Monday, October 31, 2005

The Grassroots Approach to Fame

Perception is Reality.

Kramer: He went down at the Beakman, he tried to lam, but they cheesed him.

"Reality is just a Government Codeword for boring."
- The Danger Guy

You know what is annoying, stalkers. That's right, those fuck bastards who have nothing better to do with their time than watch you watch tv. Unless the OC is out of reruns. Turns out every stalker in the world loves the OC. Who would have guessed? Personally, I hate the show. Looks dumb. But I digress. Stalkers. They are annoying. Especially when they are not really really hot bitches who would be willing to stop stalking you after you give them an std or two. Because that is my idea of a party. The other kind though, there really is no respite. You can't kill them. I hear that shit is illegal nowadays. And you can't fuck 'em, because that only makes them want to stay and cuddle and all that shit. Which is really more annoying that the original stalking. So what do you do? Let me know if you have an ideas.

And now for Today's Words from the Sweet Dude for the Sweet Dude:

"Jaeger Bombs Away."

That was Today's Words fromt he Sweet Dude for the Sweet Dude. Use them wisely. Not inteded for use by non-Sweet Dudes. So be warned.

and now, the shout outs

To Matthew Danger Brown - heard you had an excellent halloween. How did dressing up as K-Fed go for you? Don't let the bait get to you, you'll be whoring it up soon enough.

To J. Garrett Morris, the next Supreme Court Justice nominee to decline the nomination for "personal reasons" - so I met this blue-haired chick the other day, I gave her your number. You don't care that she's a little on the fat side and has a mustache, right?

To John Stockton Krol - watch out for those strippers, especially the one-legged ones that convince you to marry them while you are drunk because they think you are loaded because you told her a line about how you were an investment banker and flashed a fat roll of fake benjamins. (I love you, Allison.)

Sunday, October 30, 2005

I sit on a throne of lies

You know what I hate, what I really really really fucking hate: fake people. That's right, mannequins. They stand there with their perfect physiques and there perky tits that will never sag and well, fuck those bastards and their smug smiles and their perfectly matched clothing. (shakes fist).

Also, I have come to realize that no one really comments on my page. Except for the lovely Kathryn (thank you). So I have come up with a plan. For every comment that you don't leave on the blog, I will punch you in the face. Or maybe something worse. Don't test me. I'm unstable right now. Who can say what I might fucking do? Who can say?

There is a fake mustache on my living room coffee table and it isn't mine.

He's a funny guy. That's why we keep him around. I don't know why we keep him in chains, though. I think it might have something to do with him being a sexual predator, but I'm not entirely sure. That doesn't seem like reason enough to me for keeping someone in chains. Maybe I'll ask. If I get around to it.

George: that's my fiance, Susan, may she rest in peace.

Look out. I hear we're playing shadow games now.


Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale...
That's right ... coming soon ... the exploits of J.S. Krol on the 22nd anniversary of his birth. There will be strippers and drunk chicks and professional wresting and maybe, if we're lucky, he'll pay another bum to dance for him.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Run Longer. Sleep Less.

The Sighlent Scream

of my deep, dark blue (purple-ish) despair
I dare not speak.

Not so much so
because of the lie
(those I speak freely and often)
rather because I aim solely
to entertain
in my speech.

And I would not
could not
should not

subject you to such trivialities.

Not that I care
about you.

So be sure.

Fuck it;
fuck you;
And fuck off.


Death to Alarm Clocks and all their Makers. The World would be much better served without their kind. Truly the most Infernal of Machines.

Meet me on Walpurgisnacht. I'll have what you need.

"You don't have to worry about the barbarians at the gate if you are a barbarian yourself."
- Usko, Poisoning the Wells

get crunk, motherfucker, get crunk

Oh, me. Oh, life.

Sometimes burning seems like a good idea. Sometimes it is.

The tales I tell (of trivial lies)
are stories not
for the likes of your kind.
To say that I hate you
would be too much
to your credit. I acknowledge
and hate
only myself.

