The Irony of Last Chance to See

So I have finished reading two books since last we spoke, but tonight do not feel like giving long, drawn out reviews of my readings, so instead will leave you with the short versions.

Leviathan, the last book in the Illuminatus! Trilogy ended well, albeit rather confusingly. I tried very hard during my reading of this tome to relate to the 60's and early 70's in which the majority of the novel took place. Try as I might, the hippie mysticism, drug induced insights, and the gathering sense of urgency to do something became almost anti-climactic for me and left me feeling like I was the only one standing in a room of people that was not in on the inside joke that had just been told. I look back on those decades with a reverence of some type of dramatic change having occurred, but then look at the present and my childhood in the 80's - the product of parents who lived through those times and struggles - and wonder if this was the future that our parents were struggling so hard for back then. How much has complacency, greed, or sheer laziness shaped the ideals of those who grew up or struggled for some elusive freedom during that time effected the world that we are now living in? Maybe I am naive or ungrateful, but I don't know what I don't know.

The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul was the last compete Dirk Gently novel (not counting the partial amalgamation I am currently reading in The Salmon of Doubt) written by Douglas Adams. For those of you not British or fans of science fiction, you may have heard of Douglas Adams through is most popular book that was also made into a movie, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. Having read almost everything that Douglas Adams has written in novel form, I have grown sad while reading The Salmon of Doubt because it is the last we will ever hear from him.

I had the opportunity to see Douglas Adams speak at the University of California Santa Barbara on April 5, 2001. He was speaking about a book he had written, which I had just finished reading before I went to see him, called Last Chance to See. The book detailed his journeys around the world in an effort to "see" and document encounters with endangered species before the became extinct. Adams was a rabid conservationist and environmentalist which, when mixed with his particular brand of intelligent British humor, made Last Chance to See a hilarious and extremely enjoyable book to read. Now here comes the irony: this speech on Last Chance to See became literally the last chance to see Douglas Adams; he became extinct by means of a heart attack on May 11, 2001.

I look at the autograph that I got from him in my Hitchhiker's Omnibus and remember being hungry even then for more to read from him. When I met him to get the autograph I asked him when The Salmon of Doubt was going to be released. At the time, Salmon was only a rumor, a vicious perpetual "Coming Soon" title which over the better part of a decade had repeatedly failed to manifest itself. Like the Loch Ness monster of the book world, there would occasionally be rumors leaked of a sighting, but in the end there was nothing that you could shoot at or put up on an operating table and really dig into. He looked up at me somberly (I have the feeling that I now know why from reading the beginning of Salmon) and said simply, "It isn't. It's been scrapped. Repeatedly. Put on hold indefinitely." I thanked him for writing so brilliantly and giving me a new way to think about comedy in a more intelligent way than dick and fart jokes could offer. He shook my hand solidly and I stepped aside to let the two hundred or so people behind me have their own private minute of access to a genius.

I found out through reading the beginning of Salmon that the question of when that book was coming out often pained him when he was asked it. Almost ten years later I cringe at the thought that my question might have depressed him in even a little way. After all, this was a man who had brought laughter and pleasure to my life through his writing for so many years. Douglas Adams knew his fans wanted another book. Douglas Adams also knew that he would not let said book be released unless it was perfect. Douglas Adams was also a monumental procrastinator of the type that I would have loved to have learned from when I was in school. The third fact aside, post-mortem, we finally got the book that we had all been waiting for but we got it at a price that none of us would ever have wanted to pay for it.

I will probably never be rich, or famous, or even moderately well known in certain circles. I may not even be a good writer. But I always think of the impact that the authors of the books that I read have on me - some amazing, some good, and some negligible - and always come to the conclusion that for the best of them, to reach people, to affect lives, to give reason for thought, and in some cases be the only reason for someone to smile or laugh during the day, these are powerful things. And so I write. Amazing, good, negligible, possibly even bad, I write.

Sometimes its the only way to get out of my head for a while.

Remembering My Journal

I was rummaging through some of my old stuff and came across a journal that I used to write in. Upon reading it I realized that The Randomness of My Crackhead started around 10 years ago on paper and I am just continuing it on in web format in front of you who travel to this corner of the blogosphere. Excerpts from my prior ramblings follow:

As Bill Cosby once said, "I started out as a child." My addition to that is that it's pretty much all gone down hill since then. I just wonder sometimes if that hill is just a little bit steeper for other people. Like a cliff. They start out as a child and then fall off a cliff. Right onto their head. It seems to me that because of that fall some people grow up stupid.

