

It must be a satisfying sensation, assuming you choose the right victim. You really have to hate them.

You have to believe in your soul that you are doing the world a favor.

If there are any doubts at all, regret will consume you at just the wrong point - immediately after penetration.

And then it is too late. You can't just say "Oops, I'm sorry - I made a mistake. How can I make it right?"

It is doubtful the victim, assuming they survive, will just let it go. There are a lot of mistakes that can be forgiven in this life but stabbing is not one of them.

Of this he was fairly certain.

Then there is the eye contact thing. He wondered, first of all, if he would have the guts to look the victim in the eye as he perpetrated the awful sin.

He wanted to believe that was possible. Because he wanted to experience the brief moment between the recognition of being stabbed and the onset of pain. He wanted to see it.

There has to be a momentary lapse. An instant when the eyes are wide with shock and then suddenly squinting from unimaginable pain.

There should be a name for that moment. That void between a sudden grasp of an evil reality and the all consuming blanket of pain.

He couldn't come up with one, though. He wasn't that clever.

He liked to consider these things over a sophisticated merlot at night, alone, in the dark, where his life made the most sense.

But sometimes the thoughts bled over into the following morning.

He didn't like this. They seemed more sinister in the light of day. More real.

Today was one of those days. Fortunately he had no time to dwell. Had to get to work.

He loved his job as a career counselor at the local high school.

Loved that he could take students' vulnerability and steer them in the right direction.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Got Some Words For You

I was working on my life with Leonard Cohen on "in the background".

Of course that is ridiculous - his talent will not be ignored.

So...................from "Bird On A Wire":

"Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free."

Kris Kristofferson has said he would like these words etched on his gravestone.

Also,

"Like a baby, stillborn, like a beast with his horn, I have torn everyone who has reached out for me."

These words mean something to me.

Also,

"I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch, he said to me, you must not ask for so much; and a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door, she cried to me, hey, why not ask for more?"

All of these meaningful words originate from one Leonard Cohen song.

The man was an endless well of inspiration and introspection.


Monday, November 28, 2016

Like Coming Home

Rediscovered American Horror Story.

Thank God.

I connect only with freaks, mutants, and broken spirits.

Happiness Debunked

"It is proposed that happiness be classified as a psychiatric disorder and be included in future editions of major diagnostic manuals under the new name: major affective disorder, pleasant type. In a review of the relevant literature it is shown that happiness is statistically abnormal, consists of a discrete cluster of symptoms, is associated with a range of cognitive abnormalities, and probably reflects the abnormal functioning of the central nervous system. One possible objection to this proposal remains-that happiness is not negatively valued. However, this objection is dismissed as scientifically irrelevant."

I randomly came across this proposal in my reading and was immediately overjoyed.

It potentially exposes happiness as a sham, an unattainable ideal that results in great suffering when vigorously pursued.

Upon digging a little deeper I discovered that it was published in the Journal of Medical Ethics in 1992.

Upon further investigation I discovered that it was a satirical proposal to classify happiness as a psychiatric disorder, submitted by Richard P. Bentall of the Liverpool University, meant to underscore the difficulties in defining what a psychiatric disease is.

I was disappointed.

Still, it wouldn't be a bad paragraph to commit to memory. You can use it as a weapon.

When you are in the company of someone who is only pretending to be happy, who leans heavily on those vapid quotes people use to fool themselves into believing they are happy, all evidence to the contrary, you can say "Wait a minute? Did you know the Journal of Medical Ethics says happiness is a psychiatric disorder?"

By way of clarification - I am not against happiness. I dig happy people..................if they are genuinely happy. Happy people exude happiness naturally; they don't need to beat you over the head with it.

It's the desperate people who say things like "A smile is happiness you find right under your nose." Makes you want to vomit, right?

You now have some words you can use to fight back.

Could be especially useful at this time of year.



Sunday, November 27, 2016

Fouled Through Weakness

He punished himself as soon as they left.

