I hopte that this has nothing to do with the dream I had last night about an alien invasion. I think I dreamed something similar a few nights ago, but I'm not sure. Either way, if the recent proximity of Mars to Earth ends up getting me pregnant with an alien, I'm fucked.

I hope that aliens don't visit Earth during my lifetime. A couple weeks ago, I went off on a tangent to my brother and girlfriend about my fear, which developed at that particular moment, of being using as a zombie puppet of alien invaders. My solution was to be thoroughly cremated and have my ashes spread so widely around the planet that there's no possible way the aliens can resurrect me. Better to be distributed carbon than a tool of the Greys.

Work on Critical Hits, my current novel, isn't going particularly fast, but it's been steady. Huzzah.

I'd like to live in, or visit, the setting of a Nicholas Roerich painting.

Thanks to H.P. Lovecraft and the results of his work for introducing me to this man's work.

Looks like my novel is finally becoming available on a wider scale. Last night my brother found it on amazon.co.uk (but not the local Amazon- what the hell?), and today it's on bn.com. Strangely enough, both sites put my name down as "David A. Smith," which is not at all what I wanted. Hence the use of "D.A." on the cover.

I'm gonna upload a picture of my ferret nosing around a cigarette and looking ill and claim that it's commentary on the evil nature of tobacco. Then I'm gonna go to a comic book convention, send lots of phonecam pics to my friends telling them how surrounded by nerds I am, and make funny faces.

And then all this useless shit will disappear into the abyss of the internet, and one day I'll be left with a slightly obsolete cell phone-cum-camera and an unmaintained website. Whee! Irony will finally have caught up and taken a phonecam snapshot of me.

I'm not particularly well-read when it comes to Situationist theory and praxis, but the notion of the Spectacle seems to be making a lot of sense lately. I think I'm going to write some notes on how the recent trend of phone cams, "blogs" (that word never ceases to sound repugnant), and instant web publishing are nothing more than people being deluded into thinking they're beating the Spectacle. Personally, while taking part in this, ahem, phenomenon, I don't think that it's some kind of reverse-media salvation for independent thought; instead, when everyone is transmitting every sordid- or, more importantly, boring and banal- aspect of their lives to the world at large, everyone's just grabbing their piece of the Spectacle and wrapping themselves in it. Call me elitist, but I don't give a fuck what some technophile with a Nokia and an RSS feed thinks, says, or does. How often do they make any real comments about the shit they're uploading? It's all just logorrhea, with images instead of words.

Yeah, I know I'm part of it, but you don't see me plastering snapshots of my walk to work on the net and pretending like it means anything. I'm just writing for the hell of it and for the amusement of my buddies. I hope that sometime in the near future people get sick of seeing constant streams of AV bullshit... fuck this, I'm going to go enjoy some unmediated beer-drinking and conversation with my brother.

Fuck you, "blogosphere."

Dude, I have to say that although the summer's been pretty uninspired, my life's all right. Not "all right" in the half-assed "when I say 'all right' I really mean so-so" way, but "all right" in the laid-back, thumbs-up way. I ain't got any money, but I got a girlfriend, beer, a published novel, and my buddies, so when I kick back in my chair and listen to Brant Bjork, things are all right.

Not that I couldn't use a change or two. I'd like a GTO Judge, no job, and a new venue (for a little while, at least, since H-Town's where I'm gonna ultimately end up), but all in good time.

It's casual, and that's all I can really ask for.

I played Magic: The Gathering for the first time in almost ten years tonight, and it was mighty fun.

There was something else, something far more crucial, that I was going to mention, but I can't remember for the life of me what it was.

Wait, I just recalled. I love running across web sites that haven't been updated since 1997 or so. Inevitably, these sites, which are often about as aesthetic as an anorexic she-goat but as potentially full of content as a Geocities/Tripod site can be, will disappear into the great informational void that the Internet exists in. Nobody will really catalogue all the things people said at the end of the pre-all-inclusive era of Internet use, so- though I fail to wholly believe myself, I still feel it anyway- all that knowledge will essentially vanish, and we'll be lucky to find a statistically more vapid person with a marginally less visually shitty site blabbing about something from '98 or '99 when we go hunting "outdated" pages.

I don't want anyone to think I'm some sort of serious nostalgist/propagandist for the IT (and cultural) bubble, because I can't really fool myself into thinking that said period was inherently great. It just happened, and it was interesting, but because the notion of having a real memory is dying off among people, nobody will really remember a thing unless it stays cached in Google.

I feel so old when I think about this sort of thing, but when I realize that I simply have (what I consider to be) a better grasp on the fickle flow of history, especially when it's as mediated as it is, than anyone who takes all this for granted. There was a point in life that lacked IM and Yahoo, though in all honesty I'm rapidly forgetting it myself. I guess I'm just not appreciative of those who have no understanding of history and its place in culture, pop or otherwise.

With the help of my girlfriend and my brother, I've reached the conclusion that the legendary being we refer to as the yeti is not actually a reclusive creature indiginous to the Himalayas and other far-flung cold regions, but an inhabitant of the hollow Earth wearing a sort of climate-controlled environmental suit. Naturally, the hollow Earth is much warmer than the surface, so when any hollow Earth native decides to come out for a ramble, he/she/it needs some protection. The reason that the yeti, as it were, is only seen in certain parts of the world is simple: those places are the terminals of the hollow Earther tunnel network. There are only a few exits to the surface, but there are presumably hundreds, if not thousands, of passages below the surface.

So there you have it.

If anyone thinks Blue Oyster Cult is anything less than sublime, they can kiss my ass.