Things go through my head sometimes that scare me. Now these things aren't necessarily bad all the time, just weird to the point of being scary. I daydream too often for too long sometimes. My mind works in weird ways. It's like my brain chooses to jump out of my head and do LSD when I'm not looking and sit back and laugh at me while my body deals with the effects.

I wonder what it would be like to live in my mind. To me it's pretty boring, I guess, because it's my mind. But I think it would probably kill someone else. I've heard it theorized that if two people ever actually did switch bodies, the slight changes in perception, height and other things that may just seem minor to us, would drive a person insane. Maybe that's what happened to me. Someone put me in another person's body and that's why I'm insane. I don't know. Maybe I was just born that way.

Once upon a time on another world far away lived a boy with nothing to live for. In the darkest of times he fought wars with no purpose other than to die. He didn't want freedom, he didn't want his homeland, those had been taken from him long before. He just wanted a release from pain that he could never give himself.

I don't know what is worse, being bored, or being bored and alone. When you're bored and not alone, the person or people you are with keep you from doing anything stupid. When you're bored and alone you start thinking about lining up the drinking glasses on the couch and seeing how good my aim is with my BB gun.

I wonder how well I'd write on drugs. I wonder what would come off of my pen if I was sitting on the couch all cracked out with a strobe light flashing in my face and over the paper. Would it be brilliant? Psychotic? Or would I just be curled up fetal screaming about bugs? Probably the bugs.

Hippies really kick ass. They smell kind of funny though. That's all.

I wish I could fly. I think it would be cool just to be above everything and look down. I wonder what the birds would think. When you come to think about it, that's the only advantage they have over us. I mean, sure, we have planes and gliders and stuff, but we can't just take to the air of our own accord. We need jets and wings and propellers and stuff. We don't have any of that crap built on to our bodies. But seriously, if we could fly, do you think the birds would be pissed? Would they all, just like, band together and give everything a gooey shit bath from above? That's what I think would happen. Deep thoughts.

No, I'm not on drugs right now.

I've heard that a person could swallow his or her own tongue. I don't know about that. I've tried this a couple of times and it just made me feel like I had to throw up.

I just got a tattoo about two weeks ago. It's a dragon on my right arm. I suppose that makes me hardcore now, maybe like those guys on Harley's that go from town to town visiting strip clubs and breaking beer bottles over their heads. My head is now bleeding and I've still never been to a strip club.

Gymnast girls. God damn. That's all.

I have a confession to make. I'm really a man. And a total lesbian. Total lesbian.

I remember my Nona sitting in her wheelchair behind the kitchen table watching soaps on TV. She always had a warm smile for whomever walked into her home and would never let you leave without eating a plate of food. She always thought I was too skinny. I miss my Nona.

I am a ghost. Maybe not in the conventional sense of the word, but then again, maybe I am. I live, if that's what you could call it, among normal people, if that's what you could call them...I breathe, walk, bleed and cry just the same as everybody else around me. But I am dead. I breathe stale air, walk in a perpetual daze and bleed lifeless, contaminated blood. I infect and am infected by all around me. Supposedly when your body dies, your soul lives on. But what happens when your soul dies? Is that when you become a zombie? I am hungry, but not for flesh or brains.

Let go of the pain. It's okay to hurt, but let it run it's course. Don't hold on to it. Let go of the anger. Do you even know why you are mad anymore? Find peace within yourself. You know where you need to be. Go there. Don't settle for good enough. Demand the best and be the best. Have patience, but don't let a good thing pass you by.

I erase everything in my brain so I don't think and I don't feel and most importantly, so that I don't ACT. It's better that way. It's safer that way. It's so I don't hurt myself or the people around me. I just go into my brain and shut it off.


Between all of this mishmash is crammed a comic book that I was working on at the time (never published or to see the light of day), the ups and downs of past relationships, a bunch of songs that got me through the day written out on paper, and finally the log of my messed up financial situation of many years back. It's funny how I look back on all of these entries now and it seems so long ago, almost like another life that happened to another person, or a plot line that I would dream up for a character in a book. I am a firm believer in not looking backwards and regretting the things that have happened or the mistakes that were made, but sometimes it is nice to steal a quick glance over your shoulder and realize just how far you've come.

Good night dear readers.