A precious day had been fouled through weakness. Made awkward and uncomfortable.

He didn't see it coming and wasn't sure how the hell it happened. It seemed to happen instantaneously, in the wink of an eye, but that couldn't be the truth.

Could it?

Immediately after the final wave goodbye he walked back inside to the chosen doorway.

Facing one of the door jambs, he hooked his fingers behind the half inch of wood on the left and the right that provided a good enough grip. Leaned back a little and then suddenly pulled himself forward, creating a violent collision between his forehead and the impassive, immovable door frame.

He was momentarily staggered and leaned back against the opposite jamb, barely able to hold his balance.

It occurred to him that it wasn't enough. He had not paid a big enough price.

Forced himself to stand tall, gripped a half inch of wood on each side once again and positioned himself at a severe angle.

This time, when he launched himself forward he caught the edge of the wood. He dropped to his knees but could only hold it for a few seconds before he fell backwards, banging the back of his head against the opposite door jamb, ending up in an awkward sitting position.

This was the retribution he was looking for.

Blood flowed from his forehead, down his left cheek and onto his chest.

It wasn't embarrassment that drove him to this punishment. It went way deeper than that.

He felt weak and exposed; lately he felt overwhelmed. It was getting harder to hide the truth and he felt that he was destroying whatever respect, and possibly love, previously existed.

Maybe a lifetime of weakness had already done the damage. Maybe this latest incident was just another nail in the coffin. Predictable and not so shocking.

He tried to think it through but could not. Could not make sense of the situation, could not even flirt with a possible solution, or dig deep enough through enough bullshit to get at a root cause.

This made him furious, as the blood ran, as his head pounded, as his dignity died.

Frustrated, he yelled "Fuck it. I am sick of the analysis, sick of the explanations and the apologies. Fuck it. Fuck it all."

He stood up uncertainly and grabbed the edge of the counter as a vicious smile spread slowly over his face.

He raised his right hand and slowly spread the blood all over his face. Painting his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, his lips.

He liked the way it felt. The sticky warmth. The juxtaposition of life and death inherent in the blood flow.

He staggered to the recliner and sat down heavily. Patiently waiting for the blood to dry as darkness fell.

He considered wearing the blood as a mask the next time he left the house. To provoke reactions against which he could unleash his fury.

It was a thought. A possible course of action.

For now he was where he needed to be. Feeling his skin tighten as the blood began to dry. As darkness isolated him.

Feeling the pain he deserved to feel.


Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Perspective

Perspective is an elusive and a slippery son of a bitch.

Over the weekend I was sitting all pampered and warm in my middle class home thinking with great satisfaction that this week would be a good week. An easy week.

Work Tuesday, work Wednesday, Thanksgiving on Thursday, work Friday, have Saturday, Sunday and Monday off.

Today I want to jab ice picks into my eyes.

Monday, November 21, 2016

Just A Night In A Bar

John pressed the pedestrian cross walk button to halt traffic in four directions at once and stood and waited for his opportunity, guitar case in hand. When prompted, he crossed Main Street slowly, slow enough to run out of time, slow enough to hold up anxious commuters. Casually, insolently, he looked through the windshields at angry, impatient people intent on getting home to that first precious drink.

He felt their contempt. A forty plus year old man with a thin, grey ponytail and a banged up guitar case is no one. No one at all.

He created death scenarios in his head on really black days.

Pictured the first guy in line slumping over behind the wheel after suffering a massive and fatal heart attack. Imagined those in line behind him honking their horns furiously as the light changes to green, growing insanely impatient, gesturing and banging on dashboards, each second feeling more like an hour. Until commuter number two loses it completely, furiously stomping the gas and cutting to the right, only to smash into the drivers side door of an innocent passing him by.

Traffic is snarled; eventually horror sets in as drivers realize the guy in car number one is dead. Guilt crushes some of those involved as they slowly relate the superficiality of their impatience to the finality of the sudden and vicious ending of a life.

