Infected Pt.1

A grim horizon sledged its way with cold rain and twisting winds, demolishing the formerly blue, cloudy skyline like it was glass beneath a bulldozer. I waited in my car until the crewman arrived to unlock the warehouse.

There was myself and one other person stationed in the heaven-like clean waiting room; an older lady with a limp that came with the bitter weather, but she never let it sully her pride and thanks for living another day. All I wanted was to get this deed done with sanze decapitating any of the infected with a clipboard I was forced to break in half.

I read through a book I hadn't touched since junior high as my zeal for life found itself drained by the events of the last couple of weeks. My dog had been run over (I had to sweep it's left-hind paw in to the gutter), my mother was about to have both of her legs amputated (because of those damned infected), and my health-coach suggested I should go on a diet despite the fact that I weighed just under three-hundred pounds, could run five-miles a day, and my blood pressure - as the health analyst would soon express - was "excellent." Which continued to confirm my beliefs that once someone left medical school, they knew nothing about people, the human body, or preserving life - only how to open someone's mouth and throw handfuls of pills at them, and whichever one's actually made it inside the mouth were downed with water, the one's that fell to floor were turned into suppositories.

Being a new patiet to this warehouse-clinic, I began filling out the info-sheet when a wheezing hacker limped in and sat next to me. My hands quickly gripped each sides of the clipboard, ready to snap it in half. Jabbing the pen through its larynx would have been a bonus and I would have spilled blood in heaven, but the symptoms of the infected subsided, and I resumed fillling out a contract made unreadable as the final draft had obviously been tossed at the mercy of the computer's spell checker. "I hereby sign his letter of life examination authorization...." unless, these scrub-draped bastards were working for someone - a Him.

Why were there delivery trucks in the back? What went in to this clinic that had to be distributed throughout the city?

Why I Can Never Be a Family Man

I can already see myself - already well on in my age, should I live long enough to experience these fool's-golden years; my sixties, maybe seventies.

I can already feel it - my mind slipping, sanity filtering itself out through life's will, my blood and my shit stains. My wife and children hovering over me like a puppy run over by an the ice cream man after he dropped some bad acid and thought the Berry Swirls were trying to eviscerate his essential scrotum parts with seven different "berry-good" flavors and fiver different "berry-licious" selections.

"Couldn't you just shove the Creamy Puffballs up my ass?" the laced-out, mobile food-provider would whimper.

In my bed I would lie, whithering away in my bed; no one having a clue why. Doctors find no reason for my deteriorating mental health. My family prays. It brings them hope.

Eventually, wife and children grow accustom to changing my diapers, drying my urine-sprayed belly, wiping my crap-stained tushy; and constantly dabbing my drooling mouth. And after the months, or even years; however long I still find the whole thing funny, on the inaugural day of the fourth month, I will prop myself up just as my daily changing is going on, pop to my feet on top of the mattress, and hysterically scream "APRIL FUCKING FOOLS, YOU BASTARDS!"

The last thing I will hear is my own laughter as my family predictably, lovingly, obediently beat me to death because THAT, ladies and gentleman, is how I show people I love them.

Alice in Monotony-Land

When I first heard about Tim Burton filming Alice in Wonderland, I really could have cared less. Even as photos and movie images were released, while displaying Tim Burton's knack for capturing beauty in darkness I still wasn't the slightest bit interested until I started hearing about the story.

I was under the impression that this was another remake coveted in the 3-D format to make money on something that the world has seen a billion times over, and perhaps some people have even read the book. What finally bashed my contemptuous scepticism was finding out that this is a continuation of the story rather than a remake/reboot/re-fisting-up-my-ass.

This brings back to me the time I saw Return to Oz, where a young, pre-psychotic Fairuza Balk donned the mantle of Dorothy, and may I say she performed splendidly, even evoking mannerisms and accents of Judy Garland. It was a fine amalgamation of the previous film with Frank L. Baum's books.

Still - - how many times can someone watch the same story over and over? Alice in Wonderland, The Wizard of Oz, Coraline; all are the same story - a young girl enters an mystical realm, befriends odd creatures, and terrorizes a sex-deprived diva in order to get back home. Then again, how many martial arts films can someone watch until they find one that has nothing to do with acting vengeance upon an evil master? How many superhero films can someone watch before it hits them - IT'S ALL THE SAME SHIT.

But, if it entertains, that's the important part, I suppopse; but even new material can be entertaining as well. However, I look forward to ripping off Lewis Carrol, Frank L. Baum, and Neil Gaiman in the near future.

Dogg-Style Day

Here we are again......Screw Like Pooches Day, or as known better since its reboot - Valentine's Day.

When I hear Duran Duran's Hungry Like the Wolf, I'm reminded of Valentine's Day. It all started with K-9s.

