Hello Cruel World!
I’m not dead, just fucking stressed and busy.
Trying to get this here career moving onward and upward. And trust me friends, it ain’t easy.
I’m not dead, just fucking stressed and busy.
Trying to get this here career moving onward and upward. And trust me friends, it ain’t easy.
So, bathroom etiquette is a huge thing for me. I get grossed out pretty easily when people to gross shit. I understand that’s the whole purpose of a room dedicated to bodily function, but still.
Had a strange run in last week that just won’t leave my mind. So, there’s this guy I work with who’s flamboyantly off kilter. Wears in pink zebra print chucks, Sponge Bob shirts, complete with salt and pepper beard. He’s middle aged and weird as fuck.
I write for a major company, let’s call it Nerd Paradise. Lots of geeks are guzzling down coffee or gross meals in between arguing about Dr. Who or which Hulk was better (consensus is green over grey) and these geeks LOVE to hit the bathroom. There is always someone in the can.
Last week, post lunch and nooner coffee time, the bathroom is jacked. All the stalls are occupied. Homeboy in the pink shoes, posts up and breaks out his TABLET and just waits it out. Mind you there are many other bathrooms in this building, but he’s waited to grab a seat, complete with his own commentary of sound. If I see a wall of closed stall doors, I’m hitting the bricks to find sanctuary.
As soon as I finish up I open the door and he’s there - I was a little taken aback because as soon as I came out - he rushed in.
Therein lies the problem: who the fuck wants to grab the warm seat? I can’t think of something as revolting as hurriedly getting on the throne fresh after someone. Butt heat is gross heat.
I’ve unknowingly came in after someone and my stomach turns as soon as my skin feels some else’s poop warmth.
I can’t be the only person who finds this weird. Waiting out a seat, knowing you’re getting the hotness, as well fresh stink. That’s strange business right there. AND you bring the tablet! The rest of us use our cell phones, this guy was in for the extended stay.
Butt warmth - just say gross.
The video for Turn Down has been viewed over 50 MILLION times. Let that sink in, people.
"The Ghost continued: “I watched towns burn because crooks wanted it all. In their wake, they left everyone face up, and full of bullets. I saw a world that was a putrid, dying mess. I ain’t god-fearing, but I do know that no one is righteous enough to kill without divine reason.” He paused and drifted off into a distant place.
“I call myself The Ghost because I realized I walk in the shadows. I live between good and evil. I do evil for good reasons. I can’t be a preacher for god, but trust I preach the name of punishment. My brother was a good man. Had an honest life. His death broke an already broken heart.”
When in rainbows.
One day I’ll walk on sunsets and glide across waves of fury. Dusty book jackets and tired eyes line the streets of the soul that rattles around in the cage of my heart, mind and body. I listen to stories painted by boasters and liars of pugnacious hearts. They drain me of belief that the world doesn’t affect them. They’re comfortable in their skin. I know better. The world is a dark place with many hidden rainbows, if you’re willing to seek them out.
The darkness that overhangs is massive, like the wing of a crow that spreads for eons. We live in a constant backalley where heads roll and secrets are sold to the highest bidder. No one goes to the grave without spilling the beans at least once. Those rainbows are locked away and the key exists in a place that your heart must be pure to find. I think they talk about it at length in some book about a boy trying to overcome some typical wizards and warriors bullshit all the young tricksters are salivating to pickup.
This is momentous to watch and behold as we wait for our gilded age to begin as the world we knew smolders in piss colored flames. Salvation is real, but no one we know is savable. Everyone does the gross, decadent stuff they make movies for sad old man to touch themselves in fur jackets to. Overwhelming universe with little to no reaction except when the rainbows come out to play; rarity is the driving force of the disturbed social economy we’re a part of.
Let the rains fall and the world’s clouds disappear, but keep scribbling the names of made up storms because we need to splash in puddles and feel like our fucked up world is small just once more.