The State of the Economy

The world is a scary place right now. I wanted to take a second out of my normal incoherent rumblings to talk about my life as it relates to the current state of the economy.

My father started his own business when I was four or five years old. I always wanted to go to work with him and help him out and when jobs permitted the presence of a small child, I was able to tag along and do little things like bring him tools or help clean up. My parents divorced when I was seven, and my dad relocated his business up north. During the summers when I went up to visit, I would work for him on a part-time basis, helping out on jobs and earning spending money to buy baseball cards, comic books and clothes, fix my bike, go to the movies, the local skating rink, or to the miniature golf course.

My mom always got up early, generally before the sun came up, to go to work. She found a job with the local school district working in the central kitchen making lunches for elementary school children. She has been there now for over 20 years and has woken up and worked and come home because she had two children to support. Her long day was never finished when she left work, she came home and started her second job as the mother of two more-often-than-not bratty and growing children. I know now that she was truly exhausted when she was finally able to go to bed and as I hit my teenage years, her nights of sleep were often short and fitful. We lived with my grandparents and while we always had everything that we needed - a roof over our heads, hot meals on our plates, clothes on our backs - I saw while I was growing up that she did without a lot so that my brother and I could have what we wanted and needed. I felt that if I could work and provide for my wants - clothes, going to the movies, going out to eat - I wouldn't have to ask her for money and she would have a little bit more to spend on my brother and herself. My grandmother had an older friend that lived at the end of our block - a retired school teacher - that she would help to do various things like go shopping, pay bills, and other things like that. She got me a job working for her around her house; yard work, mowing the lawn, doing dishes, cleaning floors, bathrooms, kitchens, vacuuming, making the bed, that type of stuff.

When I was 14, I got a work permit and a part-time job at a fast food restaurant and spent the last 15 years of my life since working and moving up the job ladder. I made it into mid-level management positions by taking any shift that was offered - days, nights, swings, splits, doubles - and finally wound up in a job that I liked with a good company that I really enjoyed working for. I bought a house at the end of November 2008 and was subsequently laid off at the beginning of February 2009 with 400 other employees when business at the company declined by almost 70% from where it was when I started in September of 2008. The layoff was seniority based and our only crime was being new to the company.

I was watching the news and kept hearing about the state of the economy. I kept hearing about the hundreds of thousands of people who were loosing their jobs on a monthly basis in the United States. I never thought that it could happen to me. And then I became a statistic. But hey, that's the state of the economy. I have been unemployed now for six months, and for a guy who has worked for the better part of his life, it has seemed like an eternity. I hit the streets and job boards on a daily basis looking for employment and suffering the same disappointment as millions of others. All the while I am collecting unemployment and hating myself for it.

I don't write this now so that you will feel sorry for me, I don't want or deserve pity for the situation that I am in, as a matter of fact, I have over 7 million other people that I share my predicament with and despite not working, I still have a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and hot meals on my plate. There are scores of others, I am sure, that are much worse off than I am and have nowhere to turn. I am one of the fortunate ones with good friends and family around me that have seen me through this and provide the support and encouragement to keep going, keep trying, and keep my head up. I am writing this to thank them. Without these people in my life, I don't know what I would do or where I would be. You are the ones that have kept me going despite the state of the economy and I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart.

From a listening ear and helpful advice, to smacking me on the back of my head to make sure that it settles on straight, to financial support, to food on my plate, to jobs for extra spending money, to the forwarding of resumes, I can't even begin to explain how grateful I am to have such wonderful people in my life that support me and make sure that I am taken care of. I have not forgotten how blessed I am to have all of you around me.

Thank you.

The Golden Apple

As mentioned in my last entry (so long ago, I know, and I would say that I was sorry if I thought that anyone actually read this thing...does anyone actually read this thing?) The Golden Apple picks up right where The Eye in the Pyramid left off.

The one thing that I happily noticed after the first handful of pages was that the storyline was much more coherent than in the first book. For the most part, the reader followed one character through upwards of 15-20 pages before a change of scenery and or character took place. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a following a narcotics-induced storyline just as much as the next person but my brain can only endure so much cacophonous literary jarring in my skull before I need a linear chain of events to prevent a gradual mental overdose. While the authors do at times revert to their old evil ways of the first book but this time it is used more as device to move the story and add to the ambiance as opposed to causing a story earthquake to keep the reader off-kilter for the entirety of the book.