Some, however, remain impatient as the cops show up to the scene.

This scenario never fails to bring a smile to John's face.

It was seven o'clock and John was headed to one of the few dive bars remaining in the city for a Friday night gig. Looking forward to his free meal and a free drink or two, generously poured.

He thought of it as a dive bar. It really wasn't; it was clean enough, comfortable enough and the clientele were not assholes. It could only be considered a dive bar compared to today's soulless, antiseptic cookie cutter bars that legitimized drinking, disguising it as socializing.

John was more comfortable in bars that let drinking just be, places where drinkers killed pain, turned away from life and arrived at laughter, however insincere and fleeting.

The bartender nodded as John walked in.

He liked the staff in here, they were good people. No bullshit, hard working, harder partying people whose opinion of humanity was very much shaped by the people they waited on.

He liked them because they had an attitude. They waited on customers from a position of strength. Humility had no place in this bar, with this staff, and it keep things edgy.

John himself had been feeling edgy lately.

At a bitter point in his life, painfully and reluctantly, he realized he would never make it in the music industry.

Decades of rejection had worn him down. That and a million false promises and dead ends.

He was reduced to playing in bars and restaurants. For decades he took comfort in the fact that he was not an every day working stooge. Not a hypocritical asshole who looked through a windshield with disdain at a man who refused to follow the blueprint.

He took greater comfort in slipping a couple of his originals into his sets just to prove he had the chops. They wanted covers, everybody had a goddamn request, but when he played his own music he felt like he was offering something to the universe. That he was making a difference.

Lately though, these things provided little comfort.

And John felt edgy.

Three songs into the first set a guy a couple of tables over got a little loud. John knew this guy would be a problem when he noticed the rocks glass in front of the man, three quarters full with evil whiskey.

"Free Bird. Play Free Bird." He thought he was being funny; he thought he was being original.

John tensed up but made it through the song; one of his own.

As he eased his way into "I Am A Rock" the guy shouted "play something we can dance to."

John stumbled a bit, stopped, pretended to be tuning his guitar and then began the song again.

"This fucking guy thinks he's James Taylor, for Christ sake."

John stopped playing and looked up. He seemed to be considering a response.

Ten awkward seconds later he picked up a solid glass ashtray, walked over to the table and smashed the ashtray into the guys face. Then he calmly downed the whiskey in one gulp and walked back to his stool.

He grabbed his guitar, leaving the case behind, and walked out the door. The guy was face down on the table in a pool of blood, surrounded by people drinking in shocked silence.

John lit a cigarette in the cold night air then smashed his guitar against the side of the building. He walked two blocks to a liquor store, bought himself a bottle of bourbon and thought to himself "It's gonna be a good night."


Friday, November 18, 2016

That 12th Step

Ah, yes another Friday rolls around my friend. Time for strong libations. Whaddya say?

Twelve steps lead up to the second level of my house. But I have to take a 13th step to get onto the second floor. Is that unlucky?

What? What the hell are you talking about?

I am concerned that every time I go upstairs I am inviting bad luck, but it's a matter of interpretation. There are only twelve steps but I have to take thirteen to complete the journey.

Are you serious?

Maybe that is why my life has been so erratic, so unwieldy. Maybe it's not my fault. Maybe I should skip the last step. Then again, what if I pull a muscle stretching out to the top? I'm not as young as I used to be.

You're not as dead as you're gonna be if you don't pound a few with me tonight.

What other things have I missed in my life that might be jinxing me? I gotta get this shit right, man - I'm trying to make a statement here and I'm running out of time.

What is the statement - that you are retarded?

That is not a nice word. It is not politically correct. You know how much I care about being politically correct.

Jesus, man you don't give a shit about being politically correct. You spit on people who are politically correct.

I do?

Goddamn right.

Yeah, now that you mention it I think I remember something about myself along those lines.

Are you stoned? Do you know who you are? Do you know where you are?

I am a little bug, a tiny little bug trying to create big waves in this world.

