I hate moving. The physical act thereof, that is; I don't mind finding myself somewhere new, as I will in a few days, but I loathe displacing the objects currently surrounding me, shipping them elsewhere, and rearranging them. The fact that it's for a good reason- i.e. my distaste for my surroundings right now, as well as being able to live with my girlfriend again- doesn't help much, either, though I'm honestly excited about uprooting and heading elsewhere, even if said elsewhere is ten minutes north of here.

I'll be spending the next couple nights packing, and once I move into my place in the Heights, I might not have internet access for a while. If you need to reach me, email will still be reasonable, so you can get my new phone number via said medium.

I want a week wherein I can sleep as much as I want.

Good night.

Christmas Eve. I get off work at noon today, and since I've got a little cash in my pocket, I can go buy some last-minute presents for folks. I don't really have anything to report, so I'll just wish everyone a merry Christmas, even if they're not celebrating the holiday. I'm too lazy to cover all the religious holiday bases.
Enjoy your presents, your family and friends, and your boozed-up eggnog, and I'll catch you later.

My book is selling so badly it's ridiculous. I read recently that Herman Melville's earlier work (and, I believe his later books, but I haven't gotten that far into the biography yet) sold pretty poorly too, so I'm not entirely disheartened. Nothing like commiserating with a dead man who had to work a shitty job most of his life because nobody bought his books.

Buy my book, folks! Inflate my ego and bring me a few cents closer to finally getting a royalty check. It'll be fun, really.

While General Protection Fault is an incredibly enjoyable comic, it doesn't do justice to the struggle of workers everywhere. Yeah, while I promote non-work, everyone should understand that "work" means "alienated labor": bullshit, non-self-fulfilling (i.e. not fulfilling on a level you'd enjoy off the clock), labor, such as most wage slavery.

That aside, I'll continue to enjoy GPF for its narrative and character value, and urge all my fellow workers to quit adhering to the strangulatory system they continue to work under, and to organize in classic working-man/woman fashion.

For further inspiration, click here.

For some reason, this piece of shit has italicized all of my recent posts.

IT SHOULD BE A REAL WORD/DOESN'T GO

escritorial, adj. Pertaining to writing. This is quite the escritorial problem.

Nova, Chevy, 1978, n. Car I hope to purchase in the near future. Possesses 350 engine, minor rust spots, and considerable potential to HAUL SOME SERIOUS ASS. "This '78 Nova will burn your ass, dude!"

I, HYPOCRITE

I was going to bitch about how over-hyped "blogs" are (I still recoil at the taste of that word in my mouth), but then I realized that I'm writing one. Ha ha ha.

Funny how a couple measly years can change terminology so rapidly, and how internet-obsessives can turn a sea of yammering bullshit into a supposedly democratic institution. Fact is, the vast majority of "blogs," mine included, are pap, whether or not the "blogger" in question owns a cell phone-cum-camera or a shitty Pentium II. (I was going to say 386, but I'm not aiming for retro cred.)

And now, for a slightly less hypocritical finale...

"How unreasonable people are! They never use the freedoms they have but demand those they do not have; they have freedom of thought- they demand freedom of speech." -Kierkegaard

SUCH SWEET SORROW

I miss smoking cigarettes. When I got in my car wreck and collapsed a lung, I was trying to quit, and since then, I haven't inhaled a cigarette. (Purposely, at least; on at least three occasions, old habits blindsided me and I found myself sucking in a lungful, against the doctor's orders.) I've smoked a few, if you take "smoked" to mean "puffed on." In that respect, cigarettes are utterly inferior to pipes, which I still smoke, and in fact have smoked more of since my accident than I ever did. However, for sheer ease of carriage, lighting, and use as a prop, no form of tobacco can beat the cigarette.

Cigarettes, despite all their negative aspects and the fact that I can't smoke them anymore, are still one of my favorite things. I mourn not being able to whip out the ol' Zippo and fire up a Chesterfield, Lucky Strike, Pall Mall, or Kamel Red. I miss the days when I couldn't get enough smoking in, the days I would tear through a pack and go to bed feeling good about it. I miss addiction, both to nicotine and the very act of smoking. I wax nostalgic about sitting on my back porch, knocking back Lone Stars and sucking down Pall Malls. Hot DAMN, I WANT TO SMOKE AGAIN!

But I haven't. Yeah, smoking a pipe counts as smoking on some level, but fuck, it ain't really the same. I want to smoke cigarettes again- by the goddamn CARTON- but the thought of having another collapsed lung is too scary, as is thinking ahead 40-50 years, when, if I started smoking cigarettes again, I might start suffering from lung cancer or emphysema. (Part of me recalls that cancer doesn't seem to run in my family at all; sometimes this is heartening, and sometimes it smacks of mental sabotage.) Of course, smoking a pipe could ostensibly give me cancer as well, but I have much less fear of that happening.