In any case, a very distinct chain of events is starting to develop and the characters that you know and love from the first book (as well as a couple of new ones - yes, the cast gets bigger - in addition to characters that were hinted at) begin taking their position on the chessboard. Here's a quick rundown of all of the poop that is being loaded in that cannon over there that is aimed at this here giant fan:

First off, we've got Fernando Poo. (Somebody is going to need to help me with this one, I think. I'm still a little confused about Fernando Poo and exactly what was going on...) As near as I can tell, the President of the United States thinks that the Chinese and the Russians have soldiers there and threatens to do something very nasty if they don't leave. Nuclear warfare seems too blah of a threat according to the president. Something nastier type of stick needs to be shook at the bad guys. Enter Anthrax Leprosy Pi, which leads us to our next major uh-oh.

Anthrax Leprosy Pi, the newest and worst form of Anthrax that was being threatened to be used against the Reds, has escaped from the secret lab that it was invented in via the contaminated inventor. Who passed it along to a prostitute. Who died while blowing her pimp. All of this in Las Vegas. Did I mention that it spreads to everybody the carrier comes in contact with? You can probably see where this is going. The government sees where this is going as well and is coming to the conclusion that Martial Law should be declared in the United States until this whole mess can be sorted out.

Fortunately on the other side of the Atlantic, a giant rock festival is being put together in Ingolstadt. No, wait, that's a bad thing. Why, you may ask, is a rock concert in Ingolstadt that in all appearances looks to be an international version of Woodstock a bad thing? Did I mention the leigon of dead Nazis at the bottom of a nearby lake that will be brought back to life when the AMA starts playing and kill everyone present thus immanentizing the Eschaton (read: "starting Armageddon") and helping bastards like Hitler (yes, he's still alive and hanging out comfortably in a nearby Ingolstadt hotel) achieve transcendental illumination.

Alrighty then, the poop is packed, the fuse is at the ready, now where's my lighter?

On the other end of the board, 00005 is in Fernando Poo, Saul, Barney, and John Dillinger are on the trail of Anthrax Leprosy Pi, and Hagbard, George, Joe, Otto, John Dillinger (huh?) Mavis, Stella, and anyone else on the Lief Erickson that I may have left out are on their way to Ingolstodt to watch to world burn. Or stop it from burning. Or something. Maybe.

Meanwhile the Dealy Llama is doing...not a damn thing. What is with that guy?

The review of the finale to this series, Leviathan, will be up shortly. Meanwhile, if you have no idea who the people are or what is going on in this review, go out to your local bookstore and pick up The Illuminatus! Trilogy by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson or you can order it online here: http://www.amazon.com/Illuminatus-Trilogy-Pyramid-Golden-Leviathan/dp/0440539811 because apparently you have some catching up to do. If, on the other hand, you have read the book and still have no idea who the people are or what is going on in this review, please let me know so we can compare notes, I'm still a little confused...

The Eye in the Pyramid

The Illuminatus! Trilogy is the latest and greatest in the line of What the F-aholic line of books that I have been reading. Yet another example of how to be a successful writer of fiction while stoned out of your mind on a mixture of wild and exotic drugs, The Eye in the Pyramid is the first of three books in the Trilogy. A mixture of heavy research and acid, Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson begin the series following Detective Saul Goodman and his investigation into the bombing of Confrontation, a left wing radical liberal magazine. Finding a series of memos investigating an organization called the Illuminai which was supposedly disbanded centuries earlier, Saul begins a journey to find the truth about what may be the largest and most powerful organization in the world or just a legendary conspiracy theory that could leave him chasing his tale for a lifetime.

Giving you just enough time to think you know what is happening, the security blanket is violently ripped away exposing the reader's naughty bits to the dark, cold, and scary shredding of the space-time continuum. Not really though. The book just starts jumping around a lot. Seriously. A lot. Sometimes mid-paragraph. With no warning. Like getting kicked in the head by a wombat, you never really see it coming. The story makes leaps from the late 1800's through the 1970's and quickly introduces a cast of characters as wide and varied as the time span.

Definitely a must read if you have ADD (or not) you can read it in bits or large chunks and still not really know what the hell is going on. As I approached the end of the first book for one glimmering and glorious second I thought I know what was going on and that Shea and Wilson had put me out of my writhing misery by wrapping the book up all nice and neat. Yeah, um, not so much. My dreams were quickly shattered and my curiosity further aroused like a lustful tickle. Originally the three books in the series came out individually but fortunately for me they are generally only sold as one large volume containing all three books. By a sincere stroke of luck (and design by the authors no doubt) the second book, The Golden Apple, picks up right where the first one left off and seems to follow a more constant train of thought than the first book, but I have been rudely awakened in the night before...

