HEY, GUESS WHAT?

I aint on your fucking "team." Never have been, never will be. So don't use that fucking word in my presence unless you want me to tear your goddamn throat out and eat it in front of your family. The only "team" I support are individuals who are willing and capable of thinking for themselves. And trust me, if that word is a regular part of your vocabulary, you are not one of those people. Now go die.

THROAT CANCER IS FOR WIMPS!

I have no reason for using that title other than to titillate. Well, also, I think it would have been really cool if Michael Douglas had snarled that line in the new Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps. It's too bad he didn't, because that would have been one of the most entertaining things that happened in this colossal mess of a film.

If you're like me (or even if you're not like me, but you still have good taste in movies), you loved the original Wall Street. You loved the tight plot, the fast pace, the genuine white collar suspense, the brilliant performances (especially by Michael Douglas as the incomparable Gordon Gekko), Stewart Copeland's feverish yet haunting score, and the no holds barred portrayal of 1980s Wall Street as a decadent high-tech playground where few rules applied. There was nothing NOT to love about it, really. It was made during a time when captivating an audience with a healthy plot and interesting dialogue was still held in somewhat high regard.

Fast forward to 2010. Films, as most of the more discerning of you already know, have pretty much lost their humanity. Oh, I know there are still exceptions here and there, but for the most part, going to the movies has become a more expensive way of watching a fireworks display. Sadly, Oliver Stone's return to his former glory days is no exception to this unfortunate rule.

The film stars Shia LaBeouf as young Master of the Universe Jake Moore. Moore is meant to be the Bud Fox of this tale, except that unlike Fox, Moore appears to have already hit it big in the finance world, thus lacking the nervous desperation Charlie Sheen brought to his role. LaBeouf is also an uninspiring douche, and trust me when I tell you that quality comes shining through like the fucking Second Coming. Carrie Mulligan plays his love interest, Winnie Gekko, who is also, you guessed it, Gordon Gekko's estranged daughter. The chemistry between LaBeouf and Mulligan is lackluster enough to be the stuff of legend. At not one point in the film did I give two shits about their relationship or what became of it.

But what of the plot, you might ask? Well, that's one of the problems here. The movie can't decide what it's about. Is it an intricate financial cloak and dagger story? Maybe. Is it a story of familial redemption and/or betrayal? Maybe that, too. Is it a love story? Blech, but yeah, maybe so. The financial machinations here are so much gibberish I will not bother to go into them. What is important that you know is that nothing is adequately explained in any of the sub-plots simply because there are too damn many of them. What parts are adequately explained you don't care about because the film never bothers to assign anything resembling humanity to these characters. But then, why should this movie be any different than 95% of the rest of the shit coming out of Hollywood these days. Oh, that's right, it shouldn't. Live with mediocrity. Embrace it, even. This is our America.

EAT SOME KARMA, BITCH

I don't even believe in what westerners typically call "karma," but this shit right here is just too beautiful to deny. Every bullfight should end just like this.

DO YOU REALLY HAVE TO BE AFRAID OF HEIGHTS FOR THIS TO FUCK WITH YOU?

I would almost rather practice law than do this for a living. Almost.

DEAR R&B MUSIC:

Marvin Gaye was killed in 1984. With a few shining exceptions here and there, you have pretty much sucked donkey ass since then. Please give up the ghost and fucking wither away.

tia

LT

PETER SOTOS ON CREATION AND COMPULSION

Transgressive author and pornographic madman Peter Sotos has written some of the greatest....well, I don't really know what the fuck to call it, in decades. His work is truly challenging using every conceivable definition of the word. Although his recent work is, I feel, better than his earlier writings, I would suggest you start with his old fanzine Pure if you want to get a genuine taste of what this man is about.

He also has some very interesting ideas about the nature of creativity, specifically as it applies to him. I suspect, however, that his quote could apply to a great many artists whose work is the product of obsession, dark or otherwise:

"I don't write just to have a book with my name on it. I write because I'm compelled by the intensity, as well as the lack, in the material at hand. I think there's a huge difference in the way I write now and what I'm better known for writing, but I see absolutely no reason to look for a subject to write about or find something I can somehow turn into a book or whatnot. I don't look for new projects or ways to impress or surprise others. I'm not interested in craft. If I'm told I write well, I know that it comes from a passion with the subject. The subject propels the writing and the constant thought. I don't have a need to create something. I have a need to create this."

REIGN IN BLOOD

The year was 1986. Glam metal was taking off, and an aura of vaginal submissiveness ruled metal-land far and wide. Sure, there were fox-holes of hope here and there, offered by the likes of Metallica and Megadeth, but for the most part, a gaping hole existed in metal with little more than a bunch of coke-fueled cross-dressers willing to fill it.

And then came this. Slayer had had a couple previous studio albums; their subject matter was definitely satanic and anti-christian and heavily influenced by their British counterparts, Venom. But production on their early efforts was shoddy, and neither album made a huge mark in the thrash metal scene. But then the boys were introduced to rap producer Rick Rubin and it was all over from there. With Rubin's masterful help, Slayer unleashed 29 minutes of pure, unforgettable sonic hell that sounds as relevant today as it did 24 years ago. The tempo is unbelievably fast, and the sound is tight and oh so to the fucking point.

Never ones to simply dip their toes into the shallow end of the pool, Slayer lets you know right away that you will not be listening to songs about finger-banging sweet Sally in the back of your convertible. "Angel of Death," the album's opening track, is a tour de force into the mind of Nazi sawbones Josef Mengele. The lyrics are bloody and explicit, and, best of all, offer no comforting moral perspective from which to view the atrocities they describe. There is no fucking "message" here. And don't even get me started on vocalist Tom Araya's bloodcurdling scream that gets the track started. Priceless shit.