Whenever I think about cigarettes, which isn't as often as this missive would have you think, I wonder if I'll eventually override my fears and start smoking again in a year or so. I'd like to say either "hell yeah, I'm gonna smoke again," or "nah, I'll pass," but I honestly don't know. I just don't fuckin' know.

Maybe it's time for another bowl of the thinking man's smoke, University Flake. Or not.

HASTE (ALTERATION)

I got an email a couple days ago from some dude who'd apparently read my book. He didn't seem to like it, which is fine; I suspect anyone that's not part of my family or a friend will care for it. Turns out, though, that he'd only read the excerpt on www.axismundisum.com, which he found via RPG.net.

This came as a surprise. I pitched an idea for a column to RPG.net not long before my accident, and only recently have I managed to cough up any follow-up material, which I still haven't sent them. That aside, they've already started running the column, which is about the writing and attempted publishing of my soon-to-finished second novel, entitled Critical Hits. I think it'll be published monthly. (I hope so; I don't want to spit out words more often than that.)

This column is the blip on the radar I previously mentioned. Nothing special, really, but it's nice to have a little something regularly stewing in the writing kettle. The URL is below, so check it out and let me know what y'all think.

http://www.rpg.net/news+reviews/columns/crithits04dec03.html

np: Katatonia, Viva Emptiness

FINALLY

I feel like I've accomplished something for the first time in months. Nothing particularly amazing, but better than nothing, and I'm forced to actually follow it up within the next couple of days. Whenever the results appear on the world's radar, I'll point out which blip is mine. I'm sure you'll all be thrilled shitless.

np: Hypocrisy, "Fractured Millenium"
Peter Tagtgren's vocals are some of my favorite in metal, and the keys on this song are somethin' else.

HEAR THAT? IT'S THE GRINDSTONE


I went back to work for the first time in almost a month today. It went smoothly, despite my new shift. Getting home just after five o'clock was disconcerting, after a month of not working and having previously worked the night shift. I watched the Simpsons, read a bit, ate, and then watched the bonus material for JFK. Speaking of that ever-mysterious dead president, the recent anniversary of his passing has crowded the information-inhaling orifices of the world with all sorts of commentary about the assassination. Much of it, from what I've gathered, is triumphalist we've-proven-the-Oswald-as-single-shooter-theory-so-fuck-everyone-that-thinks-otherwise stuff. I have reached no conclusions regarding said presidential murder, so I honestly can't say what happened; however, a little knowledge of American intelligence operations, the unceasing smugness of major media outlets, and the attitudes of politicians makes me think that if- that's IF- Oswald was the only shooter, he was probably still a patsy. Of course, it could be my cynicism talking. After all, as one writer noted, so many Americans are reluctant to think that a lone nut could have offed a President, and God knows that I, trusting soul that I am when it comes to power structures, am one of them. Ha.

One of the good things that came out of my car accident was getting to spend so much time with Sara. Now, whenever she's not around, I miss her an awful lot. I'm excited by the prospect of living with her again in a month, back in the Heights.

It's not even half past ten, and it feels late. I think I'll finish this glass of scotch and this pipe, read some more, and hit the sack. I might as well be an old man, an idea which has amused me for many years, and will continue to do so until I actually am an old man.

I'd say that life's punched me in the face again today, but it would be more accurate to say that it's simply sighed and walked off, leaving me hanging.

I swear, the last few months have been terrible. Today I found out that I won't be able to recoup any of my losses from my car wreck, and that the next time I get car insurance (which will be ages, I'm sure, since there's no way I'll be getting a car anytime soon) it'll be twice as much per month as it was before the wreck. Because I refused to lie about my accident, and flatly state that the other guy was at fault, my insurance company decided that I was culpable, and therefore would give me no support in filing a claim against the guy who hit me.

To make things worse, I have to go back to work soon, but I have no idea what my schedule will be. I'm not in the shape to adhere to my old one, since it'll require walking to work, and I can't do that yet.

I don't even want to think about any of this. I wish this year was over, and that Sara and I were living somewhere new, going to school and worrying about grades instead of Mammon.

MAN THIS STUFF REALLY MAKES ME FEEL SO GOOD

By "stuff" I mean Canadian Club whisky (I hate that spelling for some reason, but Canucks and Scots use it, and they make great whiskey, and let's face it, water of life is water of life), Thames-imported Welsh ESB, and Old Speckled Hen ale. On top of that, I mean my buddy Bill's mom, who's always treated me with utmost respect, and Brant Bjork, who, despite the fact it ain't summer, is top fucking notch.