My ambiguity in this review aside, The Eye in the Pyramid is an amazing and torrid start to a classic series that I am very much looking forward to completing. Ultimately quotable and bestowing enough ambiance to leave me remembering the 60's with a teargas scented nostalgia (I was born in '80 but wanted to stay in the spirit) the humor peppered with memorable characters, sex, and violence, this first book is a roller coaster introduction to what I hope will be the path back to sanity when I am done. More to come on the state of my confusion once I finish The Golden Apple, but for now, go out and buy the book. You can all get your grubby hands on it at Amazon here: http://www.amazon.com/Illuminatus-Trilogy-Pyramid-Golden-Leviathan/dp/0440539811 and join me in the conspiracy to find out what is going on.

"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." - Hunter S. Thompson

The Music of the Night

I know it has been a while, and my blog has been void of visitors like my house is void of children. I felt the need to update the status at my own little personal cave of the blogosphere in which no one has dared (read, "cared") to enter thus far. Yet I persevere and post regardless of the absence of dear readers. Such is my lot in this life.

I have nothing to review or plug this time around, but should soon with my completion of the first book in the Illuminatus Trilogy. In the mean time, my brain is still being thoroughly messed about by the constant effort of trying to figure out what the hell is going on while I am reading it so that I can come up with something witty, intelligent, and life altering for nobody to care about when I do write a review of it. But I digress. Mostly because I sound like a blithering idiot right about now.

On to other fun stuff and matters of insanity. I have been in the mood of a morose and pissed off Beethoven as of late, sitting at my piano and pounding on it relentlessly in an effort to get a sound other than that of a cat being molested by a donkey out of it. I suppose to some twisted bastards out there that may be music, but to me it is far from the 5th Symphony. Moonlight Sonata has become my bane as of late, prompting a hypnotic, trance-like fondling of the keys in the dead of night by candlelight. The sound puts my brain to rest as I play but I usually grow restless and begin shortly jumping around between my music books until they are scattered on the floor around me like a flock of birds that flew headlong into a poison cloud.

I have also been trying to get a sound out of my guitar that in my head would be different than the one it would make being smashed against the wall due to my frustration. I firmly believe that my left hand was not created to bend the way it must have to in order to work the frets the way that I have heard on the radio. All I continue to get is a muffled mush that I could probably replicate with ease if I played with my feet.

Night is the best time to attempt this noise. I find that it works better to put me out of my misery than exercise and my sore, contorted, and stretched out hands are all better by morning so that I can still play again the next day. I believe the louder I play, the better it sounds, but in all reality I know in the deepest recesses of my heart that the louder I play, the more it pisses the neighbors off.

So I continue to ply my trade at the darkest hours of night.

Mister Serial Killer

What the hell. Notice that sentance didn't have a question mark at the end of it? That's because it was a statement, not a question. I repeat again: What the hell.

I know I'm freakin nuts, right? But then I'm wandering around the World Wide Wierdnessfinder and stumble across this little website called Mister Serial Killer. "What the hell?" I say. "This looks like a messed up children's book." Oh but I was wrong...I was oh so very wrong. What started out as a cute little cartoon about a homicidal happy face cartoon soon turned into a live action vingnette that made me contemplate the makeup of society and my personal place in the world. Mister Serial Killer is funny, cute, homicidal, and will kill your ass for no apparent reason.

I thought that I had a wacked out brain and a lot of time on my hands, this guy has a wacked out Canadian brain, a lot of time on his hands, and enough equipment to make a decently pleasant, tweaked out cartoon and live action short that's like watching a horrific car crash unfold before your very eyes. It's so horrific you just can't turn away (and by horrific I mean What the hell.). You can feel your brown eye pucker while you watch. My reccomendation: Check it out but send the young out of the room. For more and upcoming sadistic madness check out the website at: http://enityfilms.com/misterserialkiller/

What the hell. Goddamn Canadian bastards.

Episode One: The Happy Face Killer from misterserialkiller on Vimeo.

Attempted Drunk Rumblings

So I sit here on the couch wondering when the alcohol is finally going to kick in and getting pissed off that what is going through my head isn't being translated properly through my fingers and into your faces.