My ceiling is no man's floor.

The Greatest Commandment: No Facial Piercings

Why worry about the Big Issues when staying awake is hard enough?

"If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer ...
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!"
- Shel Silverstein, "Invitation"

"It's not hard to 'love your neighbor as yourself' if you hate yourself."
- Usko, Trivial Lives

Friday, October 21, 2005

Silence the Opposition! Bearclaws for Everyone!

The little encouragement that I have received has only made me worse; more out of control, less sensical, more willing to waste other people's time with my bullshit. In the end there will be ... an end to the madness? a meaning to the madness? In the end there will be something. That's what ends are. That is completely untrue. Some things just end. Some things just are and then are not.

When I talk to my friends about their jobs (the guys anyway- which is most of them) we rarely get to what it is we actually "do." A job is a job is a job. Nothing special and if it pays - good. The real measure of whether or not a job is "good" is how many hot ladies it brings you in contact with - coworkers and customers. Jorge Sandoval Krol wants to hit on his hot boss, but all his superiors hitting on her kinda get in his way and are something of a deterrent. El Gato Grande looks forward to his new consulting position more for the hot coworkers than the substantial higher salary. And I admit that I have done much the same. Aparently none of us care to remember the age old adage to "never mix work with pleasure," or maybe we just want some "look but don't touch" eye-candy to ease the dulldrums of the work day, or maybe we simply hope that Dr. Evil was right when he said, "Don't worry, Mama, it won't get weird." 10:1 odds on it turning out badly. If it turns out at all.

"That's it, isn't it?" "Yeah, that's it." "Well then, I guess I'll be going." "You could stay, if you want." "Why the fuck would I stay?" "..."

Everything is temporary. Everything temporary can be endured. When does "real life" start? When does 'this' become something more?

"All things can be forgotten in time and in drink."
- Isaac Aronson, Dark Side of the Bottle

"Rules were made broken."
- Professor Truth I. Sweetness, Contemplations in UnEnlightenment

"If only life were as easy as you I would still get screwed."
- The Bloodhound Gang, "I'm the Least You Could Do"

Thursday, October 20, 2005

uncensored gorgeous cartoon orgy sex

The Propheteers have come to a consensus: the Billy Prophet Collective will here by be known as the Foundation for the Absent Tomorrow. Let it be known. We have spoken.

numbers of things are important. Without numbers, civilization would crumble. Without numbers life as we know it would not be in any way as we know it. It would be differnt by a factor of 10. Not that we would be able to know that. 10 is a number. And without numbers we would not know the meaning of 10. Consider the lilies. They do not know the meaning of 10. They will not survive the apocalypse. Life goes on. At least we still have things. Even if we don't have numbers. Things are. We maintain. "What's 6 x 12?" "72." "Oh, I put down 'green.'" In a world without numbers, 6 x 12 is green. It is our way. We will accept no other.

Let the circle be broken. Good and truly broken. Fractured; yes, broken: my brain/my sense of reality/ life as it exists beyond the pale; beyond my grasp, beyond that which binds. But is that it? Is that all? That isn't can't be the answer. Though there is - nothing - else. Not to worry. I had to be broken before I could fix it. (I think I fixed it wrong.)

Jerome Seinfeld Krol: Yeah, you are not a "mover and shaker."
Billy Prophet: Nope.
Billy Prophet: And yet I am the greatest man alive.
Jimmy Stewart Krol: I cannot dispute that.

Hello, hello. I don't know why you say, "Goodbye," I say "fuck off."

It's not that I am angry all the time. Or frustrated or any of that. I don't really have conventional human emotions. I don't care enough to hate or really be angry. I am a misanthrope. But mostly for the girls. I don't hold to it out of any sense of moral obligation.

"My cock is much bigger than yours."
- System of a Down, "Cigaro"

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Diet failure is not your fault.

My life is something of a ruin.

and here goes another unfinished story...