If I didn't know better, I'd think I hadn't ruined part of my thorax in a car accident. But I do, so I'll just daydream about next summer, when I will BUST MY ASS to get "All Right" filmed. Really, Andy, I'm gonna do it. I can't wait until late March, when the weather's cool, the beer starts flowing, and... well, I won't say anything until I'm out of the car-wreck-attorney imbroglio.

I'D TITLE THIS ENTRY AFTER A MURDER CITY DEVILS ALBUM, BUT IT AIN'T APPLICABLE


Christ, the last fortnight or so has been rough.

October 29: Got in a car wreck, broke a rib, collapsed a lung, and spent the next three days in the hospital with a tube in my chest. My car is fucked.

November 1-present: Recuperation. I stayed with Sara at her folks' place for a week, doing very, very little. Since I came back to my own apartment, I haven't done much either. The doctor said I could go back to work no earlier than the 24th, and until then, I'm supposed to do nothing. I'm all for leisure, but having to spend most of the day sitting gets old. On top of that, my mobility is severely limited, my left arm isn't up to snuff (which is exceptionally shitty, since I'm left-handed), and doing simple things like tying my shoes or washing my hair are difficult and painful. To top it all off, I can't smoke. Yeah, I was trying to quit when the wreck happened, but I'd really like a cigarette now and then. Thankfully I can still drink, so drink I do. Alcohol is preferable to the codeine I was prescribed in many ways.

Today's the first day I haven't spent with Sara. Since the wreck happened, she's taken care of me non-stop, and I can't thank her enough. I'm at a point where I can get by without any help, but I'd rather have her company.

The worst thing about the car wreck isn't the physical damage I've sustained, but rather the financial and bureaucratic nightmare that's resulted. Not once, even when the doctor told me my lung had collapsed, did I think I was going to die; instead, I found myself thinking about the fact that my health insurance hadn't kicked in yet, and that I'd have to put up with all manners of bullshit from the hospital (who, to be fair, have given me a chance to pretty much waive my bills), the insurance company, lawyers, and so forth. I disgust myself by worrying more about fucking MONEY and RED TAPE than my own corporeal and spiritual status. Thankfully, though, the further back in time the accident moves, the less I care about anything related to it. The only thing that bothers me now is going in for my follow-up with the doctor, and going back to work.

There have been some good things to come out of the wreck. I've been able to do a lot of reading, buy some cheap BOC albums, hang out with my friends, and spend time with Sara. I've pretty much stopped smoking, too; I say "pretty much" because I know I'm going to have a cigarette once I'm told my lung is back in shape.

I guess I could say more, but I'm tired, and don't want to write anymore. I think it's back to my recliner, where I'll read more of Neal Stephenson's new novel and fall asleep.

LLEDR A GWLAD

I don't recall when it was, but I once saw a news program that berated Mexican-Americans for supporting the Mexican football team when they played the US. The argument was that since the Mexican supporters had ostensibly become American citizens, they were somehow obligated to root for the US. I found it to be a ridiculous argument. If, for example, I was to suddenly move to Boston, would I have to cheer for the Red Sox? (Never mind the fact I hate baseball- this isn't about that.) Would I be considered some kind of traitor if the Red Sox played the Houston Astros, and I was all for the Astros winning? Anyone who would say yes is a fool, end of story.

However, it seems perfectly acceptable to go for the team that knocked yours out of the running. To continue with the above example, if the Red Sox beat the Astros, I would be expected to root for whomever played the Red Sox afterwards. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," I suppose.

I mention this because I'm supporting Wales, and not the United States, in the Rugby World Cup. If- and this is a very big if, because it's pretty much impossible- Wales and the US faced off in the championship, I'd be happy with the outcome, no matter who won. However, having seen the US rugby team in action, and observing their current standings in the World Cup (beaten by Fiji, for God's sake!), and, frankly, having more affinity for Welsh rugby than American, I'm going for Wales. Therefore, I'm apparently unpatriotic- unless Wales plays Fiji and wins, in which case it's fine to support the Dragons. The logic of sports and nationalism makes no sense to me.

Well, Cymru is my team, and that's that. Rygbi Cymraeg- buddugol i 2003!

(To any Welshmen reading my Welsh- forgive my probably poor grammar.)

MACROSOLUTIONS TO MEGAPROBLEMS

(I've decided to start giving a title to all my entries here, as I did in the old days, except this time they'll be a little more pertinent.)