I think that I need to get a hold of Michelle Bachman to see if she can hook me up with whatever wicked crap she partakes of on a daily basis. If I ever believed in parallel realities (which I don't until I reach the reflective and contemplative stage of inebriation but even then I wonder...) she would be a prime candidate for testing out this theory. She is one strange bird and I wouldn't be surprised if an alien head popped out of her sternum on the senate floor and proceeded to go around selling flowers by means of a sock puppet one of these days. I would buy a bunch, but nobody pays attention to me. I have cash in hand and everything.

As I'm sitting in my living room drinking a beer I am struck by the similarity that I bare to the picture of the monkey drinking a bottle of vodka that I have hanging on my living room wall. There is nothing better than a drunk monkey with the exception of a drunk zombie monkey as my brother once envisioned, so aside from being a zombie myself, I am thinking that I must be pretty cool to emulate a cultural icon. Even if it is only in my own mind.

Wednesday night again and I'm on to Ghost Hunters on SciFi. I figure it's a solid three to four hours of me trying to scare myself to the point of pooping before I decide to go to bed and shiver under the covers like a three year old. That show kicks ass.

In the mean time, I am waiting for my hot wings to cool off so I can continue down my chosen path of obesity. I am adding to this a 12 pack of cold beer. Wheelchair here I come. This is no laughing matter, I have often thought that I would end up in like manner before I was 30 and I have less than a year to find out if this cruel little trick that is embedded in my brain will play out or not. It was either that or finally finding true love, getting married, and my wife would die in childbirth and I would be stuck with a daughter that looked exactly like her to haunt me for the rest of my days. But mostly I'm a happy person.

I grow tired of this, you may leave me now.

Swine Flu, The Andromeda Strain, and Outbreak

Okay, so instead of trying to find a monkey somewhere in Africa we are tracking a pig in Mexico. Everybody is wearing masks coming off of the plane. It started with a monkey in the movies, then went to the birds in the East, now to the swine from underneath the boarder. My girlfriend almost got sent home from work today because she just came back from Mexico last Wednesday. One of her co-workers was forced to take four sick days because he traveled to the wrong place during the wrong time and didn't come back soon enough. Four day incubation period has gotten people jumpy. Geographic profiling is in effect.

Is this where fiction meets reality? Did Robin Cook and Michael Crichton know something that we take for granted because it is generally unseen? Why is it that nobody heard about this until all of the sudden one day six people were dead? So here is what I think: Science Fiction is real. It's just not real yet.

Come on, you watch TLC and the Discovery Channel and the National Geograpic channel like everybody else. How much of this stuff is actually used? How many scientists are out there trying to make this stuff actually work? More than we probably realize. Some of you may actually read the magazines and paper books that this stuff appears in as well. From Jules Verne and H.G. Wells to Issac Asimov, Phillip K. Dick, Arthur C. Clarke and Orson Scott Card, the future keeps evolving and we keep following in the path that these future psychics have laid out for us. Who is our next prophet? Warren Ellis? Iain Banks? Jeff freakin' Somers?! True, there is a lot of grey area between these names, a number of endless realities and continuims, a plethora of ways for the human race to flourish, and an infinite number of implosions of destruction.

Is this the way the world ends...not with a whimper...but with a bang? Was Richard Kelley right? Or do we really all just kick it quietly with a gurgling wheeze from a flu strain that has mutated, evolved, or adapted from the swine population to infect and destroy mankind?

No, it's cool, we've got this. When we go out...if we go out...

...it'll be with a BANG...

"But things are now under control," Stone said. "We have the organism, and can continue to study it. We've already begun to characterize a variety of mutant forms. It's a rather astonishing organism in its versatility." He smiled. "I think we can be fairly confident that the organism will move into the upper atmosphere without causing further difficulty on the surface, so there's no problem there. And as for us down here, we understand what's happening now, in terms of the mutations. That's the important thing. That we understand."

"Understand," Hall repeated.

"Yes," Stone said. "We have to understand."

- The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton

Crooked Little Vein

Detective Mike McGill has a crappy life. Dumped by his girlfriend for a hairy-nippled lesbian, Mike has managed to stumble into every jacked up and depraved case imaginable to compound the misery of his existence, that is until now. Tasked with finding the real constitution (you know, the one that the Founding Fathers created to be used at a time of great crisis that is bound in the skin of an alien killed by Ben Franklin himself - yeah, that constitution) McGill starts a twisted journey along America's underbelly that takes him from coast to coast with pit-stops in various hells that never seem to end.