I got nothing.

"I had never killed a man. And I am no Mersault. And yet... There was something about the day. It's not that I believe in fate; or Fate. I don't. Quantum randomness and all. Reality is never what is seems. Everything is so much more fluid.

At least he was a bum. A lush we found in the park wrapped in newspaper and dog shit. I can't say that it was planned. We stopped planning shit years ago. And no, we weren't on drugs. We weren't. We weren't drunk or high. But reality had gone fluid. Things weren't what they were. They ... who knows.

It was night. He was asleep. I broke his kneecap with a hammer. We wanted to hear him scream. Then we pummelled him until she bled out. She was a bag lady. We scattered her cans all over the place. Jon wanted to piss on him. But I told him that was a bad idea. Being a broker, he might have friends; you know, ones that can cause trouble. And you never leave DNA behind.

I shot John two days ago. He was becoming too unreliable. He was starting to enjoy it too much. A sadist is grounded in reality. A twisted reality. A violent reality. But a firm reality. And I was beyond that. He was becoming an anchor weighing me down.

I got married yesterday. Her name is Allison. Honeymoon on a private island.

I woke up on my couch this morning. I don't remember how I got here. There was a hammock. And the sun. And the ocean; so blue, so perfect. But... I don't ... remember... "

- Isaac Aronson, 3,000 Days of Sun

to dance with Jak o' the Shadows

I wrote a symphony once. It only used 4 notes and variations on 3 themes. It was for the double bass, timpani, and oboe. Before it was lost it was considered by some to be a masterpiece; the greatest such work in some time. Alas, some things cannot be changed and all copies were destroyed in the fire.

I have written a good share of lousy fucking poetry. I kept journals back in my youth. Many, most of them contained poems - you know that teen angst bullshit that at the time seemed so witty so insightful so not shit but was exactly the opposite. And for some reason all of my journals degenerated into scribbling at some point. I have never been able to accurately express my rage.

I've come to identify with all the drunks and hooligans of literature.

It is what it is. But I am so much more.

Rain in the desert. Celebrate it. It doesn't happen often.

Pigeons on my roof. I would kill them but aparently I'm not allowed. And I'm too lazy to try to scare them away. It's not like I want to throw rocks at my house. That isn't really a good idea. Not from what I hear anyway.

I pick my battles.

Also, thanks to J. Garrett Morris, Supreme Commander of the Semi-Colon and Savior of the Fish Stick, I now have links on my page. Beg for the right to have one of your own.

"At the pre-emptory request of a large majority of the citizens of these United States, I Joshua Norton, formerly of Algoa Bay, Cape of Good Hope, and now for the last nine years and ten months past of San Francisco, California, declare and proclaim myself the Emperor of These United States."
- Joshua A. Norton I, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico

Saturday, October 15, 2005


J. Garrett Morris, Master of the Unwritten Law and Lord of the Dark Night, recently commented to me, "Girls are better with purple hair."

Susan: I am not a soft-boiled egg.
George: And I am not a piece of toast.

I rode my bike into a passing car once. My brakes were broken. There was nothing I could do. The van was totaled. My bike was fine... but I was a little late to school. I had to bring a note. That was a very good story. You could all learn something from it.

"Drinking and shirtless debauchery. Oh, the glories."

*** this is such a bad segue

"Say your silent goodbyes."
Usko, Have you killed a Poet lately?

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

in canis corpore transmuto


There is nothing like a service industry job to make you a misanthrope. As if I needed the fucking help. Everyday I work I lose more and more respect for mankind. And I work in the suburbs in an upscale franchise coffee house. So that means that I interact with some of the best my city has to offer. God, what a waste of life. They should all be taken out back and shot for the good of the rest of us. And by the rest of us, I mostly just mean me. But I smile and treat them courteously. I do my job. Too well if you ask me. I dream in coffee now. I can never get away. Now I am just depressed. Work. It is what it is. And less. and less...