This is one of the best songs I’ve heard in a VERY long time. I only hope the rest of the record is this good. If so, these guys are going to be monoliths. You can’t write something as raw as this without a lot of people grabbing it and sleeping with it on cold nights.
Until recently, an old, deteriorated collection of no less than one million crime scene photographs rested silently in the nearly forgotten archives of the Los Angeles Police department; spanning 150 years of violence and corruption, these images were only recently discovered by the photographer Merrick Morton, who has restored and salvaged many of the images, which will be exhibited at Paramount Pictures Studios from April 25-27 by Fototeka.
People have this false sense of a genuine, mom and pop America that exists only in their minds. We are a country of swindlers and thieves. We have always been. Someone has been hiding in dark alleys since day one.
Mayberry doesn’t exist. And to boot, Gomer Pile is an outspoken homosexual and Ron Howard drives an electric car.
We killed the Indians for their land. We butcher Mexicans and ship them off to their crime ridden, corrupt country because we’re worried about jobs we’ll never do ourselves.
We have fat trolls in camo fishing hats parading around with assault rifles because it’s “their right” when the only thing they’re achieving is making their cause seem like apish cartoons.
We’re stalked and we’re watched by satellites in the sky. Pundits scream at one another over trivialities that will change nothing.
We were never a sleepy small town. We’ve bombed countries to get what we want since we formed and we’ll kill anyone who gets in our way still. We are a country of madmen and killers. We have always been and will always be. We are a nation who celebrates idiocy and bans books.
We have always killed. We have more serial killers per capita. Mayberry is a dead dream and we continue to pile dirt on the grave of the illusion of safety every time we tune in or click ourselves into the fantasy of ignorance.
God created war so that Americans would learn geography.
The wind punches through the rust holes in the doors of the old Chevy. The ratty old ride percolates with the scent of Pabst while a cloud of discount menthol smoke hangs clotted, coating everything. Lunch sits in crumpled paper sacks. Two beer cans each sit crushed between their legs. Only two, because any more would lead to them getting caught drinking on the job. Getting caught would lead to the end of their lives as they knew it. Who’s gonna pay the mortgage on a trailer stinking like five year cat pee? Not some drunk fired from his job. Never get caught on the job. When you needed a fix, you smoked weed off by the bathrooms. But these beers were a ritual; the sound of the can opening, and the crush of the aluminum in the hands after a long pull was communion. To play it safe, it was always two beers. A little lunch would cover the smell.
For Sullivan, it was Pastrami a week past it’s prime. From Eddy’s wife came – peanut butter and jelly, as always, she was useless at making anything else. The two men say nothing to one another. After so many years talk is pointless. There’s no news worth bitching about, and men like these certainly don’t gossip. In the hollow lack of conversation, their eyes study the factory’s exhaust rise into the air despite the pouring rain. Like the spawn of hell, the greyish-black smoke fights its way against the elements and pushes it’s way toward the rarified air of God. Birds steer clear of the lurching poison.
Sullivan turns the knob on the radio up – it’s Nights in White Satin - his song. As the haunting melody strikes up, he sighs. He’s heard this song over a million times. Every nuance and emotion are old friends, he knows the evil melody too well; this song terrifies a long dead spirit inside. The song dredges up tattered memories of along gone life - a life he should have taken as he watched her red Silverado pull out of his driveway and into the wild.
He stayed behind, and his choice has cursed him ever since. Ghosts of missed opportunities are everywhere in this town, and while some folks had skeletons in their closet - Sullivan had graveyards. This song is a constant reminder, a love letter to his greatest failure. This was their song.
He closes his eyes while transfixed into a different time. His cigarette burned to the filter, dangling off the edge of his lip.
Off in the distance, a back loader roars over a muddy hill. Its bucket is full of something once beautiful to someone. The driver of the back loader hits the gas a little harder – he’s struggling to clear this next berm. His foot works hard against the pedals. The engine throttles and wheezes working to climb the final hill toward the factory.
