I was trying to write a witty joke comparing Scientology with an implausible amalgamation of the Stalin-era Soviet Union, Nazi Germany, New Age hucksters, and anything else that sounded good, but I'll be damned if the joke doesn't write itself.

Go read Andy's newest, and incredibly good, work in progress.

Christmas has come and gone, and it was good. Not ideal, since my folks aren't in the country and I have to go back to work tomorrow, but there's no point in complaining. I enjoyed the company of good people, including some I haven't seen in a while, received some excellent gifts, and gave some gifts of my own, which I think people liked. Thanks to everyone who made Christmas what it was.

While life is good, I've had a very uneasy feeling all night. I'm sure it'll pass, but man, I wish it would hurry up about it. I'd also like to pinpoint what's causing it, but that's not likely, so I think I'll just read.

2L45 AM on Christmas Day.

I wish all of you, and the world beyond, an exceptional Christmas. Enjoy your time while you can, fellow wageslavesl

While barely resembling any of the Christmases of my past, I think this year's celebration is off to a good start. You can't beat getting off of work two hours early, coming home, drinking beer, enjoying some burl sense, hanging out with friends, getting good emails, waxing emotional over music, daydreaming, watching the X-Files, eating homemade meatloaf and macaroni and cheese, and falling asleep on the couch.

N.B. I'm only falling asleep on the couch- and not getting up at eight or nine in the morning, because I often fall asleep on the couch and have to move myself into my room- because I can't afford to miss the UPS delivery tomorrow. There are some Christmas gifts in there for some pretty worthwhile folks, and like any sane person, I don't want to drive thirty minutes out of my way to pick them up next week.

Take it easy, folks, and should you not hear from me in person, or read this anytime soon, Merry Christmas and happy holidays. Revel in the company of your loved ones, friends, and family.

-Dave

Feel like writing or receiving an honest-to-God, pen-and-paper letter? Then give me your address, and I'll give you mine, with the condition that we at least send out the occasional postcard with more than a dozen words scrawled upon it. I miss written correspondence, especially of the lengthy variety.

(Thanks to H.P. Lovecraft and company for renewing my long-quiet interest in letters.)

I've got four separate packages heading my way, all of which have been shipped and none of which have arrived. Given that only one of these packages contains anything for myself, I am especially annoyed that none of them are here yet. The time of year probably has something to do with the tardiness of my mail, but should Friday arrive and I am still empty-handed, I am going to be very angry at the USPS and UPS.

Let's hope that people decide to lay off advertising in the Greensheet this week, at least a little bit. I don't feel like devoting much of my time and energy to work, which, of course, should come as no surprise, but people should also sit back and enjoy what passes for a Christmas holiday among non-students.

Bare-Faced Messiah, the less than glowing biography of L. Ron Hubbard, just gets more and more interesting- and incredible. The things that people will (or will not) do for a charismatic fellow man are astonishing, sometimes revoltingly so.

Some statements:

Sometimes my nocturnal schedule is perfect, in that I am usually guaranteed time alone after everyone else retires for the night.

The girl who works at Nan's is cute as hell and I want to ask her out.

My friends are top-notch.

The Animatrix puts forth all the good ideas that the Matrix films failed to capitalize on or ignored entirely.

Ulver is perfect night music.

Somehow, without the knowledge of a future Pete, I managed to obtain this brief interview with myself at the age of 75. Actually, Pete might know about it, but since he's busy living his mid-21st century life, he probably just didn't get around to letting us in the present in on the discovery.

The interviewer isn't mentioned by name, so I've designated him "I" for simplicity's sake. Here goes.

--

I: So, Dave, how's life?

Dave: Man, I'm tired. Being old is an ass-kicker, and I reckon I've still got another seventy-five years or so before I call it a day. Damn.

I: Seventy-five? I know life extension's come a long way, but that's still pretty impressive. Do you foresee the current generation living to 200 or longer?

Dave: This has nothing to do with life extension, and I stopped paying attention to what's going on with younger folks after some little shit sent me a bomb back in '36. He apparently wasn't too happy that I wasn't writing very much, so he sent me a Hickory Farms Christmas box filled with black powder, nails, and broken glass.

I: You're kidding. How did you survive that?

Dave: Because the kid forgot to put a fuse in with the explosives.

I: Wow. I guess having your life threatened by your audience might potentially make you turn your back on them.

Dave: No, it was the kid's stupidity. I'm ashamed that this kid, who enclosed a note saying how much he liked my first novel, forgot something as basic as the fucking fuse. Even when I was young- in my twenties, say- I didn't hold out a lot of hope for folks younger than myself. After that shitty bomb, I just gave up on them completely, just like I gave up on politics, coffee shops, and every post-mp3/DVD audio format.

I: So what are you doing these days? Still writing?

Dave: Still dabbling is more like it. I still read a lot. Drink beer. Cruise around in the Judge or the six-five. I collect turntables too.

I: Turntables?

Dave: Come on, you know what a turntable is. I don't collect them for any reason other than to cannibalize them for parts, though. The only things I collect, so to speak, are spent shell casings, empty beer cans, and the occasional royalty check from my writing.

I: Wait, shell casings? I know you still drink beer-

Dave: Yeah, those liver filters are the best things that ever happened to me. Well, and the cancer pseudo-vaccine.

I: But what about the shell casings? Do you own a gun?

Dave: I'm not answering that, for obvious legal reasons. But yeah, I've got about 100,000 spent shell casings. 7.62x39. I'm hoping to find someone who will eventually fuse them all together to build my coffin, and maybe my headstone as well. Want a beer?