I haven't really had a day off in two weeks. Nearly all stray thoughts have been purged from my soul. It's just coffee now. After I open tomorrow I will have a 3 day weekend. Hopefully I will be able to write something after a break. I would apologize for the lack of amusing content to you, faithful reader, but frankly I don't give a shit. I doubt I care at all about most of you. And the rest of you will deal with it.

I have a penny on my desk.

To quote the blind priestess Godot: "I need a fucking vacation..."

I would like to give a shout out to J. Senator Krol - Keeper of Women, Collector of Debts. One day the masses will rise up to kill you. They will not succeed. For on that day you will assume the role Fate has chosen for you.

"I'm so insignificant I can't even kill myself."
- Miles, Sideways

Terminate with Extreme Prejudice

The grand thing about living in a self-manufactured reality is the fact that you can do whatever the fuck you want. And I do.

I don't know what happens next. I haven't decided yet.

The Liar's Fucking Parade -
take it how you will, we mean it no less

Oh, so something of a big deal for me - I have finally gotten some well deserved recognition. Isaac Aronson, my close personal friend, had his people talk to some people and Broken Brotherhood (it's a magazine in case you were too dumb to know that already. If you knew, I congratulate you on your taste - huzzah!) sent a reporter. Here is an excerpt... (enjoy):

"The place was a disgusting hovel. It had been impossible to find. Hidden as it was in a dark basement at the end of a series of alleys, this had to be the most godforsaken cellar in the whole civilized(?) world. Why would a prophet live here? Why would The Prophet live here? The ceiling was dripping, the floor was covered in an unidentifiable mung (god, this shit was horrible) and the smell - the stench was beyond belief. There was the was the ever present reek of rot, decay, and death (beer, piss, and vomit). Rats skulked in the shadows; watching, waiting. The hallway seemed endless, the madness was closing in. I knew I would never make it out alive. 'This is all a lie,' I thought. 'There is no prophet here. They sent me here to die. They sent me here to never be found. And no one will come looking for me. It will be as if I just vanished of the face of the earth. My rotting corpse will just become part of the filth and I will fade into nothingness.'
A cat was stalking around the room. He was sitting on crate smoking, drinking a beer and taking the occasional shot of tequila. Room 101. I walked in. I had found him. I had found Billy Prophet."
- Jonathan Oda, "Decadence has a new Prophet"

So how about that kids. I done told you I was gonna be famous. And none o' y'all fuckers believed. So there's that.

"It does seem fitting to construe carelessly made, shoddy goods as in some way analogues of bullshit. But in what way?"
- Harry G. Frankfurt, On Bullshit

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

I will punch you in the goddamn face.

I'll do it. I'm crazy.

I got bored. Thank me later, you ungrateful bastards.

How 'bout those Yankees? How 'bout those Red Sox?

Yeah. That.

See, I've sort of been busy. I work now. Money and shit. For food mostly. And hookers. You never can have enough hookers. Especially cheap ones. Get a few of the ladies of the evening together and take a bath in a kiddie pool full of nickels. And by "take a bath" I mean "we gonna get dirty" and then wash ourselves with nickels. Because that's how I roll.

(and now, a poem)


below the harddeck Jester called
No joy.

life lived in reverse
unstuck in time or worse
a life not lived
at all.
not worth examining, that

so I sat
in the Theater of the Absurd
wishing for meaning or
a good bit of rope or
at least for the end to come or

it's the waiting that gets you.
always the waiting
in the end.

and the Wrath
of the whole Rulan Armada
came following after
shattering an empire
of satisfaction
and then reality took

a backseat


I imagine there will be more later. You know, when I feel like it. Fuckers. I still hate you all.

"Flag burning is the process of lighting a flag on fire and burning it."
- Usko, The Book of Good Things

Thursday, October 6, 2005

Adam Explains to 1780s Guy

I recently conducted an interview with random people that I met on the street. Here in Vegas, though, people on the street can be pretty unusual/entertaining. Here is a partial transcription:

Billy Prophet: If God called you collect, would you accept the charges?