The closing track, "Raining Blood," starts off with drummer Dave Lombardo's steady pounding, a sound that seems to announce and, yes, welcome the apocalypse. In the background, a rain that can be called anything but gentle can be heard. The lyrics are a true end-of-the-earth nightmare, but also ambiguous enough for Tori Amos to include it in her album of cover songs.

What Slayer achieved with this masterpiece is to create the most intense metal album released up until that time, and to do so with relative commercial success. Of course, it doesn't hurt that the album was released in the mid-80s, which was the height of the PMRC record labeling controversy. I'm sure the boys take great pride in being one of the bands that were seen as so dangerous that a warning sticker had to be put on their albums. This album pretty much guaranteed it, in fact.

MAXIN AND RELAPSIN

I started this blog during a period of prolonged sobriety, during which I found myself with a fair amount of free time and enough free-form thought floating around in my brain to fill up a cess-pool. The comparison is deliberate.

Since that time, I have started drinking again and I find that my blog entries have pretty much declined in proportion. The alleged correlation between creative thought and action and ravenous consumption of mind-altering substances is well documented. Not to compare something as inconsequential as my personal blog to the works of Hemingway or Fitzgerald or the music of The Velvet Underground, but for the love of sweet fuck I just don't see how they did it. When I drink, there are a few limited activities in my peripheral vision of desires, and, trust me, not one of the fucking things is productive. Not to say I've never had a good creative thought when drunk or high, but I can count on one hand the number of times I was ever driven to anything remotely resembling creative action because of it. Of course, this leads me to wonder in periods of intense honesty whether I really "have it" in the same way all the great drunk writers do. All types of presumptuous on my part, I know.

Pretensions to artistry aside, this whole business does leave me with a certain dilemma. Two things I love, one productive and one destructive, have shown themselves to be, if not entirely incompatible, certainly not comfortable living together under the same roof. The decision of which one to ditch should be an easy one, and I'm sure it would be for a non-addict. Unfortunately, this beautiful poison that I have come to love and hate with equal passion is much more persuasive with me than it is with the average citizen. Pathetic, yes, but a reality nonetheless. My best hope is that my desire to actually produce something worthwhile that came from my own mind will outweigh the urge to stare into the abyss for its own sake. God knows, I've spent enough time on option two.

THE LURE WOULD PROVE TOO MUCH

Stone cold, I think I'm taking you home, so
I can be broken in two
Just like you

Sexy eyes and c'est la vie, I'll call you sometime
When I'm blue

Say so, I'm getting under your skin, so soft
I can't help but pursue
Til I'm screwed

Sunset, everything's fire
But I can't can't get any higher
Come get this lightning and rain all over me

Come to, I forget all of it
Someone, I can't remember at all
Is gonna fall

O, Babe, without any doubt there is
One thing I am nothing without and
O, Babe surely you know I'll never tell you

Come back down, come back down
Come, if you're dumb

O, Babe, without any doubt there is
One thing I am nothing without and
O, Babe surely you know I'll never tell you

Sunrise, sunrise, sunrise, some rise
Sunrise, sunrise
on me

Shine on, I can see clearly the light on
Crashing me into the rocks
You siren sweet

DEMONS AND SUNSHINE

I recently watched a documentary about the brilliant avant garde filmmaker David Lynch entitled, creatively, Lynch. If you are a fan of Lynch, it is truly a delight to watch, seeing the master in his preferred milieu, acquiring ideas and inspiration from sources that range from merely ugly to downright sinister. It's like watching Bach compose one of his beloved concertos.

Interspersed at various points throughout the documentary are gems wherein Lynch provides his theory of film and art and the most advantageous process whereby successful artists communicate with the world. Among these pearls is a monologue that kept me thinking about it for days afterward. Contrary to popular wisdom, Lynch does not believe that one needs to be unhappy or morose or even brooding in order to create art dealing with the dark and nightmarish side of human nature. To the contrary, says Lynch, great art, whether it be a celebration of light or darkness, is more likely to occur when the artist is at his happiest and most alert.

Watching Lynch be interviewed belies his point quite nicely. Quirky and conversational, David Lynch never comes across as some brooding asshole who's too good for his interviewer. His little broadcasts on his website regarding the weather in L.A., along with his formidable story-telling abilities relating to his days in Philadelphia, reveal a somewhat social man whose extroverted qualities cross over to his films.

Knowing that this man is the creative force behind some of the most twisted and bizarre films in history illustrates his point quite clearly. Maybe a happy life is the key to understanding the dark underbelly of the human animal. Perhaps it allows the artist a certain objectivity and distance that is necessary for an honest portrayal of existential reality. On the contrary, a genuinely miserable person is more likely to get bogged down in his own lack of joy and his bitterness at the world. Even taking something as relatively minor as this blog, I know I am much more likely to blog if I am having a good day. Methinks Lynch is onto something here.

Now, as to how to ensure that you are happy so all this great art can be brought to life? Sorry, folks, that is just not my fucking department.

Nothing But

Is there anything more important than what is true and what is correct? I've discovered recently that there is a significant portion of peeps out there for whom truth is a mere afterthought or, even worse, an inconvenience to be overcome with spin and perception-controlling. I want to write a detailed and exhaustive blog about the ultimate importance of truth and its declining importance in the age of ubiquitous media. If you notice that I've gone another 2 or 3 entries without laying down my views on the beauty of truth, please let me know. I think the time is ripe.