I'm making the first steps toward getting myself out of the rut that is post-graduation working life. Lately I've been thinking about going back to school to get a Master's degree in library science, and most people think it's a good idea. I've got a buddy up at UNT who's getting his, and my folks are, expectedly, very supportive of the idea. Not only do I love libraries, but it's a field with plenty of opportunities, and I think I'd actually enjoy the work. Another benefit would be the ability to escape academia, which an MA in history or English wouldn't really give me.

So now I'm waiting to get my application materials from UNT, which is my only option if I stay in Texas to get the degree. It'll suck being in Denton, but I've got friends in the area, and I can get my degree pretty quickly. This is the first really good opportunity I've had in a while, and I think it'll work out nicely.

On other fronts, I got to fire an AK-47 this weekend, and while I'm no expert in small arms, I was thoroughly impressed by the weapon's simplicity and ease of use. Too bad I didn't bring any damned ear protection; even now, not quite 72 hours later, my hearing's not up to snuff.

Here's to my parents, my girlfriend, my brother, Voivod, pipe tobacco, Erik Davis, Matt and Holly, the Quintessential Hipster, and R.A. Salvatore: everyone and everything that's helped me through a pretty rough week.

Damn, nobody in this town has Brant Bjork's new album. At this rate, I'll have it (and anything else he releases) in my hands by next spring. At least then the weather will be more fitting to listen to his music.

Brian Wood, comic book creator extraordinaire, said in some update or another that while working on his new graphic novel, Dirtbike Manifesto, he was on a steady diet of Bud talls and gunpowder. I really like the way that sounds, though personally I'd swap the Bud for a Lone Star. I also don't know if gunpowder is edible, but that's not the point.

I'm bored, but I can't think of anything I want to do at all. Maybe I'll try writing. Actually I'd rather be kicking around a football, er, soccer ball, in Meyer Park up in Spring, but seeing as how the only football I have is deflated and there's nobody to invite along, and I have less than two hours before work, it ain't gonna happen.

You know what I miss? The Psycomic website, c. 1999. I remember when it was on its way out, and Gabe Soria wrote one last editorial about comics and the revolution. It got yanked mighty quick, if I recall correctly, and I wish I had a copy of the text. Those were the days I got back into comics, and these are the days I've fallen out of them. Funny how shit goes, man.

Fuckin' A, I lead a strange life. Seems like most folks I know have some sort of linear progression to their interests (not entirely true, but it's an admitted generalization), but I don't. On one hand, I think I suffer from occasional nostalgia- first case I can recall was during the final year of my initial stint in Texas, when I looked back at the first year or so of that same timespan- and I suspect I'm a romantic, too. I'm also intellectually impulsive. If I could casually deposit myself in any number of times and places at will, I'd be set.

But here I am, sitting in an apartment I don't really like, drinking beer and trying to figure myself out. There couldn't be anywhere or anytime else to be.

Well, payday's come and gone, and I have no Brant Bjork album. Big surprise. I tend to make grandiose statements and sabotage them later. Then again, I don't have it yet only because Sound Exchange hasn't gotten a copy yet. I'd rather buy it from them than anyone else, so I can wait.

Next time I get an offer from a publisher- and yes, there will be a next time- I'm going to make sure that I won't be doing any fucking self-promotion, save for maybe book readings. Trying to sell my book is a pain in the ass, especially since I've been on a roll with the new one and don't want to waste time contacting people who don't give a fuck, trying to talk them into buying, or at least reading, Axis Mundi Sum. I just want to work on Critical Hits. I don't want to push AMS, and I'm tempted to just say "fuck it, let it sell itself," and get on with other things.

Yeah, I just want to hole up with a carton of cigarettes, a couple cases of beer, and write for a week or two. That's all. Fuck work, fuck promoting AMS, fuck the internet... fuck it all. Very eloquent, I know, but... fuck it.

I hope Jodie gives me free beer tonight.

Brant Bjork. Keep Your Cool. Today, October 7, 2003.

I get paid in approximately 11 hours. Once that direct deposit goes through, my ass is going to the record store and getting this album. From the two songs I've heard, it won't be the same kind of experience that his self-titled album with the Operators was, but that's cool. My only complaint is that it wasn't released during the summer; Mr. Bjork is definitely a summertime musician, bringin' out all the good vibes that come with sunshine and drinkin' beer on the porch. When I finally get around to making my movie, "All Right," with Andy Link, Brant Bjork's music will be a highlight. How could you go wrong with a movie about the laid-back life that has songs like "Cheap Wine" and "Hinda65" in it? You can't, motherfuckers. You simply can't.