Lady who thought she was coming to Vegas to have an experience that would "stay in Vegas" but is actually ugly: Yes, of course. The opportunity to speak with the Almighty is worth any price. Any price at all. I would sell my daughters to talk with my Jesus. I would sell my son's soul.

Billy Prophet: (interrupting) Alright, that's fucking enough. By the way God hates you.

Desperate lonely guy who thinks he is hot shit but no one agrees: I...uh...screen my phone calls... Next ... uh ... question?

Billy Prophet: It's not screening if no one ever calls. Get off of my show.

I walked a ways down the street before I came across some more potential contestants on my talk show. They were big and mean. They hit me. Over and over and over. I did not like it. So I gelded all three of them. And stole their motorcycles. I don't take that shit from anybody. The Prophet has spoken.


It can take hours to die by hanging if you don't snap your neck. The waiting gets to you. While gasping for breath and watching your feet turn black you think to your self, "Self, why did I have to be so damn melodramatic? Why couldn't I have just put a bullet through my brain and been done with it?" Then you remember that guns have a waiting period before you can buy them and you had a good bit of rope in the garage. Plus, this way you get to die with an erection. You would laugh at the absurdity of dying with a raging mega-huge boner if you weren't slowly suffocating with a raging mega-huge boner. You laugh a little on the inside. Then the curtain falls.

"Welcome to the Lost Property Office..."
- James Walsh, Lost Property Office

Serenity Now!

My close personal friend Jonas Salk Krol, famed explorer and dinosaur hunter, has recently conveyed to me that my writing has become wholly unitelligible. While I completely disagree, I thought that perhaps I could throw him a bone, as a feller says, and compose something more on his level.

Contemplating his inevitable death (he is nearing 30 and thus his twilight years) he wanted for me to record his legacy. I told him I didn't have the time. He agreed to an abriged version to be presented here and optioned 2 books. Needing a new benefactor, I set to the task.

J.S., as he is sometimes known, has an insatiable love of women. Younger women, older women, women his own age; as long as they are ridiculously hot, he loved them...and continues to "love" them. You know, fucks like there's no tomorrow. Though his sexual prowess is somewhat limited, he has, in his time, had no shortage of female, and an occasional male, companions. You see, J.S. is the Swindler, the one and only. It's not that he is a liar (that was always my role) it is just that he can create the Grand Illusion that all women find irresistable. And for reasons beyond the comprehension of all who know him, he is able to dazzle the beautiful into his clutches. Some don't even end up regretting it.

But his true legacy is that of being The Greatest Sellout of All Time. It began slowly at first. He gained Sellout points a few at a time, but gradually he ascended to heights that mere mortals had never dreamed. Indeed, no one ever believed that J.S. could ever truly reach the heights of Greatest. There were so many great Sellouts that had gone before. So many that deserved the title. And none of those Sellouts had set out to become Sellouts (a plan that severly limited J.S.'s chances of achieving his goal). I often questioned him, "Is it really selling out if you are trying to do it?" But he held fast. He maintained. And as you all know, in his 43rd year, J.S. finally achieved his goal of being The Greatest Sellout of All Time. Well, we all know what happened next. But let me just say, the gauntlet has been thrown down and I do not think any will ever reach those heights again. J.S. Krol is truly an American Hero.

And then there was the Switch. What a big mistake that shit was. I don't think I'm going to Switch Back. I just don't see the point.

"I like internet porn. You know, the kinky stuff."
- Joseph Stalin Krol

Wednesday, October 5, 2005

The Faustian Swindle

riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.

my dreams are all lies. trust them not. to be anything more. To be anything. if only to simply be. Breathe. Greather thou and oless. Sometims in the darkness ever shrouded a blinding lite be but shortly scene. But yet and then go on to tell, the rest and rested long; espresso for the wicked, weary souls.

marked twice by the Raven, trickster, rememberer, thinker, gods below above beyond and dead. all dying and for it is the natural progression of things to die because we know it was and is and ever shall be so. No one escaps ask Enoch (he walked with God and then was not). Morrison was a drunken buffoon. No wonder he never made it out alive. The lizard king bows down before the Grinning Fool; the Grinning Sadist; the Grinning Absurdist. And less and less and always less.