Unknown Legend

Is this or is this not one of the sexiest fucking pics you have ever seen? Yes? I thought so. If I could party with any female on earth, she would be the one. Goddamn.

CARL

See this guy here? He possesses a purity of heart and a generosity of spirit that leaves me breathless. He's been a part of life for eight years now, and I love him with a fevered intensity. If parents of human children feel even a fraction of the affection I feel for this little fellow, I'm surprised they ever let them leave the house. Should someone make the mistake of harming him, I would have no problem killing them instantly.

I've known quite a few people in my day, and there is not a single one of them that I believe remains the same entity once my back is turned. I have no such belief regarding him. He is the most loyal and soulful being I have ever known, and I'd trade a million of you for one of him. And twice on Sundays.

Psalm 116:12

THERE'S A REASON THEY CALL IT A "BLAST"

Being visited suddenly by something or someone from your past, I am convinced, calls up something more than mere psychic nostalgia. The older I get, the more convinced I am that these notorious "blasts from the past" are an actual physiological phenomenon; that they produce real chemical reactions in the brain and in other parts of the body that, in turn, produce some type of euphoric event.

This has happened to me in the past few days. A voice from the past has spoken up, and I've paid attention. Every inch of my brain and spine are licked with every last detail of the events of years ago. My body has literally had a physical reaction to this occurrence. It's like being punched in the face, only not as subtle. Whoever posited the theory that we are the sum of the things we do and feel must have been on to something. I want to stay in this spot, in this particular time and place, for the rest of my life. It's like some wonderful dream from which I have no desire to awake.

I remember the person I was, the things I said and did, the things that were said and done to me, all rolled up into a snowball of vivid recollection. It's an interesting little dance we do with the past. While there is the tried and true cliche of not dwelling there and allowing it to consume us, there is also the undeniable truth that the past shapes us, and molds us into who we are today. As such, it can never be fully irrelevant or a mere theoretical entity to be shoved aside when it coincides with our present day comfort. It has to be nurtured and respected, and granted unlimited access when the need so calls.

MY FANTASY LIFE AS A FAMILIAR

But listen carefully to the sound
Of your loneliness
Like a heartbeat drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering
What you had
And what you lost.

Deep in every man's heart, I think, is that first taste of female beauty; the first time you realized what a gorgeous and mystifying race of creatures these beings were. I'm not talking about a first crush, as that could be anything with a pair of tits and a sassy 'tude. No, the feeling to which I refer runs a little deeper, a little stronger than a crush. No, I'm talking about one of those moments where a boy comes to the realization that girls are part of an alien and wonderful race all their own, with a different purpose and meaning that their male counterparts couldn't possibly comprehend.

For better or for worse, that moment came for me the first time I had heard Stevie Nicks on the radio. Her voice was like something from another universe, angelic and ethereal. She sang about things magical and other-worldly, the vibrato in her voice emphasizing the mysteries in her untamed soul.

Even more alluring was that she was rumored to be a witch. Coming from an ultra-fundamentalist background, there were few things more intriguing to me than a beautiful blonde who violated God's holy laws and sought to manipulate nature for her own ends. I used to fantasize about being her minion, her familiar, subverting my needs for her own witchy desires.

And he was just like a great dark wing
Within the wings of a storm
I think I had met my match,
He was singing...
And undoing...
And undoing...
The laces
Undoing the laces

Her voice spoke of a world where lovers embraced late into the night, murmuring things to each other too pristine for the vulgarity of the everyday world. Her clothing was loose and flowing, befitting of a creature of the wild. She was everything I had been taught to fear, and everything I longed to embrace.

She is older now, of course, and much of the mystique is gone. But her voice and her beauty still take me somewhere I want to be. And for that, she will always be my first real love.

Black shadow of a woman
Black widow
Pale shadow of a dragon
Death woman

KE$HA

I don't have any excuses, explanations, regrets, rationalizations, or apologies. I like her. Her songs are catchy and put me in a good mood.

Oh, and I like Miley Cyrus, too.

Now fuck off.

TRANSCENDENCE II

This is probably my favorite picture that I have ever seen. I don't know why. I find it wistful and bittersweet, and not without an element of the eternal. Part of me would like to know more about it, such as the who, the where, etc. But then, I've learned that anytime you take part of the mystique away from something, you stand a chance of spoiling the aesthetic it provided in the first place. So no internet searches for me.

"WITH MY HANDS AROUND THE THROAT OF A WHITE MAN"

Supposedly, this was jazz great Miles Davis's response when asked how he would like to spend his last ten minutes alive. Sorry, but that's just a cool-ass fucking quote.

THE DIAF SERIES, VOL. II

Have you ever just stared into a fire and become mesmerized by its beauty and its mystery? Watching the flames travel upward into some unknown destination in the vast expanse of the heavens? Hearing the soft crackle as delicate pieces of kindling contribute what's left of their short lives to the spectacle of wonder and aesthetic perfection that the average conflagration gifts upon us? I somehow sense the answer is yes. Does it not make sense, then, that if one knew, just KNEW, that the experience of observing a fire could be heightened that much more by the careful placement of certain items in its angry center, that such an action would have to be taken? I think it would. Yes, I think it would.

One of these items, brothers and sisters, is the unwashed and unshaven and highly repulsive comedienne turned actress turned, god help us, leftist political activist Janeane Garofalo. Imagine the auditory orgasm that would doubtless result in hearing the flesh sizzle slowly off the bones of this rancid specimen. And the screams. Ahhh, yes, the screams of agony and terror as the reality of her worthless life was placed in full view before her rapidly melting eyeballs. This, my friends, is the kind of show I would pay good money to see.