Sometimes my disappointment with the Internet as a source of amusement is proven wrong. While reading General Protection Fault, I came across a link to Men In Hats, another tribute to simplicity in art and misanthropy, that made me laugh. Unlike GPF, it's got barely over a year's worth of archives, so I'll have the whole series read by tomorrow night, and then it's back to wishing the Internet had something to offer.

"Here's a knife. Put it in your stomach."

Comedy gold!

I did an interview via email with a guy from my old college newspaper. I was much more professional in writing than I was at my book reading. Go figure. I wonder what it'll be like to do interviews once my writing actually gets somewhere and I'm not merely being asked questions because of my previous college affiliation.

Speaking of writing, the MacArthur Grant recipients for this year have been announced. Guess who's not one of them... yet. $500,000 with no strings attached, here I come!

Sleep well, world, and if you run into Nasht and Kaman-Thah, tell 'em I'll be seeing them shortly.

Well, I did my first book reading last night. I think it went well enough, though on the way home last night I couldn't help but think I should've been more professional than I was. Dr. Donahoo noted that I was too hard on myself, which is accurate; the result of being so is a lot, possibly an excess, of self-deprecating humor, which a lot of people might take the wrong way. I don't know why I do it, but I know I do need to lay off. My writing's not as bad as I make it sound.

Funny how one night can stir up so many ideas.

For the first time since I can remember, I forgot to save the work on my novel this afternoon. I got to work, downloaded it from my email account, and found myself wondering "where the hell is that paragraph?" No answers were forthcoming, so I spent most of the day listening to Voivod's Dimension Hatross and Iron Maiden's newest offering, and told myself I'd write after work.

I got home. No paragraph. I've spent an inordinate amount of time trying to rewrite it as I remembered it, but the finished product (and that one paragraph is all I've done) seems to be lacking. C'est la vie.

Thanks to Jay, I've found the joys of General Protection Fault, a great piece of geeky comics. I've read two years' worth of strips in two days, and I have two more to go. Good stuff.

In seventeen hours and twenty-four minutes, I'll be taking the podium to talk about Axis Mundi Sum to a partially appreciative audience in Huntsville. Here goes nothin'.

Poor Tim Owens. First he became the scapegoat for the poor writing of Downing and Tipton in the post-Halford era of Judas Priest, and now he's stepped into Matthew Barlow's boots in Iced Earth. Owens is a good singer, but it seems he ends up in bands where too much is expected of him. That aside, the snippets of Iced Earth's new album sound good; definitely more interesting than "Horrorshow," that's for sure.

In other metal news, Dave Grohl's Probot project should be out soon. I heard some of it, and it sounds all right. Any album with Lee Dorrian, Cronos, Lemmy, Wino, and Snake, among others, is bound to have some redeeming value. Beats the fuck out of anything else Grohl's done in a long time, that's a fact.

I've picked out a couple choice bits from Axis Mundi Sum for the book reading I'm doing tomorrow night at Sam Houston. I have no idea how the whole thing will go over with folks I don't know, but at least there will be a good number of my buddies in attendance. I'm also pretty much guaranteed to sell most, if not all, of the handful of copies I've got, so I can offset the cost of getting Fireball running.

I'd like to hunt down certain customers at work, as well as the upper management, and reduce their kneecaps and elbows to jelly with a ball-peen hammer. That would teach them the lessons they so richly deserve, as well as give me immense satisfaction. Of course, I'm not really a violent man, but to deny that inflicting painful vengeance on one's antagonists is a fantasy everyone has would make the denier a fucking liar.

Despite my cash-strapped position, I picked up Ulver's newest EP, A Quick Fix of Melancholy, today. That it's Ulver justifies the purchase.

Now, since there is nothing work-related to demand my attention, I will write, as I've been doing fairly steadily for the past few weeks. Two pages a night adds up, and since I'm doing it on the clock, I feel as if my job isn't a total waste of time. Stealing company time to write also allows me to loaf comfortably at home without feeling as if I'm not doing what I should be doing, although I still feel that way often.

Tonight, I go out for drinks with Sara and assorted others.

Next time you see some chump chuggin' down the road in an unwashed, sun-bleached piece of shit Dodge Neon, know that you have beheld me, and weep.

Fireball got out of the shop today and is running as decently as it was back in June, when it died and was left to rot until I could afford a mechanical necromancer to bring it back from the grave. Mechanics don't come cheap, and since cheap is what I am, I've abstained from doing a damned thing about my car until now.