Man killed God because He could not take the guilt of having forgotten Him. Guilt: so much from so little.

there are many things I could say, but they are lies like everything else. and I like my lies better. fictions to make our realities more palatable. frictions to tell our stories great and small and boring all. Is it so fuckingwrong to want something better more the Dream that never was? Promises promised never devilerd and fuck it. and fuck it. and fuck it all.

Too late to be known as John the First; he’s sure to be known as John the Worst. A pox on manthemostergreatest-of-themall. if not famous; infamous; or at least the least of now and forever. Remember me when you come into your kingdom.

Eagle: So then I told Zeus: “I don’t care if he did steal your fire, I am sick of the taste of liver.”

Persephone: And then what did he do?

Eagle: What? You think I chose to come down here?

Odin All-Father dead today; eaten by wolves. A pitying state of affairs the godkillers all. For nothing left put manmade sadnessdeath and fater all. Glorious dead we makes ourselves greatest among all domesticated beasts oh cry out for our forgotten lord. if nothing else make me more than them. Make me more than the nothing they become. Mangreatestfool of them all. To truly be a god. The silence of creation is deafening in the allforgotten vanity of manmosthigh. know we so much that we forget but all. And so the knowers become the rememberers become the cast out lost ones who will not breakdown for anyprice. Sell me knowthing. I need not your empty pleasantries spawn of Santa.

isaac aronson was a man of no consequence. a glorious man. the best of men. no greater soul has the world known. sentenced to an early death for knows not why. forbiddencastaside the son of no man save Man: the darkest soul of them all. Alas poor Isaac, I knew him well. his fate is mustshared by all. To what end we know not of. The only story we can’t write with confidence. The void calls us all drunkenstumbing home. to remember in the foggy hungover mourning. Death is just what’s next. And then? And then? No and then. And then? No and then! And then?

Useless; never used. If only I wasn’t so fucking good at everything. Somuch so much becomes somuch less. If there was ever a way out we never knew it. we never knew until the credits rolled on our sad sack sorry story. at least the post credit clip made us laf.

A way a lone a last a loved a long the

Ming Lo moves mountains.

Tuesday, October 4, 2005





I would go on, but I just can't remember much of it anymore. And I am not quite as expressive in the 日本語 as I am in English. And I swear much better in English. It's easier for one. And I can be more creative. So there's that.

Eres tu.

So I have heard that there have been stories (rumors really) circulating about the Prophet and his merry henchmen. Some would say that we are the devil's own children. Raising hell and raping virgins and all that. But as J. Stewart Krol would say, "They are just random acts of pure excitement." So what are you gonna do about that. Indeed, one must trust the sage advice of our Chief Excutive Officer/VP of Product Development J. Garrett Morris when he says, "Fuck the goddamn proletariat. It is time for the Intellectuals to Rise Up and claim what is rightfully ours. That is, everything." Senior Analyst on Buying In Big Cat agrees and elaborates: "Bar is open!"

To quote a poem of the sage Yellow Emperor:

"We are not good.
We are not evil.
We just are."

And the virgin sacrifices are just to appease the Volcano, so you can't fault us for that.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull for Pope in '09. Vote or Don't!

So I hope all rumors are dispelled. I will not address this topic again. Unless I do.

"You've got to know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away. Know when to run."
- Kenny Rogers, "The Gambler"

Billy Prophet Will Save Your Soul!

It's time for you fuckers to make me famous.