The only waves you create are when you stand in front of the toilet.

Man, you are being harsh. What the fuck?

I just don't want you to waste time worrying. Just get drunk. Stay drunk. It's the only way.

I love the color brown but I don't wear a lot of brown. I don't know why. Why don't I wear more brown?That's gotta be bad luck, right?

Can we go now?

We should go shopping first. I need some brown shirts.

I don't wanna go shopping. It's Friday night. I just got out of work. I survived another day with my asshole boss and my soul sucking job. Know how I did that?

How?

I knew I was gonna get drunk tonight. It's fucking simple.

I don't read enough poetry. I love poetry. Well, not all poetry. Not that artsy fartsy stuff that don't make no sense with all those fancy goddamn words and ideas. I like the straight ahead stuff. Like "Life is a cesspool and you gotta keep swimming, if you don't swallow you know that you're winning."

You are a sick son of a bitch. Come on, man there are cold beers and hot ladies waiting for us on a crazy-ass Friday night. Let's dance.

Do me a favor. Go upstairs and find me a shirt. Preferably a brown one if you can.

Should I skip the 12th step on the way up? How about the way down - what do I do then - jump?

Oh Christ, man that's a good point. We better stay home.

I'll see you later. I am outta here. Call me when your brain function returns, knucklehead.

Thursday, November 17, 2016

Dig

"Follow your bliss. If you do follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while waiting for you, and the life you ought to be living is the one you are living. When you can see that, you begin to meet people who are in the field of your bliss, and they open the doors to you. I say follow your bliss and don't be afraid and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be. If you follow your bliss, doors will open for you that wouldn't have opened for anyone else."

Joseph Campbell

I am beginning to think comments like this apply only to creative people and only to 1/2 of 1% of them.

I don't think the guy working in the warehouse, angry and drunk all the time and fantasizing about dismembering his boss, has followed his bliss. I don't think he could identify his bliss and if he could I don't think he would get the opportunity to follow it.

Casual Comments, Harsh Reality

Read an article in Playboy about the rapidly growing legal pot industry.

One guy involved in the business describes potential clientele as follows:

"At one end of the spectrum are young men in their 20s who just want to get high, and at the other are people who have cancer, epilepsy, and terminal illnesses. We're focused on the health and wellness consumers in the middle who want relief from chronic pain, arthritis, insomnia and migraines."

In an unwitting way this guy just described a typical arc of life. Pretty harsh words but pretty accurate too.

Enjoy your 20s, kids.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Epiphanies Are Supposed To Be Surprising, Right?

I am trying so hard.

Since cancer I am determined to make my life as much my own as possible.

Hard to change habits, hard to shift perspective, hard to affect self-perception, but these are the things that must be done for me to wipe the slate clean and write my own honest and true story on it before it is too late.

I spent the entire morning chasing websites, researching writing related jobs, anything and everything I can do with words to make a little extra money, regardless of the cost to my soul.

I have been sitting in front of this computer since 9:30.

But it didn't feel right. It has not felt right since I made the decision to approach this in this way.

I have been looking into higher paying part time jobs that are no less soul sucking than the one I have.

But it hasn't felt right.

Got a text from Keith turning me on to a group named Pentatonix singing "Hallejulah" a capella.

Checked it out and almost lost it entirely.

My response was so strong it surprised me.

And I realized it wasn't just the fact that it is a Leonard Cohen song, it wasn't just the fact that Pentatonix did such a beautiful job performing the song, that they respected the emotion within it and the man who wrote it, it was everything that has been going on in my head since the night I found out I had cancer.

The song drew it out of me.

I respect Leonard Cohen because he figured out who he was and lived his life in a way that allowed him to express himself honestly and hopefully in a way that made him happy.

That commitment and awareness is what I am missing, what I have always been missing.

I sit here trolling websites day after day knowing in my heart that I am looking in the wrong places, that I am doing the wrong things.