I have to admit I kind of liked her when she first came on the scene, a young Gen-X stand-up comic with an acerbic wit and a keen eye for cultural bullshit. She did okay in her acting career, as well, playing mostly chubby best friends or some type of pretty-on-the-inside wallflower looking for love. But then, of course, she realized she had Something To Say. Ignore the fact that can't seem to form a coherent political thought or even articulate why those who don't think like her are so wretchedly evil. Just listen to her fist-raising hippie rage and know she's right, goddammit!

After spending at least a decade deriding everyone she disagrees with politically as unthinking, uncaring, diabolically evil yet still somehow retarded, and treasonous, Garofalo shows no sign of becoming fair-minded, or even rational, anytime soon. She wears her irony proudly, hardly ever stooping so low as to offer a single substantive critique of anything or anyone. All of her statements are given in broad-brush language, mocking those who disagree with her as barely human thugs while giving no real examples of something evil that was said or done. Here is a perfect example of her "logic" in action while discussing the tea party movement with Keith Olbermann:

[L]et's be very honest about what this is about. It's not about bashing Democrats, it's not about taxes, they have no idea what the Boston tea party was about, they don't know their history at all. This is about hating a black man in the White House. This is racism straight up. That is nothing but a bunch of teabagging rednecks. And there is no way around that.

Couple of interesting things here: (1) Race was not the topic at this gathering and it was, in fact, not mentioned at all. Garofalo merely throws a favorite liberal cliche into the gasoline hoping it will ignite. Note that there is no explanation of the causal connection between being against higher taxes and hating black people, or even a single example of a "racist" tea partier. She simply takes what she learned from Bill Maher (that if you say something loudly and/or smugly enough, it becomes true), and applies it with full force; (2) The appearance is on pinko pussy Keith Olbermann's show. And of course, they are cut from the same cloth. Too cowardly to appear or debate with anyone who might reveal them for the intellectual frauds they are, they retreat to their little metaphorical college dorm room where they can have their bull sessions about "racists" and "homophobes" while never having to provide anyone with even the slightest inkling of factual evidence to support their cause. It is both a sickening and infuriating display.

She states in unequivocal terms that all "right-wingers" are liars with no empathy and whose minds are snapped tight snug and smug. What exactly are they "lying" about? Don't ask, that's not important. What is important is that Garofalo fulfill her inner destiny of becoming the 21st Century's Jerry Rubin. Her progress is going swimmingly so far. Let's just hope her death is a little more painful, and a little more fiery, than her ideological twin. Godspeed, you brain-dead cunt.

JAZZ

I've always wondered if people who claim to enjoy it are doing so simply for effect. Seriously, is there anything remotely enjoyable about this style of music? Sometimes it makes for decent background noise in a noir type film, but that's about as many props as I can give it. I believe it is music meant for the brain as opposed to the soul, but what the fuck do I know? While I definitely appreciate and respect the talent of all the great musicians who have devoted their lives to it, it still just kind of leaves me cold. My unscientific opinion is that white liberal guilt has a lot to do with its fanbase. But then, there are so many phenomena we can attribute to that particular quirk, aren't there?

IN THE BLOOD: COUNTERPOINT?

Hollywood has a sneaky little habit of putting the more intelligent words into the mouths of its villains rather than its saviors. If you don't believe me, watch any of the Die Hard movies. Writers do the same thing, I think, albeit on a smaller scale. Take, for instance, the awesome figure of Judge Holden from Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian: Or The Evening Redness in the West. "The Judge," as he is known, is one of the most compelling heavies in American literature (yes, I think McCarthy rises to the level of "literature" in this stunning book), aided in no small part by his formidable intellect. Following are The Judge's words on the nature of conflict and war and, for lack of a better term, the "rightness" of it all:

"Suppose two men at cards with nothing to wager save their lives. Who has not heard such a tale? A turn of the card. The whole universe for such a player has labored clanking to his moment which will tell if he is to die at that man’s hand or that man at his. What more certain validation of a man’s worth could there be? This enhancement of the game to its ultimate state admits no argument concerning the notion of fate. The selection of one man over another is a preference absolute and irrevocable and it is a dull man indeed who could reckon so profound a decision without agency or significance either one. In such games as have for their stake the annihilation of the defeated the decisions are quite clear. This man holding this particular arrangement of cards in his hand is thereby removed from existence. This is the nature of war, whose stake is at once the game and the authority and the justification. Seen so, war is the truest form of divination. It is the testing of one’s will and the will of another within that larger will which because it binds them is therefore forced to select. War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god."

Is he right? I can honestly say that I don't know, but he makes a compelling fucking case. The Judge states, much more articulately than I have, why he believes strife to be deep in the heart of all men. Should it make me nervous that my own views regarding this subject are somewhat echoing one of the most malicious and evil characters in the history of fiction? Well, it does. But there it is, regardless.

IN THE BLOOD

"Those who want to live, let them fight; and those who do not want to fight in this world of eternal struggle do not deserve to live."--Adolf Hitler

Not that I'd want him organizing my 401K or anything, but I believe Der Fuhrer was onto something there. Struggle, war, trials, tribulations; all lie at the heart of just about any significant progress made by our species. Yet we are taught to distrust our aggressive instincts almost constantly, at least in America. Never mind that anger and hatred have probably built more civilizations than love and acceptance ever dreamed of; never mind that without conflict we would be pretty much bereft of any great literature; in fact, the "darker" emotions are typically at the heart of all great works of art.