And jumping on the corporate branding bandwagon. And the sweet-ass t-shirt bandwagon. The Billy Prophet Collective, LLC will be manufacturing and selling shirts for sweet dudes and hot bitches. The shirts will be available in "pure as the driven snow" white, "fence sitting" gray, and "inside of a coffin on a moonless night" black and all will be emblazoned with one of Billy Prophet's characteristic witticisms. Order early and order often.

Current slogans include:

1. Billy Prophet Will Sell Your Soul!
2. Hypocrite [for you honest fuckers]
3. Happy Hypocrite [for the truly untroubled minds]
4. Free Mumia! [under a picture of Che Guevara, what's the difference?]
5. Assassinate in '68 [there is a big retro movement going on now, and I want to capitalize]
6. I regret every decision I have ever made [who doesn't?]
7. Amy, will you go out with me? [maybe if the multitudes are asking she will say yes]

Other slogans will be made available as the Prophet sees fit. So fuck off with your suggestions and such. Unless they are good. Then they might be considered and stolen. I credit no man. And no, size fat will not be made available. Lose weight.

On that note, Debt Collector Extraodinaire John Stevens Krol (his parents named him after that red-headed fucker that sucked on American Idol a while back) has teamed with the minds of The Billy Prophet Collective to come out with new cutting edge fitness tapes. Vanity is Everything is the ultimate weight loss solution. Face it, you need his help. So buy his tapes. And buy my shirts once you are thin enough to fit in them.

I hate you all.

"Black Devil..............................90 Brandy Fizz......................41
Black Gold ............................202 Brandy Gump Cocktail...41
Black Hawk...........................147 Brandy Highball..............41
Black Magic...........................131 Brandy Julep....................41
Black Maria.............................90 Brandy Milk Punch.........42
Black Russian........................131 Brandy Punch................213"

-Mr. Boston Official Bartender's and Party Guide, pg. 263

For the Fire and the Glory

Drunkery and the Sweet Blessed Rage. There was a time where I had not a concern in my life save for glorious attempts at self-destruction. It was a prolonged suicide and it was all you could have hoped for. Indeed, 'twas a consummation devoutly to be wished. And yet.

All things must end. It is the unfortunate consequence of a linearly limited mind. Beginning, middle, end. What else is there? Few have known otherwise. Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time. I decided not to.

Fuck it. The rallying cry of a generation. To decadence. A dedication I can be proud of. But it meant so much more than they thought. They thought it clever, a toast to literary heroes who went down in a blaze of drunken glory, injecting philpon into their dessicated veins in the search for one last fix, one last book, one last shot at a life they never wanted. But it was so much more than that. They saw flashes of it. Snapshots of glory; of destruction. But they never thought. No one ever does.

The money's gone. Our brains are shot. But the liquor we've still got.

Campai, mother fucker. Because in the end, what else is there? Fuck it.

I have nothing better to do. I suppose I could be drinking now. But altered states are so boring when you are alone. The laughter echoes louder, harsher, more desperate. Because there really is nothing more. Fuck it.

I have read so many things. I have heard so many more. Hope is a good thing. Maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies. Unless you kill it. Hope has no place in the desert. Not real hope. We sell dreams and fantasies. Because the desert strips you bare. And there is nothing else there. And the laughter still echoes.

I lost myself a long time ago. I was nine. And everything stopped. Liars aren't born. We are made. I was nine. And everything changed.

Reality is fluid, if you let it.

"The second teaching from the golden eternity
is that never was a first teaching
from the golden eternity. So be sure."
-Jack Kerouac, The Scripture of the Golden Eternity

Sunday, October 2, 2005

Tag Team Back Again

I have used up my witticisms. I have nothing prepared for today's lesson. I go on.

So Class, how are things? That was a rhetorical question Janet. I don't really care who you fucked on Thursday. It has nothing to do with our discussion topic and everyone else already knows. By the way, Jason has crabs. Now you do too. Like one big happy fucking family.

To continue...

Last class we left off with the notion that the literature of Isaac Aronson, most specifically his middle works, were heavily influenced by Norse Mythology. Did any of you actually do the assigned readings?