The timing of Keith's text could not have been more perfect. After almost two hours of futilely looking for answers, for a way out, he turned me on to a performance that smashed me in the face with honesty and triggered an awareness in me I have been ignoring.

I am shattered right now. And in a little while I have to go do something so beneath me and so meaningless to me that five hours will feel like ten.

Just as I have done for my entire life.

So strange how life works, how an epiphany can result from an innocent or casual reference.

The catch is you gotta be open to it; ready to receive it or experience it.

I am a raw nerve right now.

I am in the right place.

Monday, November 14, 2016

Leonard Cohen

Last week was crushing emotionally after idiot Americans voted Donald Trump president.

I was depressed at the open expression of hatred expressed by voters. The lack of judgment. I did not think I could be more down.

Then Leonard Cohen died.

I have taken to getting quite high before I go to work now because the job has become anathema to me. I cannot function there unless I feel numb. I prefer whiskey but whiskey doesn't last.

Leonard Cohen died on Thursday. I did not get high on Friday.

Didn't need to. I was dead inside. I functioned as quietly as is possible in retail work, stayed away from people as much as I could, endured the five hours and headed home.

I discovered Leonard Cohen in 1994. In retrospect, the way I came across this man seems so stupid, so insignificant.

I saw the movie "Natural Born Killers". I was not on a spiritual journey, I was not looking for inspiration. I was looking for a heaping helping of insanity and violence.

Leonard Cohen had two songs on the soundtrack. "Waiting for the Miracle" and "The Future." When I heard them I immediately came to attention and thought "Who is this? These lyrics are heavy duty; the mood of the songs inflames my emotions".

Went out and bought some of his music, read up on the man, read some of his poetry, and fell in awe. I have been there ever since.

I read "Beautiful Losers", one of the two novels he wrote before beginning his music career. Difficult book to read, almost impenetrable. Sometimes you need to stretch yourself when you are dealing with a mind like Leonard Cohen's. How can you avoid boredom if you don't step outside yourself? It is worth the effort. I have read it twice. I will read it again.

I came across Leonard Cohen randomly in 1994 in a superficial, back door kind of way but because of that he has been in my life for 22 years, for which I am deeply grateful.

I knew immediately when I first heard his words and his music that his soul would connect with my own, and that proved to be true in a way much deeper than I could ever have predicted.

There are people who have covered Leonard Cohen songs in delicate beauty. Taken his words and music and lifted them even higher.

Jeff Buckley is the most well known for his cover of "Hallelujah." It is exquisite. If you haven't heard it you should go to YouTube and listen to it. You will feel like you are sitting in church. Or in life in its purest form.

Antony covered a song called "If It Be Your Will" in a Leonard Cohen tribute concert and documentary called "I'm Your Man", released in 2005. This is the one that shakes me to my core. Please go to YouTube right now - dial up Antony If It Be Your Will and listen. He hijacks your emotions and intensifies them until your only choice is to cry.

My favorite Leonard Cohen story is told by Rufus Wainwright.

Leonard was always impeccably dressed. The first time Rufus met him was in Leonard's kitchen and Leonard was wearing only a t-shirt and boxer shorts. He was feeding a little bird he had found that had fallen out of the nest. Leonard was chewing up sausage into tiny pieces and feeding them to the bird.

I was getting ready for bed Saturday night and Saturday Night Live came on. No fanfare, no bullshit. Just Kate McKinnon in character as Hillary Clinton sitting at a piano and singing "Hallejulah". She sang a few verses then said "I'm not giving up and neither should you."

Seems silly but it hit me hard. It connected Leonard Cohen's death with the tragedy of the election.

I had been distracted. Had some friends over for dinner. A simple night of friendship, laughter, food, conversation, games and drinks. Very nice. Took me away from my head for a while.

I was in a fog since Tuesday night. A fog that got pretty thick after Thursday night. Saturday night brought me back a ways. Saturday Night Live returned me to the funk.

I am mourning Leonard Cohen today. It had to be this way. I had to be alone. I have listened to a lot of his music.