Sure is nice knowing I can get outta town whenever I want to now. Not that poor ol' Fireball could get me very far, but that's beside the point. Houston's getting old, and while I can't think of anywhere specific I'd rather be, I most definitely need a change of pace. Even back to the burbs would suffice, if only for a little while.

Two hours until I'm off the clock, which means two hours of writing and thinking of something to say when I give my first (and probably only) book reading in Huntsville next week.

I haven't read any of his books, but I have been reading everything on his website. He's Jim Goad, nominally famous in certain circles for harsh, accurate, and unforgiving writing about the wretchedness of humanity, as well as for woman-beating. He reminds me of a really vitriolic, unapologetic Joe Bob Briggs, or a more writerly Sean Miliff. Go read his shit; I guarantee you'll find more than a few things that will offend you, mainly because you won't want to admit that you secretly agree with Goad's take on things.

In the meantime, I'm going to chase this cup of cold coffee with a cigarette and get back to work on my current novel, which deals with people who are nothing like Jim Goad at all: nice, middle-class geeks with standard-issue suburban problems. In many ways, now that I think about it, there's something repellent about this work in progress.

It's an established fact about myself that I despise work, and believe it to be the root of all evil. However, I still find myself holding a job, ostensibly to support my continued existence on this planet. This essentially means I'm participating in the very thing I believe to be a considerable source of my own misery. I really need to find a way to live without a job. Ideally, writing would be that method, but thus far, writing's not providing me with sufficient financial or social clout to escape wage slavery. Another option would be to let someone else pay to keep me alive, but I don't know any people who fit that description, and I have a (possibly antiquated) distaste of being a leech. Of course, if I could drift from one person's couch to another, I wouldn't feel like a leech, just a perpetual-motion mendicant, or, to look at it in a better light, an itinerant purveyor of good company. (That sounds like a pleasant version of the old camp-follower prostitute.) Nevertheless, if I could find someone of good humor who'd be willing to put me up and put beer and grub in my belly, I can't say I'd feel too bad about it.

My evolving thoughts on work have definitely changed my outlook on politics, and society in general. To give credit where it's due, I have to thank Len Bracken and Bob Black for this; both of them are dedicated zeroworkers, so to speak, and I've learned a lot from reading their work. I've been drifting (insert Situationist zinger) away from what little ties I ever had to politics, and building up a body of ideas about work has hastened that drift into a casual stroll. It's been a long time since I had anything to do with the right, and my association with the left is weakening as well: your standard leftist, "progressive" (a vile term, indeed- ask Matthew Smith, no relation, what he thinks of it), or even anarchist stances don't really interest me much anymore, because too many of them place too much emphasis on the inherent "dignity" and/or value of work. While I'd still prefer to work a union job, if I had to work, the refusal of unions to acknowledge that work itself is one of the greatest obstacles to human joy is distasteful, and I can't think of any lefty who's in favor of, to quote Bob Black, "the abolition of work." God forbid that the revolution comes, the state is overthrown, and people stop showing up at their jobs. Simply put, not enough people recognize work as the demonic idea that it is, and that includes the left.

Eventually I'll write more on this subject, because it's becoming increasingly important to me and I want people to reevaluate their views on work. For now, I'm going to stop remembering that I'm part of the alienated labor pool, because it makes me feel like a hypocrite. Nevertheless, you can bet that I'm going to do my damnedest to get my ass sustainably unemployed (permanently, I hope) as soon as possible, and when I find a way to do it, I'll share it with everyone.

Here's to idleness.

The Man came around for Johnny Cash early this morning.

If the 1001 Nights (or the Arabian Nights, to a lot of folks) were in any way representative of the true nature of living in Islamic society and/or being a Muslim, I'd be on my way to Mecca right now.

To be fair, any good fiction has that effect on someone. "If (insert idea here) was as cool as it is in (insert title of book here), "I'd (insert activity/belief/whatever is a widely-recognized feature of an idea found in particular book here)." And that is precisely why literature is sublime.

Everyone knows what today is, but instead of bitterly railing against all the sneaky shit I usually would on such an occasion, I'm going to list some things that truly make America great. Fuck politics, fuck terrorism, fuck the media, and fuck "patriotism."

Here's a few things that really make America worth a damn, in the order they occur to me:

Rock n' roll.
Texas.
Tobacco.
Bourbon.
Comic books.
Beautiful women.
Literature.
Inescapable weirdness.
Joe Bob Briggs.
Muscle cars.

I don't feel like thinking of anything else. This list could have just as easily been compiled by a redneck, but that's the beauty of America. Too bad it's run by liars, thieves, morons, and whores. But what country ain't?

Let's hurry up and have a revolution.

