Saturday, December 31, 2016


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


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.)


Monday, December 19, 2016


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

they won't find us
the barracudas or the ladies or
the idol

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
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.


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


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?


"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.


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


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
and nobody finds the
but keep
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than

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

nobody ever finds
the one.

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

nothing else

Charles Bukowski


"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.


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


"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 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.


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. 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.


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