I didn't think so. It's a good thing most of you fuckers are trust fund babies. You'd never make it otherwise. To reiterate, you can see the effect of the Norse mythos in some of the simplest and most obvious ways - titles, character names, character traits, and blatant uses of the archetypes.

-That cell phone had better be off in 3 seconds or I will confiscate it and drive over it with my car. At now, mother fucker. I am trying to teach. Have some goddamn respect.-

Yet he also works with the spirit of the Norse consciousness. If you had done the reading, you would have realized, assuming you weren't stoned, that Norse culture was somewhat preoccupied with Death. Their gods were not immortal, but rather simply long-lived and like Man destined to die. Specifically in Ragnarok, their glorious version of the End Times. Moreover...

Jack, wake the fuck up. It's true I love the sound of my own voice, but I am not paid to talk to myself. If you want to sleep, just stay in bed and save the rest of us the trouble of having to deal with your rank carcass.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Do die in battle was the most noble of ends for a Norseman. For do so would allow the warrior to be carried of by Odin's Valkyries to an afterlife in Valhalla where he would spend all day fighting and all night drinking. That's right, it's not just an Irish pasttime. Of course they were kept in Valhalla until Ragnarok, at which time they would be called on to fight and die (forever this time) to save humanity. Which they would, but no one would remember them for it...

Indeed, the Norse Mythos paints a bleak picture of the frozen wastelands of Northern Europe. No wonder the Vikings went south to rape and pillage to their hearts content. I certainly would have. But it this bleak world view - fighting drinking dying in an endless meaningless cycle that Isaac Aronson picks up on. Though his characters are often engaged in an existential search for meaning, they never really seem to have much hope that their search will end or if it does that it will provide the meaning they were searching for. If your gods are fated to die, then in what does a man put his trust? Where is his faith? Is a glorious death the only act that is infused with meaning? No wonder they spent their days fighting and their nights drinking. What the fuck else was there?

And I would maintain that it is precicely this facination with a glorious death, with this hopelessness in the face of reality, and this reckless abandon of fighting, whoring, drinking, and outright decadence that the writing of Aronson so exquisitely captures.

Since none of you have paid any attention, that about wraps it up for today.

I will continue in the vein of the mythology of Isaac Aronson next week. Be sure to read up on the Tao because we will be covering his use of Eastern mysticism.

Now get the fuck out of my classroom. I got drinking and whoring to do.

Oh, Janet, if you wouldn't mind staying a little after class...

"deviant, abnormal: Most people are neurotic about something.
neuter adj. 1 asexual, sexless [J.S. Krol], epicene: Worker bees are neuter, neither male nor female."
- The Oxford Desk Thesaurus: American Edition, pg. 340

Saturday, October 1, 2005

Sex with Minors!

So I just watched the movie Closer. It was recommended to me by J. Garrett Morris, former Minister of the Left. I now hate life even more than I used to. And I am cynical again. It happens.

I am in such a state of flux. Everything is changing, and I have no idea what is going on. There are things I need that I will never have. I am not hardwired for contentment. I can only enjoy certain quiet moments, and then only when I am not thinking about it. And so it goes.

At least I don't want to kill myself. That taken into account, I find that I quite enjoy my life. I most certainly enjoy myself. And I seem to have many pleasant and attractive co-workers (some of them are even girls) so it would seem that I quite enjoy my job. Things could be worse. But I don't know that they will get any better. Go on.

During the week, while I have not been keeping you faithful readers entertained with my witty insights into the Comedy of Man, I have been engaged in some deep study. I have pored over many a vellum tome and have come to certain conclusions:

1. It was a Waste of Time.
2. It is what It Is.
3. It is what It Isn't.
4. It never Was.
6. There is no #5.

My words are meaningless. This is a book of lies.

"He doesn't have a name so Death can't find him."
- Enola, Waterworld (the single greatest movie of all time bar none)