Do you ever suspect that our feminized and therapeutic culture's constant yammering about anger management and keeping our more violent emotions "under control" is simply a ploy by those in power to keep the male population safely emasculated and thus eliminate any potential threat to said power structure? I certainly do. The level of testosterone-fueled rage that lies just barely under the surface of the "average male" is something I believe keeps the female power structure tossing and turning at night. Not sure, why, though, as there are no signs of any real threat to this hierarchy on the horizon.

I am not saying this tongue-in-cheek: I honestly believe we have lost something as a society by teaching kids that hatred and anger are emotions that should NEVER be cultivated and always distrusted. Sorry, but anger and hatred are at least part of the reason America was founded, and I don't mean the type of oh-dear hatred much maligned by the academy and the media. I am talking about the righteous indignation felt by any member of a culture or society that believes its "people" are on the receiving end of the proverbial shaft.

On May 19 and May 20 of 1856, Senator Charles Sumner (R. Massachusetts, and a well-known abolitionist) gave a speech on the senate floor attacking both the Kansas-Nebraska Act and its authors, Stephen Douglas of Illinois and Andrew Butler of South Carolina. In his verbal assault on Butler, Sumner repeatedly mocked both the speech and mannerisms of the 59 year old senator. See, Andrew Butler had suffered a stroke in the past that had affected his nervous system, as strokes often do. Apparently, Sumner saw this unfortunate turn of events as fair game for a public speech. Sadly for Senator Sumner, not everyone agreed with his assessment. On May 22, two days after his speech, Congressman Preston Brooks (D. South Carolina), a nephew of Butler's who had been, quite understandably, somewhat offended by the senator's oration, approached Sumner in the senate chamber, made a few perfunctory statements, and proceeded to beat him severely with a thick cane over the head. The beating was so severe that Sumner was blinded by his own blood, and rendered unconscious. Brooks continued the beating until his cane broke. Sumner spent the next three years recovering from the attack, suffering from chronic headaches and a healthy dose of shell-shock.

Brooks's actions are lost on us, of course, as a society almost completely devoid of the concept of personal honor, outside of gang warfare. Today, we would only ask if Sumner had the "right" to say what he said, and if the answer was "yes," the debate would probably end. I have to frankly admit that I admire Preston Brooks and the actions he took that day. I'd like to think I would have the balls to do the same thing if someone publicly mocked a relative of mine who had suffered a stroke but, of course, as I am a product of our age, that is seriously in question. Most likely I would simply make fun of someone who did something like that as a product of a by-gone and best-forgotten era, while simultaneously dying a little inside.

This is a subject that probably deserves greater attention than what I have given it here, as I believe it is about our essence as human beings, and the ideas and actions necessary for us to constantly strive and to maintain something resembling integrity and courage in a culture that values neither. I'm sure there are authors who have addressed these concepts, but they've escaped my notice so far. I'd love to hear suggested reading material on the topic.

RHINOCEROS

Heard this the other night whilst hanging out with some friends, and was reminded once again of: (1) What a beautiful song this is; and (2) why the Pumpkins were the greatest band to come out of the 1990s.

Planned a show
Trees and Balloons
Ice cream snow
See you in June

Could have known
I would reveal
Should have known
I would conceal your way

She knows, she knows, she knows
She knows, she knows, she knows
How's it
She knows, she knows, she knows

Colors show
After the moon
I should go
See you in June
Your way

Open your eyes
To these must I lie?

PRINCE'S HOT CHICKEN SHACK

On the off-chance that someone I don't know might be reading this, I really can't say enough good things about this place. Simply put, it is the best fried chicken you will ever eat. It is what I would request as my last meal were I a condemned prisoner. It is paradise on a plate. If you are ever in Nashville, go there. Don't whine about the wait times or the "scary" part of town it's in, just fucking go.

If you are a novice when it comes to spicy food, get the "medium" spice level. Don't listen to anyone tell you to get "hot" level just to get the "real" experience. The truth is, you are probably too much of a pussy to handle anything above medium. It doesn't matter, though, it will still rock your sox. Now go.

12-STEPPING MY WAY TO PARADISE

I haven't had a drop of alcohol since July 27, 2009. And while I would love to arrogantly boast that I was able to do this through the exercise of my own Nietzschean-like will, I can't. I was drinking about a case (that's 24, for you teetotalers) of beer every night of the week, give or take a six-pack here and there. In the last days of it all, I knew a despondency I had never known before in my life, and I've never been Pollyanish by any means. I had gotten to the point where real life consequences had started rearing their ugly heads, and hardly a night went by that I didn't either contemplate suicide or simply wish I would not wake up in the morning. I'm in no rush to return to that way of life.

So I'd be a liar if I said that AA didn't play a pivotal role in helping me stay sober these past ten months. For the first six months, I went to a meeting at least once a day, sometimes more. I'd say I averaged about nine or ten meetings a week. The tranquil and welcoming atmosphere of these meetings, as well as the degree of sometimes heart-breaking honesty on display during them, helped me to achieve a peace of mind and a sense of belonging that I desperately needed. As a dyed-in-the-wool anti-theist, I struggled with all of the God talk and the fact that God (or, if you insist, a Higher Power) was central to almost all of the 12 steps. But for that six months, it was so crucial that I have the knowledge that I wasn't going through this by myself that I just let it go and overlooked what I didn't like about. Shit, I even held hands with a bunch of men and said The Lord's Prayer at the end of the meeting sometimes.