I really, really, really like the way William Gibson writes. Not just his novels, but everything: I want to say his writing is cool, but I can't, because that's not right (and not just becaused it's an overused word). Crystalline, maybe? I don't know. I do know it's fucking slick, and the writer in me wishes I could write such fucking sharp, smooth sentences. Christ, the man's good.

Another crafter of fine word structures, albeit in an entirely different way, is Kool Keith. Listen to his Dr. Octagon project and you'll know what I mean. The man's out there, or at least plays the role to the hilt, and his strange fixations and wide vocabulary make his words build images. Alien gynecologist computer science- textbook throwback crazy images. His words constitute the projections into man's mind of an alternate universe so thoroughly different than ours that all one can do is sit back and revel in it all.

I wonder what you'd get if you crossed William Gibson with Kool Keith. It's fucking mind-boggling!

Take a guess what I've been doing:

"You recognize, so what? I turn invisible, make myself clear, reappear to you visual."

Of course, then comes the inevitable:

"disappear and get zapped like an android,"

and a statement to those in denial:

"face the fact I fly on planets everyday."

This isn't even the wackiest shit that Dr. Octagon spews. Hot damn, this shit is great.

The other day Sara said something about me having lots of good music that I don't listen to anymore. She was right: I've got dozens of albums that I never put on. Why?

Simple answer. Most of them don't do it for me anymore. They're just not what I'm interested in at this point in my life. There are some, though, that are timeless and cross stylistic boundaries; in this particular case, I'm thinking of the now-departed Murder City Devils. I don't listen to them often, but holy shit, whenever I hear them, I know why I'd never get rid of any of their albums, much less stop listening to them. They had something that nobody else had, and that something will last forever.

Like this song that's on now, "18 Wheels." Desperation and drinking and Farfisa organ. Perfect.

Sunday afternoon. At work. Worn out.

I need to read more. Aside from the benefits of soaking up words, it's a solitary activity, and the last few days have been filled with people. I could use a break.

The weather is uncharacteristically pleasant today, as it was yesterday. If wasn't at work until ten o'clock, I'd be sitting on the porch with a glass of iced tea and a book. I hope the weather remains pre-autumnal, as it should be in September.

I don't know how I ever functioned properly back in the days when I drank shitloads of coffee. I've had four or so cups tonight, loaded with creamer and sugar because the coffee here at work sucks so fucking badly, and I'm so edgy it's grotesque. Having the place to myself at least gives me the opportunity to get a little energy out, but damn, I'm gonna stay away from this level of stimulants in my system. Urgh.

To make it worse, my hands are shaking so badly, and my mind's racing so fast, that I can't even make use of this state to write. Bring on the alcohol!

np: Brant Bjork and the Operators, s/t

You gotta love both Steve Jackson and his games.

Labor Day, and I'm at work. Big surprise. What's worse is that today's the beginning of my new shifts, three of which run from 4 PM to midnight. On the flipside, since I'm not really expected to bust a lot of ass after 10 PM, I can try to get some writing done. This should prove fruitful.

I'm reading Marcus Boon's The Road of Excess: A History of Writers On Drugs, and it's excellent. I cannot recommend it enough if you're interested in a lucid, well-written book about drugs, literature, and history, or any of the above.

I wonder how well my book is selling.

I wonder why I waste time and bandwidth writing this.

Ridiculous.


np: Enslaved, Below the Lights

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.

Here's a few things that disgust me, just for fuck's sake.

-Alcoholics and other "recovering addicts" who deny ever having had any good times on the sauce or their drug of choice. I swear, if anyone ever tells me that "drugs/drink ruined their life" and denies any beneficial attributes of their particular poison, I might very well slug them. Nobody gets addicted to anything because they hate it or because it forced themselves upon them; ultimately addiction rests upon the addict, and any sane addict or ex-addict will most likely say "fuck yeah, I had a grand ol' time when I was fucked up." We live in a culture that despises so-called bad habits, and it makes me want to puke. If you use drugs, it's your decision; don't fucking apologize for it unless you kill someone or seriously ruin someone else's life. You're doing a disservice to a long line of functional boozers and dope fiends.

-The recent crop of books targeted at women. For fuck's sake, women, realize that all these books are doing are pandering to base instincts! There's no intellectual, spiritual, moral, ethical, or social content worth a fucking damn in a book called "Confessions of a Shopaholic." All it is is a motherfucking excuse for consumerism and post-consumerist guilt. Read some real fuckin' books, for the love of God, literature, and D.A. Smith!