With his nymphomaniac lover/partner/guide Trix and a pack of reservoir tipped Jesus condoms the two blaze a cross country trail that burned my eyes to read. From a red eye flight with a serial killer, to industrial strength silicon shaped transvestite hookers, to a nut sack filled with saline until he walks bowl-legged, Mike re-discovers America in a way that some take for granted, and others wake from in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. And the hits just keep on coming.

Not for the weak of heart, Ellis has crafted an edgy, painful, and hilarious romp that will have you walking away feeling like you were kicked in the scrotum but badly wanting more. For those of you outside of the comic book/graphic novel world, Warren Ellis is one of the most well-respected and creative writers in the world. Comics aren't just for kids anymore and if you haven't figured that out yet, get off your couch and go check out some of his other works such as Transmetropolitan and The Authority which should be readily available for your reading ecstasy at your local bookstore. If they don't have them, ask what the hell is wrong with their ownership and demand that copies be ordered.

For more info about Warren Ellis check out his website at http://www.warrenellis.com/ and to get your hands on the book go to your local bookstore or follow the link on his website.

Welcome to the mainstream.

The System

So I tried to skirt the system and it caught me in the spotlight and gave me the finger. So now instead of skirting in a profitable manner I am out in the cold while attempting to build mental capitol that makes my brain hurt and does nothing about the lint in my pockets.

The world has become one of mechanized process where human interaction is frowned upon and you can get kicked out of a building for just stopping by in an attempt to painfully inject yourself into the cogs of the world. Is this man a revolutionary? And I say to you NO!, I am just a simple beings without the proper catch phrases on a scannable piece of paper.

I am currently paying a ridiculous amount of a non-existent bank trust in order to achieve prominence under the foot of a large fat man that leaks Crisco instead of sweating. Everything I need to know I learned from a wise old jar of pickles back in ancient Rome. The ancient Romans had never seen a wise old jar of pickles - nonetheless one that could talk - and they became highly agitated at the fact that the lid would not come off. All hell broke loose when a homely band of prostitutes tried to abscond with the jar in an attempt to put it to use in their own machinations. Suddenly a magical hell-hole opened up out of the center of the city right up the street from where that one guy used to live and the wise old jar of pickles was lost forever along with the homely band of prostitutes the latter of which, according to the ancient Romans that were interviewed at a later time was really not a huge loss at all. But the consensus was that everybody was pretty pissed about the pickles.

Long story short, the lesson that I learned from that wise old jar of pickles was this: Nobody misses ugly hookers. No, wait, it was this: The ancient Romans had a good thing, but it was frustrating for those who did not have access to it. Those who did not have access to it were not paid much attention to until the good thing was gone and everybody was left with nothing. That's a small boat to be in with a large number of people that are floating up a Proverbial creek without a pickle. Needless to say, everybody died. The end.

Homework sucks.

Hello, Welcome, and Get the Hell Out

Welcome one and all to The Randomness of My Crackhead. I have no idea who you are, how you got here, or even where the door is so I can tell you to leave, but whatever, I'm confused anyway. If you continue to read on for some reason, you will probably be disapointed because I don't know what to write about, this just seemed like a good idea so I could give my mind a place to vomit in full view of the public.

As for the title of this blog, I do not have a personal crackhead whom I keep in a basement somewhere and feed mind-altering substances to while occasionally spraying them down with a garden hose so they don't stink too badly during the time that I am away and they are living alone in the dark and surviving off of whatever scattered vermin they find scrambling around the damp and moldy floor. That would be expensive. I mean the drugs for the crackhead would be expensive. And really, what would be the point of keeping a crackhead if you didn't have any crack to give them? In addition, I myself am not on drugs, that would be expensive as well and I have to say that my tolerance for perscribed medications that I have been on before is rather high so it would probably be really expensive. I prefer spending my money on other things like alcohol and poor gambling decisions (Goddamn Detroit Lions, "100 bucks on Detroit to go to the Super Bowl," I said, I knew I should have just put it all on black but noooo, I had to just keep on walking to the sports book).

Anyway, apparently this blog is the result of too many whacks on the head, too few hours of sleep last night, too much to drink this morning, or a combination of all or none of those things. I must go now, my piano is talking to me again and I need to find my shovel.