This factory takes things and turns them into melted piles of things. It murders memories of the past and reinvents them as refuse.
Sullivan exhales. The song is over. He looks over to Eddy who’s lost in the pages of a tattered swimsuit edition from two years ago. The pages no longer have magazine thickness, but have been abused so much they’re more like toilet paper. Which each turn of the page, Eddy mentally fucks each one of the women gracing the pages. He clicks his tongue once he sees his girl, a Spanish number with green eyes.
Eddy spends an extra six seconds deconstructing her, obsessing. Says she’s from St. Tropez, wherever the fuck that is. He promises her, in her world-class beauty, should she ever stumble into this little corner of hell, she’d get the business end of him. He’d give it to her country style, making her forget all of those beautiful men, and the lush life she’s earned by gracing the pages of this mental fuck books sold over the counter in middle America. Eddy sucks the spit off his teeth and swallows.
Those green eyes do it to him.
The wind lands a sucker punch to the side of the Chevy; the air blasts through the burnt orange holes, knocking dime sized rust flecks onto the ground below. The fall around here is miserable.
As soon as the sun sets in August, it might as well say winter is open for business. And the Chevy didn’t make life any easier, but it worked, and most importantly was paid for.
No monthly bill? No problem. Sullivan would have bought a new truck a long time ago if it was up to him. The economy the way it is, and the expensive taste of his girlfriend, Tammy led him down roads a new car would never travel. While she’s behind the wheel of a sweet, tricked out Mustang with a slick neon green stripe down the ass end, he’s still stuck in this jalopy. Her car was perpetually spotless, while dirt and grime caked on the sides of the old beater like war medals.
The cassette in the deck spits out, letting the driver know it’s time to start over. Sullivan flips the tape. A worn grey color with an orange label, he scribbled “Sully’s Mega Jams” on it eons ago in magic marker.
He’s listened to this tape a million times. The songs never get old. This is a tape of memories and regrets, an audible museum to sorrow.
These songs remind Sullivan whom he is and why his ass sits in stained bucket seats next to a guy missing a front tooth who smells like burning house paint. As Sullivan’s finger slides across the worn plastic of the cassette, his heart drops infinitesimally because all of this is so automatic, this is his life – these songs are the prison to which he will never leave.
Sentiment never dies when the adage of the heart is pure for the vehicle to which it’s destined – Robin Trower’s Bridge of Sighs winds up and the slinky groove escalates the mood in the truck as well as the scene outside.
Bodies move and people holler while the rains punish them for being so brash to test its might. The gods of the storm are not pleased with man’s boldness. The sky is stained with the curse of a grey rain streaking across the earthly plain.
Eddy tosses the magazine in the backseat and digs in for his sandwich. Unwrapping his meal from the plastic covering, he crams it into his gaping maw. The peanut butter squishes against his tongue. His jaw moves, and the jelly slides down his throat. He takes long swig off the beer. They’ve been in the car for over twenty minutes and neither said a word. The music and the elements of the world is the soundtrack.
Sullivan is extra moody today. They were supposed to practice after work. Watching the workers fight their way through the downpour, he studies them, the struggle, the ballet of man against the god they’ll never know. Humanity leaves a sour feeling in his stomach.
“We have to win this game.” Sullivan finally utters, pulling a new Lucky up to his lips. The back loader’s engine struggles with the muddy hill, the bucket has twice the load this time. Signs of a collapsed life hang off the end objects like forgotten childhood bikes, broken lamps.
“I need this win.” Sullivan doesn’t even make eye contact with Eddy. He lets the words hang there.
Eddy swallows his hunk of sandwich. He turns his head to face Sullivan who’s off in some far away place.
“Hell, you know I want to win. I’m sick of this shit. I’m dog tired of always having sumthin’ go wrong. Bout’ time we caught a break. I been playing with this crew for six years, and in six years, we ain’t done shit. I don’t give a monkey fuck about your needs – I want to victory lap once.”