An excellent weekend is over, tarnished only by having not seen Freddy vs. Jason. Iron Maiden, Dio, and Motorhead put on an amazing show, and since I'm busy trying to work on my novel, I'll leave it at that. My free copies of Axis Mundi Sum came in a few minutes ago, and it looks like all the typesetting problems and whatnot have been fixed. Now all I need to do is give them out, but since half the people I was gonna give them to have refused, saying they want to buy copies, I don't really know who's getting a free book.

Screw this, I'm gonna go write.

The Corpse Speaks: FAIR AND BALANCED

While I'm really not into "(insert witty slogan/cause here) Day" stuff, I figured I would at least add my two cents today. I'm sure folks have heard of Fox News suing Al Franken over the use of the phrase "Fair and Balanced" for his new book, which is fuckin' absurd, so folks on the net have proclaimed today- which is Napoleon's birthday- Fair and Balanced Day. Since Fox News is making a ridiculous claim by a) saying they're fair and balanced and b) suing people for using the phrase, I figured I'd make my pitiful stand along with other netizens (a term you almost never hear anymore, thankfully) by also claiming that this running testament of mine is "fair and balanced." If Fox News wants to sue me, so be it; it's not like I have any money for them to take from me.

Viva half-empty rebellion!

Today:

-My birthday. I turn 24.
-The day my book is published. Buy it now at http://www.invispress.com and earn my gratitude!
-VJ Day, 58 years later.
-Chock full of blackouts back east. Glad I ain't there.

Here in Houston, life is pretty damn good, aside from being at work, which hasn't actually been too bad. Will bought me a burrito for dinner, and tonight I drink for free. Tomorrow I don't work and get to see Freddy vs. Jason, and Saturday... I'm sure you all know already.

Now that I'm a fully published writer, I don't know what the hell to think. So I won't, at least until I get out of here.

I just watched the travesty known as Jason X with Andy, comic book artist and neighbor Nick Derington, and my brother, and I have to say it's got two of the funniest scenes I've ever seen in a movie, (so-called) horror or otherwise. If you've seen it, you probably known what I mean; if not, see it, for the head of security death scene and the Crystal Lake flashback. Comedy GOLD!

Speaking of that miserable masked goon, I'm going to see him duke it out with Freddy Krueger (who is standing on my shelf watching me as I type) on Friday. If Freddy loses, there's gonna be hell to pay.

Working here reminds me of hunting rats with a sharp stick. They're always lurking around, hiding in email boxes and the cubicle next to mine, waiting for me to impale them. There are tons of them: dozens of these horrible rats-that-are-called-customers invade my shitty space constantly, leaping down phone lines and shuttling themselves from one creaking database to the next. It's up to me and everyone else to stab the fuck out of these rats as often as possible, because if we don't, the rats just get bigger and meaner, until you don't stand a chance. To top it off, these rats are all masochists: they willingly put themselves in front of your sharpened pole, hoping you'll jab 'em in the throat and make all their problems go away.

Suicidal rats, gnawing at my eyes and fingertips and delicate brain tissue. All for seven dollars and fifty cents an hour.

My birthday on Thursday will be spent in the company of rats until I can flee to Catbirds.

Having survived my first week in cubicle purgatory, taking phone calls and responding to emails from all manners of cretins, I am now enjoying my first day off. My ashtray is empty, a fresh beer is standing at attention to my left, and I'm ready to write like a madman. My only complaints are that I have to go back to work on Monday, and my computer is now unable to produce sound, so I can't listen to Blue Cheer as I write.

Another fine note: I've got my ticket to see Iron Maiden next Saturday. I need not say more, except that apparently Motorhead is playing "Shoot You In the Back" live these days- one of my favorite tunes.

It looks like Axis Mundi Sum should be available in a matter of days. I've got a notification list ready, and since I somehow have a little change in my pocket, I think I'll even be able to order a dozen copies to send to reviewers and such.

Ahh.

Man, I love Galaga. And free beer. And the free chair I found on the walk home. Actually, the chair kinda sucks, and Tim Finnegan can climb it far too easily, but it was a nice addition to a night of drinking.

Working in an environment filled with computers, recycled air, fluorescent lights, and other trappings of white-collar corporate hell is a recipe for bloody, bloody murder.

Well, I survived my first day at RackShack. It could've been much worse, but of course it could've been better. Coming home, lighting a cigarette, and opening a beer made me think, though: how likely is it that I would enjoy the life of idleness I always promote? Do I need to work, at least occasionally, in order to create enough background conflict to make my life interesting? I find these thoughts repulsive, though I honestly don't know if I'm repulsed that I'm thinking about work or that I may have to acknowledge the value of having a shit job that makes me appreciate my time off. I hope it's the former and not the latter, but if it is the latter, so be it. I don't want to delude myself for the sake of an ideal, unless the ideal in question is delusion.

I do know for a fact that I don't like working. Having spent the last month and a half gloriously idling, I've found that being able to do what I want, when I want, without being on a set schedule is the way to go. I'm pretty sure I'll never get over my allergy to work, especially as I grow old and, hopefully, become a better writer that's more dedicated to his art than he currently is. Maybe recognizing a day job's potential to offset pure relaxation is a step to more fully savoring the true virtues of not having to work at all. Maybe I'm just talking out my ass.

Yeah, I'm definitely talking out my ass. I will go out with this, however: I'll take a beer, a bowl, a book, a record, and a work in progress over a day job any day. You can put that on my headstone.

Ugh. I got a job, and I start today. I don't feel like wasting what little free time I have by bitching, so that's that.

In fact, I don't want to write anything. I just want a cigarette.