Inevitably, of course, I began to heal, both physically and, to a much smaller extent, mentally. Old timers in AA have a saying that "When the body heals, the liar returns." By this they mean that, as you grow stronger physically, your self-confidence grows, and, conversely, the memory of how bad-off you were as a drunk starts to dissipate. I suspect, however, that they also mean something a little more subtle, but just as real. My belief is that they are also referring to the fact that as your level of desperation lessens, your willingness to simply accept whatever AA doctrine is presented at face value also diminishes. It is an ingrained fear, I think, that all "true believers" have; that one day, their bright-eyed newbies will begin to think for themselves, which can only result in disaster for an organization that constantly encourages members to "retire from the debating society."

At the heart of AA, of course, is the inherent weakness and ineffectuality of the individual and his will. The individual is capable of nothing decent in and of himself (after all, they say, it was all that fine independent thinking or "playing god," if you will, that put you in a state where you had to run to AA for help). Because of this, a power greater than the individual is necessary in order to have any hope of true recovery from addiction. Take a quick look at the 12 steps of AA, and it is readily apparent:

1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable.

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

5. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.

8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

As you can see, five of the steps refer to God directly, and one makes mention of a mysterious Power (note the capitalization) greater than ourselves. The true believers are quick to point out they advocate belief in God as one may understand him, meaning everyone is free to choose his own conception of God. Sorry, not buying it. Bill Wilson, one of the co-founders of AA and author of the Big Book, clearly had a judeo-christian deity in mind when writing it. He was a Christian himself and believed sobriety was not possible if one lived a godless existence. Also, there is no mention of what one is to do if one's conception of God is a deity who doesn't insist on being bowed or prayed to. The idea of being prostrate before an omnipotent sky daddy is prevalent throughout the twelve steps. This view of God as eternal watchdog is distinctly western, and leaves little to no room for just any old god conception out there. Most AAs are quick to tell you that "the program" is spiritual and no religious, but let's not fool ourselves: if you are on your knees and humbly asking God to remove your shortcomings, well I'm sorry, but that's religion.

The condescending attitude taken towards those who might not believe in a big bearded Jehovah is prevalent throughout the We Agnostics chapter of The Big Book. It begins almost right away by threatening your very life: "To one who feels he is an atheist or agnostic such [a spiritual experience] seems impossible, but to continue as he is means disaster, especially if he is an alcoholic of the hopeless variety. To be doomed to an alcoholic death or to live life on a spiritual basis are not always easy alternatives to face." Strong words, indeed. I have an inherent distrust for anyone, no matter how much I might respect them in other areas, who tell me that I am doomed to die an early death if I don't hold the same views about the universe as he does. Note also the patronizing tone towards those who feel they are atheist or agnostic. As if one could not come to that conclusion through logic and a careful consideration of the available evidence, but only through some visceral gut reaction not too far removed from some mindless savage.

To Bill W's credit, he does admit at several points in the We Agnostics chapter that he cannot say why belief in God works; only that he believes that it does. Such humility notwithstanding, it is still impossible to ignore the book's almost casual brushing-aside of anything that resembles logic: "We read wordy books and indulge in windy arguments, thinking we believe this universe needs no God to explain it. Were our contentions true, it would follow that life originated out of nothing, means nothing, and proceeds nowhere." And?? The idea that those conclusions might very well be correct doesn't appear to have even crossed Bill's mind. Read one page over, and you get the following gem, when describing a friend's conversion to faith and the inner dialogue he was having with himself: "'Is is possible that all the religious people I have known are wrong?'" Well yes, yes it is. It's quite possible, in fact. Bill is obviously a sincere man, and I do not doubt his faith for a second. What I am doubting is that God belief is the answer to someone who does not believe.

One final illustration of the contempt AA espouses for the non-believer can be found in 12 and 12, AA's more structured and layered companion book to The Big Book. The book goes over each of the 12 steps and 12 traditions of AA in detail, with thoughtful essays on each topic. In the section on the traditions, under "Tradition Three" (the third tradition states that "The only requirement for AA membership is a desire to stop drinking"), Bill relates a story about the early days of AA and how a salesman named Ed became a member of one of the groups. Ed was an atheist, and this naturally chapped the asses of many of his fellow AAs. Unlike many of his non-believing brethren, Ed was not at all silent about his lack of belief. He was brash and loud and boastful, and this pissed everyone off even more. They kept saying, hoping, he would get drunk soon and have to turn to God for help. This kept not happening, and everyone kept getting angrier and angrier. One day, when Ed's job had taken him out of town, he called one of the members, said he was in trouble (i.e. he wanted or had taken a drink) and needed help. One of AAs strongest directives is for all its members to help a fellow drunk when they honestly want and need it. But not this time. This time, the members declared "Leave him alone! Let him try it by himself for once; maybe he'll learn a lesson!"

Never mind that Ed might end up drinking himself to death that night or killing himself or someone else on the road! Never mind that helping other drunks is precisely what AA was founded to do. See, Ed didn't believe in the right things, so he was left to fend with his demons by himself. Luckily, Ed lived through the story and became another bible-thumping AA, but they had no way of knowing that at the time. Oddly enough, Bill presents this story as some sort of inspiring example of the brotherhood of AA. Still haven't figured that one out.

There are plenty of good people in AA who don't believe in God and who are able to just let it go and let the program work for them. I am not one of those people. It would be nice to be made up that way, but then again I'm kind of glad I'm not. One argument that AA has for which I have no response is that their program works. I can testify that it does. Had it not been for AA, I am fairly certain I would have drank during that first six months of sobriety. What remains unclear to me is how I am supposed to make this program work long-term when its central tenet is something I find repulsive. And even if I were able to look past that, how do I overlook the folks in AA who still think that believing in their god is the only way I can stay alive? Do you have the answer? Send me a memo if you do.

