Weirdos Are Us

No one is normal, it just looks that way from across the street.

Like a Bat Out of Hell

Fear of 80 does not give you license to stop living at 72.

In fact, the spectre of 80 looming should supercharge the necessity for laughs NOW.

Better get your fucking ass in gear, baby.

This Would Be A Big Help

I need to find some artistic space where I can scream my fucking head off and say fuck you to the world so I can feel a sense of freedom.

Raise A Glass

If you don't have money in the bank at this moment in this country, and I'm talking about a massive pile of money, then you are a helpless kitten whose mother has abandoned you.

You are crying for someone to give you milk because you are fucking starving. But nobody's going to help you, nobody's going to give you milk, nobody's going to give you anything, nobody's going to help you out at all. In fact, they are actively working to destroy you.

You are on your own and you will suffer.

Cheers to the death of humanity.

Am I Insane?

The other night I was up until 1:30 in the morning watching Waiting For Guffman.

Would you do that?

Where You Gonna Go, Monkey Joe? (Ode To The Lost)

What are you looking for?

Too late for redemption, don't you think? Ten tons of regret is a bit much to get out from under, and karma would probably sabotage the effort anyway.

Self-actualization. You can't deal with everyone else until you deal with you. Enemies outside, an enemy within. But the walls you built are high and wrapped in barbed wire. Words that haunt: "When there's no enemy within, the enemy outside can do you no harm."

Where you gonna go, Monkey Joe?

Absolute truth. Too pure - it would kill you. An enormous shock to the system, because your soul is buried under a mountain of pretense. Safer to stay the ragged course.

Respect. That is laughable. You have to earn respect, but time is short and you are weak. Condescending opinions of you are set in stone, and reinforced by you every day, in every conversation and every situation. Trapped in your own sorrowful performance.

Pick another battle.

Happiness. Not when you're living someone else's life while yearning for your own. The most you can hope for is submission.

Where you gonna go, Monkey Joe?

Peace of mind. Noble. Also, unattainable, when you rail against your reality with every breath you take.

Love. It's there for the taking, there are people who love you. Don't you know? You take that love and twist it into something less, staring through a distorted lens. You are a starving dog, too beat down to crawl to a bowl of food two feet away.

Health. Who gives a shit.

Self-esteem. You have to know yourself to love yourself. It's much easier to hate the stranger you are.

Where you gonna go, Monkey Joe?

All the roads are closed.

I Might Have To Get Rid of My Cats

They are too loving.

Too sensitive. Too gentle. Too natural.

They put me in an extremely dangerous position.

In this country right now and, presumably, for a while to come, you have to be combative. Fists up. You gotta go to bed wearing brass knuckles, keeping a pistol tucked under your pillow, so that when that alarm goes off you are ready to draw blood.

My cats make me soft. They melt me. They bring out my humanity. Which lowers my defenses. Very dangerous in 2026 because the bubble is about to burst.

It feels good, it feels oh so fucking good to bask in the glow of pure love given and pure love received; it's what pets are all about. One of the finer joys a human can experience. You remember that feeling, right? Being human? Or have you crossed the line into pure hatred or abject fear? Many, if not most of us, have crossed the Rubicon, baby.

Dentists are reaping the benefits of teeth gnashing in the night.

The cats curl up in my lap every night - every night - both of them, making me so warm, so content, so loving. They sleep entwined so tightly that you don't know where one stops and the other begins. I love it.

But I'm not stupid. I sense my vulnerability like a flashing neon sign saying "Kill this man. Beat the shit out of him. He's a pantywaist!" Attracting my enemies like moths to a flame. Those who would kick down my door and drive ice picks into my eyes, for the crime of disagreeing with them. Laughing recklessly as blood drenches my cats. (Sorry for the visual - way over the top - but it makes my point perfectly).

So I watch violent movies to keep me tuned up. Ichi The Killer. A Serbian Film. Reality Killers. Squirming carefully in the recliner (can't disturb the cats), clenching and unclenching my fists, dreaming of knocking teeth down throats. I'm ready, baby - I am fucking ready.

This is not what I want. I'm a sensitive guy. Shit, I have survived so far by drenching everyone I meet in empathy. Even the dull and the ignorant. 

I want to be free to give love and receive love - that's what keeps us alive, you know. But it's not practical any more, and soon it will be illegal.

Oh for Christ sake - Patsy just jumped into my lap. She's looking up at me with her wide, innocent eyes full of love. Purring. Nudging her head into my hand saying "Please love me, please give me some attention." 

I'm melting.

Cue my obituary.