Prior to Christianity's overtaking of Rome, succeeding St. Valentino as the inspiration for this often misconstrued, expensive holiday - which if it were any kind of holiday, if it landed on a weekday, working people would get the day off - - Rome celebrated love through the Parentalia and Feralia Festivals of Purification. February 14th was the second day of this multi-facated event. It was dubbed Lupercalia, supposedly dedicated to Juno-Lupa, the She-Wolf. Priests called Luperci would congregate at the Cave of Lupercal to sacrifice dogs, wolves in other areas, and goats, then smeared the baptised blood across the foreheads of children of nobility. I'm just going over the relevant detailse, there's much more to this pagan"s party.

In Northern Europe, wolves were sacrificed - their intestines used by males to swipe the blood across their desired female's forhead. I'd written a piece on that particular sect many years ago. Sadly, I've lost all materials related to it. And it dawned on me just today - the coincidence(?) - of The Wolfman being released on Valentine's weekend. I haven't stopped laughing.

I want to just flick your ear. And annoy you. But you then smile anyway.

Curly

I knew Curly because I remembered his driver's license with his photo suffering from pube-like growths hovering over his scalp, and because his friends were gracefully replenishingh him with shots and chasers, meaning it was an important night for Curly. Unfortuntely, Aldo had received complaints about Curly. He couldn't keep his hands to himself, and that was not good for business, particularly on a night that was bumpin' like this one was.


I made the call - toss Curly - but only for the first time in a long time did I want in on the experience.

The mystique about "bouncing" is that you kick ass every night, that whole Road House feel, which is what most other bouncers masturbate to once they leave work. Unlike those limp-dicks, I prefer to fall asleep with the tv on. But when you're frustrated, and a long day has been just that, a "long day," the idea is there, festering in your brain - - - I wish this muthafucka would pull something. That night, Curly pulled a knife on me and Aldo. Aldo pulled the knife out of his hands. I lifted Curly off of his feet. Frustration coupled with velocity bounced Curly off of the pavement in front of the club.

Philosophy and Physics are a dangerous combination.

WWWW I.....and the Aftermath

I could see the fire. When no one else would comment or even twitter, fearing for their jobs, their sense of importance - I saw the fire. And it was an electrical one.

Growing up, recognizing the importance in words carefully strewn together not just to make sense, but to deliver relevance; to deliver purpose.

Then, World Wibe Web War One (I) hit us.Wx4I wiped out most of the remaining hospitable environments, once the Aquatic Age was over.

Some peopel want to compare our eras to the Dark Ages, yet the only difference between us and the Dark Ages - the Dark Ages had no electricity. We did. At least up until the.......................................................................

The Last Member of the Great Andamanese Tribe Dies

Boa Sr, who died last week aged around 85, was the last speaker of ‘Bo’, one of the ten Great Andamanese languages. The Bo are thought to have lived in the Andaman Islands for as much as 65,000 years, making them the descendants of one of the oldest human cultures on Earth.

Webbing the Wall

I'm not a "house" person. I've never felt comfortable in a house, thus never feeling comfortable calling any place home. I love lofts - I suspect is why both begin with L. I've enjoyed apartments. The crappiest thing about each are the roomates.

My aunts used to work as a pack, one distracting me while another snuck around, waiting to bash a bannana in my mouth.

I love them so much. All of them. They taught me the meaning of survival, and are partially responsible for me enjoying cold food. I mean it - chilli, fidello; all cultures of pasta, frankly. I don't need a microwave, just an appetitie.

They kept a record, the only problem was the record kept going and going and going - nothing was being done about stopping the asshole that was terrorizing my neighborhood. I spotted him in between 11:30 and 12:45 every night. The same lanky figure swooping his arms to and fro, trying to get away. Unfortunately, your freakishness is landing you in the local penitentiary because no one you know has the kind of bail money required to bust you out of the hole.

But then you see your way out. You see the son of a bitch in a college pro's jacket sleeping directly across, smelling either his early warning signal, or the last line of putrid defense. Regardless, its death knows what it's true human instinct requires, and what reckless wish-monger desires - only to suffer later on...

I wish you the best. Peace.

Alone-Time

Sometimes, alone-time is sweeter than sweet. Granted, too much could develop a soul cavity, but some people can get away with more than most other folks and be fine in their social form.

Alone-time can feel like trekking atop your favorite pastry, or wading through the best ice cream, but at some point, you have to use the bathroom during your trek, and I saw you playing Seagulling Marco Polo in the ice cream, so...eventually, your own filth kills the mood. 

Loneliness is saddening, alone-time is a conditioning, and a trust in yourself.

Gawd damnit get your hand outta your pants!