PERFECTLY NORMAL

What could possibly go wrong here?

MASS CHAOS

My ADD has finally gotten the better of me. I have been known to try to read two books at a time before, and it has proven difficult. I am now in the unenviable position of trying to read three at one time. Sorry, but it's just not for me and I won't be doing it again.

The three: Stephen King's On Writing, Francis Collins's The Language of God, and Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian. The McCarthy book is an Itunes download, but still.

I'd liken it to a phone conversation. Having a convo with one person is fairly easy (relatively speaking); having a phone conversation while there is another person in the room trying to talk to you is annoying but doable. Having a phone conversation with two people in the room trying to talk to you is utterly discombobulating and not advisable in the slightest. I do believe it will be my last foray into this particular territory.

Yes, I live a life of passion and intrigue.

THE PINNACLE OF HIP-HOP

If this blog had a substantial readership (i.e. something larger than the two or three folks I, somewhat optimistically, assume read this thing), now is the time where I would posit a resolution and allow numerous witty and opinionated comments on said resolution. The issue would be the following:

RESOLVED: Hip-Hop music reached its creative and artistic peak during the early 1990s, specifically during the early days of Death Row Records on the West Coast. Discuss.

I really can't think of another era in rap that spawned better flow, tougher gs, or just general all-around bad-ass thugery than what Dre and Snoop brought to the table with The Chronic and Doggy Style. Unlike the jumpy, rhythm-less shite that passes for rap today, the music actually had music that accompanied it. Just my opinion, though. Feel free to tell me I'm wrong.

HEAVENLY PATIENCE

THE DIAF SERIES, VOL. I

Sound is truly one of the finest of the senses, forever teasing us with its many nuances and methods of intrusion. For us music lovers, it holds a special place of reverence. There are few sounds more mellifluous than that of Bach played by someone who is a true lover of his craft, for instance. And while I have not had the good fortune to hear it, I imagine that listening to hack "film" maker Michael Moore slowly dying in a lovely orange fire is probably one of those sounds.

This blob of anti-intellectual shit has made millions decrying the very capitalism and freedom that allows the pus globules that are his movies to be made. Many celebrities have wrong-headed and knee-jerk opinions on political issues, but few are so breath-takingly smug as to believe their navel-gazing horseshit amounts to something more than just one more opinion out of billions. Moore is such a man. He believes himself to be on a christ-like mission to expel the proverbial money-exchangers from the temple of the imagined socialist paradise Michael Moore's America could be. Of course, there is little to no argument in his films, and his books are pretty much unreadable. Trust me, I've tried.

Yes, I do believe Moore is one of those rare creatures who, by his very existence, makes the world worse off than it was before he was born. Please join me in a prayer to the god of your understanding that his living space catches on fire, and that he roasts alive, screaming for help from the red state losers he so arrogantly (and stupidly) derided during his lifetime. No, it aint gonna happen. But it feels good to do a little Lennonesque imagining, doesn't it?

CHANNON CHRISTIAN AND CHRISTOPHER NEWSOM

Do either of those names mean anything to you? Do they even sound vaguely familiar? Is it possible that you heard these names in some dull, drunken conversation that you've now forgotten? No? Not ringin' a bell, huh? Not even remotely?

Google them, then. Google these names, indulge in a little light reading, and then come back here and tell me why the fuck they are not nationally known and constantly plastered in front of your glazed, medicated eyes every night on your big screen. Please. I can't wait to hear the kind of sophistry necessary to delude your own dim-witted, spoon-fed, brain-washed souls into believing that the obscurity of these two individuals in national media-land has anything to do with something besides the color of their fucking skin. This should be entertaining.

Now go!

GOING GAY FOR HITCH

There is a long list of things I hate. Two of those things happen to be (1) hero worship and (2) when hetero men talk about who they'd "go gay" for. I intend to fully indulge both of those loathsome phenomena presently.

I do not believe there is a gay bone in my body (yes, there are lots of jokes there, I know). At least, I don't normally think so until I see a TV or youtube clip of British-turned-American news pundit and all-around intellectual bad-ass Christopher Hitchens. I wish there was something kind I could say about his physical appearance, but alas, many years of indulging Hemingway's favorite passion have left him bloated and somewhat sickly looking. No matter. The sheer force of his intellect is enough to transform someone with The Elephant Man's appearance into the hottest of spank material. Fiercely combative, unapologetically atheist, lightning-quick on his feet, and eloquent beyond belief, Hitchens is a stentorian early 20th century intellectual in a weak, pusillanimous early 21st century world. There is no fight he will back down from, there is no position he will not take on a matter simply because it is not popular, there is no opponent too skilled for him to debate. He is, simply put, a credit to the human race.

One of my favorite things about Hitch is his complete lack of allegiance to any political camp. He can manage to outrage a fundamentalist right-wing christian and an isolationist, we-just-want-the-world-to-love-us liberal in the same breath. A former Marxist, Hitch gradually moved a little to the right over the years. Following 9/11, his position became much more stridently conservative in foreign policy affairs, due in no small part to his hatred of religious fanaticism.

Even dead celebrities don't escape the wrath of Hitch if he deems them unworthy. One of the quotes that interviewers of the man like to point to is his famous rant against Jerry Falwell, of whom Hitchens stated that it was "a pity there's no hell for him to go to." He also devoted an entire essay following Bob Hope's death challenging his readers to demonstrate a single funny thing the old coot ever said. I mean, we're talking about a guy who wrote an entire book about Mother Teresa entitled The Missionary Position. When questioned about the provocative title, Hitch replied, "it was either that or Sacred Cow, and I thought Sacred Cow would be in bad taste." Fucking ruthless.