I: No thanks.

Dave: Your loss, dude.

I: I'm curious as to your opinion of-

Dave: Come on, dude, I'm not that interested in offering my opinion to strangers. You should know that, if you've followed my life and career at all.

I: All right. That sounds kind of cynical, though.

Dave: Maybe it is. Or maybe you could just call me Johannes de Silentio. Or just more interested in takin' it easy and sitting on the porch.

I: So you're still an advocate of idleness?

Dave: Did you expect me to have an epiphany and start busting my ass?

I: No, but you have a family, and-

Dave: Christ on a crutch, who the hell chose you to do this interview? Of course I've got a family, but I'm seventy-fucking-five years old, and the kids have been taking care of themselves for years. Ask me a decent question, please.

I: Sorry. Okay. Are you happy?

Dave: I reckon I am. I don't have to do much except kick back, drink beer, read, and think a lot, so I've pretty much achieved my life's goals.

I: Those don't seem like very... complex goals.

Dave: I dare you to quit your job and fuck off for the rest of your life. I bet you couldn't handle it. I've got a question for you, son.

I: Um, okay.

Dave: Why is asking old fucks like me questions any more complex or fulfilling than trying to answer questions about your own life? Don't get me wrong, I like a good interview or novel or essay as much as the next guy, if not more, but really, wouldn't you rather take some time and engage in a little introspection?

I: Well, yes, but-

Dave: But you're too busy trying to build a career and leave a legacy. Fuck it, dude. I don't feel like giving a lecture right now.

I: Okay.

Dave: You ever seen a GTO?

I: What's that?

Dave: I knew that's what you'd say. You into cars?

I: Uh, not really.

Dave: Me neither, but the 1970 GTO Judge is the finest car ever made. Before you ask, yes, it runs on gasoline, not hydrogen.

I: I thought they outlawed those.

Dave: Maybe where you're from, but not in Texas. They've still got the old twentieth-century oil economy mindset. Anyway, fuck this interview. You wanna go cruise?

I: Sure. Can I bring the recorder along?

Dave: Why not? Let me get my cigarettes and a CD. Yes, I still have a CD player. I'm seventy-fuckin'-five, and I'm not gonna shell out for anything newer, especially since nobody could install a new system in the Judge without fuckin' it up. Come on, dude, let's hit it.

--

Looks like being old will kick ass.

Having a few drinks, swallowing half a bar, and going to some sort of half-assed fetish show at what used to be a gay club makes for an interesting nights. There's plenty of eye candy, which is good because the Xanax turned me in a slow-moving automaton. Not that this was a bad thing at all. I was quite detached from my surroundings, and everyone except whatever half- or mostly-naked women were on stage at the time seemed like a blank shell of a human being, a cardboard cut-out with a drink in their hand. Quite an interesting experience, and the first I've had with the aforementioned pill that didn't just make me want to fall asleep within a couple hours.

In other news, the new Unleashed album is fuckin' great.

Strolling down West Alabama at 7 AM to buy beer is a peaceful experience. There's not much traffic. The air is clear. Slightly sullen kids and paint-spattered old men ride by on bicycles. The seemingly condemned apartment complex at 1707 appears even more desolate and compelling. And, if you're walking down the right side of the street, you may even encounter the mutilated remains of what appears to be a manicotti or ravioli, a bludgeoned orangey mess smeared a good foot and a half across the pavement.

I've been pondering my fate as a writer lately. Given that I've gone almost a year without producing any new work of substance, and have put very little effort into promoting my existing work, I can't help but ask myself a few questions, namely:

-Is there anything that I'm really compelled to write about?

-Is my love of idleness (and drink, to be honest) eroding my authorial motivation entirely?

-Why, really, do I even write?

As pessimistic as these questions may sound, expressions as they are of the continual doubt at the core of my being, I do have some tentative answers.

-Yes, kind of;

-no, not entirely, as a considerable break from self-inflicted pressure to write may actually be helping me;

-Because it is my sole means of expression, and despite all failed attempts at writing, I feel the need to (at the very least) console myself with the notion that I have something to say through the written word, even if it is never read by others.

Really, though, I don't actually worry about this matter very much. I suppose it's come to mind recently due to the rather ex post facto realization that my authorial brain is on vacation and hasn't bothered to purchase a return ticket yet.

It looks like the sun has managed to crawl out of bed, take a piss, light a cigarette, and settle in for a day's worth of emitting radiation, so I'm going to go join it.

Remember to purchase Axis Mundi Sum for your friends, enemies, loved ones, and strangers this Christmas, and take it easy.

H.P. Lovecraft makes the finest bedtime reading I've ever come across.

Ah, if only I could enjoy crawling into a warm bed with a good book and leaden lids every night for the rest of my life.

Hot-cha.

The Corpse is now exercising his Second Amendment right, thanks to the Romanian AK-47 purchased for him by his brother. Snitches, counterrevolutionaries, and shitheads beware.

Slayer kicked tons of ass tonight. Unfortunately, the show started earlier than I'd expected, and I didn't get the chance to see Mastodon, who I really wanted to see live. Slayer's "wall of blood" effect wasn't used, either, which kinda sucked, but hardly ruined the show.

Andy sent me a link to an out-of-print book about L. Ron Hubbard, Bare-Faced Messiah, that's been released online. It promises to be quite interesting, and worth the inevitable eye strain. Speaking of reading, I really need to do more. I'm working on a couple books, but without much dedication. Just another sign of my recent, and not entirely unpleasant, mental torpor.