Daily Archives: January 15, 2011
Seriously. The neigborhood is messed up. I give you a song as proof.
I feel like I have a tumor in my fucking head, sometimes. I get about four posts into this, and am trying to figure out why the hell anyone wants to link me with spam about a nuclear war.
It would appear that this is some sort of…video game?
Haven’t we already done this on a screen before, a big one? Christ, didn’t everybody go see “Wargames”? I could have sworn there was a lot of people in the audience.
I must be mistaken. There is a game coming out about a nuclear war. This is about as odd as “Missile Command”, or am I off my rocker, as usual? I’m sure I am. I am supposed to be eating lunch. I had a bottle of port last night, so anything is possible since it rendered me unable to find out where my dirty laundry goes. I get up today to a dead fish in my kids’ little tank. He was a low dweller, waiting until the other spaz of a fish that is in that tiny little playhouse of seaweed is finished eating so he can go and eat what was left over once the hyperactive fish is done eating. He got himself wedged between a toy octopus and the side of the tank. We sent him down to the sewer and I guess that is that. I always like it when my son is rational about things dying, because he always winds up reasoning that it will go somewhere else and do his fish thing. I’m not ruling it out. Maybe the little fella will hit something down in the pipes and it will come to its fish senses and go where it belongs, wherever the hell tiny low dwellers hang out. I don’t know who keeps catching tiny-assed fish from the bottoms of the something, but I guess it amuses most of you that a small low-dweller in a tank just sits there, wondering how he got in a tank. I don’t want to jump some scuba-diving fisherman for grabbing them for money. But the low dwelling fish is as confused and stupid as we are when he is in a lake or a river, and I figure that is why he is kind of waiting to get back to where he was happy.
I hate lakes, because generally some asshole thinks they own them. I got so fucked up once on a tiny yacht that I started yelling at the people across the lake with their pretty little houses all in a row. I asked a question that Hunter Thompson might have asked. “What about the doomed?”, I shouted.
All I got was an echo, so I yelled it again. But, I’m figuring that the point of a tiny yacht is to ignore everyone around you, and I guess that is all well and good for rich people. Doesn’t exactly sit well with me, but whatever. I can wait out the rich. They keep sending me offers for money via credit. I’ll open their junk mail for a little thrill. At the present rate of degeneration in the United States economy, I am dead positive that no one is going to be happy at Bohemian Grove, and are probably going to wonder if burning that owl is going to stop them from giving a shit anymore. They might just put their hoods over their heads and go socialize for the rest of their stupid trip. I can’t even wrap my head around that ridiculous little gathering, all these well-to-do people separating themselves by sex until they light something on fire.
It’s as stupid as I make it sound…from the sound of it.
Ceremony is a giant pain in the royal ass. I don’t know if anyone really likes it, but people sure like to pretend something special is happening. I can’t shut up. Everyone knows this. They don’t hear me so good, but as long as I can hear my own voice, I guess I am not in a pressure suit, but am at a special time in someone somewheres’ life. Fine. Special is good, but last time I checked, the word “special” is ordinarily reserved for the disabled, and any disabled person will tell you that people can go shit in their hats if they don’t like how the fuck they look. I feel like every disabled person should just tell non-disabled people to shut their stupid asses up.
They are usually saying to people, in a language we can’t understand, that they can do stuff by themselves and don’t need a fucking translator to tell them what we know. I figure Stephen Hawking is literally struck dumb because he might be a little scared about what he knows about the infinity of the universe. I’m a little weirded out by the idea myself. I usually shut down in awe as I watch people on television now try to tell us that there is eleven dimensions and the universe is being held together by string. Science fiction always tells us shit about ourselves and we usually don’t have the sense to read them until they are dead. They’re as modern as you can get as far as fairy tales go. They have a moral at the end. We usually love “morals” to a story, because we don’t have a whole lot of moral (note: I did not leave an “A” off of that, editor) left. We babble like a brook when someone wants to hear a morality tale.
Blah, blah, blah. All around the mulberry bush we go, not noticing that the mulberry bush is just sitting there waiting for you to get the hell off of its roots.
It’s only 3:43. I’m just killing time, waiting in the corner for my wife to go to bed. She’s not feeling very well, and I have a hard time dealing with that. I feel like I have to go away a few feet, and get her to sleep before I continue to keep her awake with my seemingly endless psychobabble.
I’m not sure why, but I don’t exactly like the keyboard I am working on. It doesn’t quite feel right on my fingers, even though I can see the keyboard fairly well. I lose focus every now and then, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping me from pitching in a few words as I let my wife alone, just for a damn minute. That doesn’t seem to hurt too bad. I keep trying to feel across the keys, but I can’t…quite keep a good train of thought.
Something is a little wrong with me, and I feel like Mr. Jones by Bob Dylan’s interesting record “Highway 61…” Was it that one I have, or is it the other one I enjoy whose name is escaping my grasp, particularly right now.
I’m only shaking at the keys now, instead of striking them. Seems to be better than I have felt in years. I simply wait, wait for my wife to get some sleep. She does NOT need to hear me or continue to listen to me anymore, because I had a fantastic bitch-session with my father. It’s like that stupid pillow punching therapy in a manner of speaking: “here, kick my ass, and I will be okay” and you do that into a pillow and you feel better.
I’ve done this. I feel better, after having slept a touch. That’s the way things work, but I don’t know exactly how they work. I mean, look at this mess, I’m sitting here at nearly four o’ clock. People came over to the house with a baby, a three legged bulldog named Pearl. It sounds awful, doesn’t it? But I sensed after a while that it might be OK to let it go a little, just sway for a few keystrokes. I’m now looking at the keyboard, instead of barely being able to touch the thing for fear that I might upset someone. I have occasional tremors and have to take in deep breaths. Makes me yawn, but it is just enough to keep me humming. This could be worse, my timing seems to be a little off. Being a few minutes late for something isn’t all that awful. The trouble typically is when you can’t keep track.
There are a few things that I have noticed. One of the things that I am happy about is that I am not absolutely in love with fucking Facebook anymore. I don’t feel like sitting still. I mean, I know now why I have some relief from pain, but I couldn’t tell you why exactly. I suppose all I have to do is clear my head long enough to say something. I guess this is a “transition” period, which is good for the lungs but bad for the heart. It makes me twitch, it causes a few nasty little headaches. While my wife is more of a symphony girl, I have to write. I don’t have a lot of time for this. It is so late it is almost morning. My back hurts like a son of a bitch, so much that I have to put my head in my hands and sulk.
I don’t mind too much, this using of my back, but it is bothersome.