Watching him debate an opponent is a site to behold and one I would recommend to anyone interested (even if only slightly) in the political conversation America happens to be engaged in at any given moment. Caustic and fearless, he can reduce an opponent to a lobotomized retard in a matter of minutes. Additionally, he has what can only be called an encyclopedic knowledge of history and the politics behind it. A sheer joy to behold, I say.

So yeah, I'd go gay for Hitch. I would lick the alcohol-laden sweat from his body while dressed as a Catholic priest and apologize for the harm I'd done to the world. Hitchens is a decent family man, of course, so he would never go for this, but it is important that I make my naked admiration for the man abundantly clear. He is one of the few heroes I have. His independence of mind, and his willingness to defend that independence in the face of opposition that can be both qualitative and quantitative are, I believe, truly admirable traits. And yes, for that, I'd tap it.

MONKEY WRENCH

The Batman franchise has never been my cup of tea, but like most things, even if I don't care too much for them, I can find a nugget or two of gold in the proverbial bucket of gravel. In the fairly recent Dark Knight, Alfred Pennywise and Bruce Wayne have this priceless little exchange while discussing the psyche of The Joker:

Alfred Pennyworth: A long time ago, I was in Burma, my friends and I were working for the local government. They were trying to buy the loyalty of tribal leaders by bribing them with precious stones. But their caravans were being raided in a forest north of Rangoon by a bandit. So we went looking for the stones. But in six months, we never found anyone who traded with him. One day I saw a child playing with a ruby the size of a tangerine. The bandit had been throwing them away.
Bruce Wayne: Then why steal them?
Alfred Pennyworth: Because he thought it was good sport. Because some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money. They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn.

He's right, of course. Some men want to destroy for the pure sake of destruction. There is nothing to gain, no angle to play, no bridge to conquer. Some folks just like to see everything turn to shit. It is a powerful and anarchic impulse that I don't believe many people have. Those few that do possess it, however, do so with a vengeance. I believe most addicts fit under this category, and probably most serial killers. It is an urge to experience the most aggressive of sensory overloads, and to do so (hopefully, at least) at the expense of something or someone that took care and time to construct. A lot of these types probably don't know this about themselves, and might not want to admit it even if they did. But the truth is, there is something invigorating about watching everything that is supposed to be neat and tidy and orderly become transformed and dominated by the twin gods of chaos and limitless pleasure.

Trent Reznor understood this phenomenon perfectly when writing Mr. Self-Destruct, the opening track on the brilliant Downward Spiral album:

I am the voice inside your head
and I control you
I am the lover in your bed
and I control you
I am the sex that you provide
and I control you
I am the hate you try to hide
and I control you...

...I am the needle in your vein
and I control you
I am the high you can't sustain
and I control you
I am the pusher I'm a whore
and I control you
I am the need you have for more
and I control you
I am the bullet in the gun
and I control you
I am the truth from which you run
and I control you
I am the silencing machine
and I control you
I am the end of all your dreams

Yep, Trent knew of which he wrote. Of course, most people with these tendencies are doomed to die an early death or enjoy the lush accommodations and increased rectal cavity size offered by certain state facilities. As a society, we try to medicate problems like this, and naturally, all that accomplishes is a temporary respite; it is "hidden" in much the same way that Ignorance and Want remain hidden behind the third spirit's cloak in A Christmas Carol.

The only way out of it, I think, is to find some way to control the demon, some way to keep it at bay while still acknowledging and respecting it. Why the fuck would you want to get rid of something that's that much fun, anyway? No, I think the only way out of this pickle is to find some way to achieve what our pussified culture refers to as "balance." How does one make this happen? Don't ask me; if I knew, I would have been able to do so by now. Feisty Icelandic pixie Bjork seemed to have been on to something when she wrote what have to be my favorite lyrics of all time:

we live on a mountain
right at the top
there's a beautiful view
from the top of the mountain
every morning i walk towards the edge
and throw little things off
like:
car-parts, bottles and cutlery
or whatever i find lying around

it's become a habit
a way
to start the day

i go through this
before you wake up
so i can feel happier
to be safe up here with you

it's real early morning
no-one is awake
i'm back at my cliff
still throwing things off
i listen to the sounds they make
on their way down
i follow with my eyes 'til they crash
imagine what my body would sound like
slamming against those rocks

and when it lands
will my eyes
be closed or open?

The image of little Bjork tossing shit off of a cliff early in the morning before her long-suffering, mentally stable, delightfully boring lover even wakes up is a vision of pure joy. She is "wild at heart and weird on top" as Lula would say, and has finally found a way to control the animal within her. She knows that suppression is not the answer, but she also knows that the beast has to be at least placed into some sort of metaphysical grotto if she is to have anything resembling a happy life. Her simian impulses are vomited on to the world below just before sunrise, so she can let the animal out for a bit and then return to the arms of whatshisname, where she can be "safe up here with you."

If you haven't heard this song, give it a listen. Bjork's not your thing, you say? Well then, it's your lucky day, asThe Twilight Singers recorded a beautiful cover of this song on their album of covers, She Loves You.

What Bjork doesn't tell us is how genuinely elusive this cliff is. Some of us search for the fucking thing our entire lives. In the meantime, the need to throw the proverbial monkey wrench into our own lives will continue to torment that fortunate sub-species of human being.