Equally apropos, I had my cancer finale this morning. Last check up on the nose, a quick look at the back. Everything is fine. I don't need to cover up the nose anymore. I am left with a dent on the nose and a significant scar on my back. Reminders.

Just before I left his office the Doc made sure that I am set up for regular monitoring by a dermatologist. He said "I want you to be healthy, I want you to live for a long time. But these two incidences of cancer are a sign that the sun has done some damage to you. That you may have to deal with this again in the future. So you need to be religious with the dermatologist."

This is what I love about the man. He doesn't sugarcoat anything yet he manages to give me a sense of confidence.

And he's into the blues.

So that is where my life is at. I have to spend the rest of my time with an awareness that cancer may not give up. And I have to use that knowledge to concentrate on beauty in my life; on the things and the people who count.

Leonard Cohen's death is wrapped up in that. His death makes my life smaller. It hurts as if he were family.

In fact, 2016 has been especially brutal for me; many people who I loved and respected have died.

My life keeps getting smaller. That is the way life works. As I get older it will continue to shrink. I will not be able to do this, I will not be able to go there, I will not be able to enjoy that.

Leonard Cohen leaves a huge vacuum. A hole in my heart. Muhammad Ali did the same. It took quite a while to accept that Ali was gone.

I have not yet accepted that Leonard Cohen is gone.

Nick Cave's tribute may be the most accurate: "For many of us Leonard Cohen was the greatest songwriter of them all. Utterly unique and impossible to imitate no matter how hard we tried. He will be deeply missed by so many."

Leonard Cohen himself recently said: "I am ready to die. I hope it's not too uncomfortable. That's about it for me."

That is so Leonard Cohen.

And so is the "clarification" he offered later on, saying that he was "exaggerating". "I've always been into self dramatization," he said last month. "I intend to live forever."

I will miss Leonard Cohen deeply.

It is a comfort when you know there is a human being out there fighting life's harshness with beauty and honesty and reflection.

I do not know who I will turn to now.

Monday, November 7, 2016

Thirty Good Seconds

I need to consume a massive amount of whiskey tonight. And wash it down with a bucketful of beer.

What the hell are you talking about? It's fucking Monday night - you just barely jumped back in to the cesspool.

Doesn't matter - everything is so shaky. So unpredictable. Just when my life is supposed to get easier, it gets harder.

That's life, baby - it is a goddamn swamp full of alligators. You make your way through as each of your limbs and eventually your internal organs gets ripped off and out of you. Every once in a great while you inadvertently smile through the painful shrieks. Those are the high points.

That is the stupidest fucking analogy I have ever heard.

You know who the blueprint for survival is? It's that Monty Python knight who gets his limbs hacked off and keeps hopping around saying "only a flesh wound." That's life in a nutshell.

What the hell is the point of life lived that way? What is the point of being alive?

Thirty seconds of happiness in eighty years of life. That's it. The trick is to recognize that thirty seconds for what it is and then tell everybody "I have had a good life". Because that is what people want to hear.

I'm thinking about stabbing myself in the chest with an ice pick just before jumping off the side of the Grand Canyon with a bottle of whiskey in my left hand, an ice cold beer in my right, with the hope of breaking my spine in the belly of what is most beautiful about America.

That would be cool.

You would like that, wouldn't you?

Goddamn right. I would record it and post it to facebook.

You wouldn't care that I chose to die?

Christ no; caring is the problem. If you care about anything in your life it exponentially multiplies the agony. The trick is to not care at all. That way the suffering is meaningless.

I'd rather be dead.

You're kind of dead already, right?

What are you talking about?

Well, if you are thinking you'd rather be dead, you really are dead already. So save us the bloodshed and the horrific waste of good whiskey and beer. Live the rest of your life like a zombie just like the rest of us do, and when death comes you won't even know it.

Talking to you is so damn comforting. Let's get out of here. Let's get Monday-night-wasted.

Now you're talking.