- Light beer. Light beer is piss, and in many cases watered-down piss that bears the label of an equally piss-esque beer that isn't very good either. Yeah, I drink cases and cases of cheap, exquisitely tasty Lone Star, but fuck all y'all that look down on Lone Star when drinking Bud Light. I know serious girly-girls that'll take Lone Star or PBR over bullshit light beer any day. That might be sexist, but the ratio of women who drink shitty booze to good booze explains my resentment of "girl drinks". Yeah, frat boys, you're all fuckin' pussies for choosing Coors Light over the real thing, and to any women who read this, try a real daquiri cocktail, without eight ounces of fuckin' churned ice, and learn something new.

- Emoticons. Anyone who can't compose or read a sentence containing humor, facetiousness, or any other human emotion without adding/seeing a motherfucking smiley face needs to sit down and read some fuckin' books. Emoticons are for those whose writing and reading skills never progressed past second grade, or for the intellectually lazy. In either case, fuck you all.

- "Hipsters." Nowadays a generic term for "scenesters," AKA "sheepish fucking culture whores," calling someone a hipster used to mean something. Just because a person listens to shitty indie-rock that isn't on the radio and has taken to wearing vintage clothes doesn't mean they're hip. It means they're complete puds with no originality, a distinct lack of understanding of what makes underground culture worthwhile, and no style. Fuck 'em all. If I was a true hipster, I'd be ashamed to ever be called such.

- The internet. I'm not going to claim some old-school credentials here, but the internet sucks serious cock these days. 'Nuff said.

Excelsior, motherfuckers! I'm gonna go drink more cheap beer, listen to metal, read a book that doesn't need emoticons, and talk to women who don't immediately buy into bullshit quasi-feminism.

now playing: Mistress, "Bludgeon"

Essentially alone, sitting on the shore of some depopulated continent and listening to the song of the stars. From somewhere comes the thin sound of prophecy, Azathothian pipes from a leveled city.

It becomes painfully apparent that somewhere, somehow, a wrong step was taken after nodding to Nasht and Kaman-Thah, and that these are not the familiar dreamlands of so many nights' imaginative rest. This is some nightmare, a Roerich landscape no man was ever meant to visit, much less become imprisoned by.

I've finally got a computer of my own, complete with net access. Now all I need is a word processor; as much as I love Notepad, it ain't exactly cut out for writing novels on.

That's all. I'll leave everyone with a choice lyric from Brant Bjork's song "Cheap Wine":

"Stop at the liquor store, we'll start at noon."

If that ain't a great philosophy, I don't know what is.

The night winding down into lamplight and Herman Melville, I can almost feel the future: a smooth, translucent grey wall that I can see blurry things moving behind, especially strange because I know that wall is built on a precipice, and there's nothing for anything to walk on out there. The future is 3 AM when it's 11 PM, after-dinner coffee when you're eating lunch, your last cigarette when you're just ripping the cellophane off a fresh pack. The future is everything you tell yourself you can foresee, everything that makes sense for now. Once it's the past, though, it's all a blur, just like it was when it was the future.

I need to sleep.

Woke up hung over for the first time in, well, a long time, and forgot that I had beer in the fridge, so I actually just waited it out. This accounts for my sluggishness, and partly for my desire to crawl back into bed (if you want to call the floor a "bed"), but not for my inability to sit here and get any writing done. That problem's been lurking around here for a while, and I hope to ambush it and beat the shit out it with a rolling barrage of new writing. Yeah, right.

As far as I'm concerned, there are three kinds of bartenders: the good, who you get to know after propping up the same bar regularly enough, the bad, and the really good. Really good bartenders aren't necessarily quick to set up a new round, nor are they always masters of mixology, but simply people you knew before they became bartenders, and therefore will give you free drinks. I finally know one of these bartenders, although she doesn't work often enough to my taste (for free booze). Here's to Jodie for the cerveza gratis.

Debo tratar de escribir aqui en espanol. No se como hacer los accentos, pero lo no importa. Necesito practicar mi espanol, si no lo olvido. Y, naturalmente, quiero ser muy pretencioso (especialmente cuando no se como deletrear, o decir, la palabra espanol que ya he usado).

I just thought of something.

DCLXVI.

That's 666 to most of you. ("Adrian's Revenge!") Is it at all possible that the Book of Revelations chose this number because it incorporates, in descending order, every Roman numeral save M? From what I read in Everything Is Under Control, the conspiratorial pseudo-compendium by Robert Anton Wilson, Kabalistic interpretations of 666 are many and varied, which makes numerological arguments about the famous number dubious. This notion I just latched onto, however- courtesy of Orange Goblin's song "Quincy the Pigboy"- is simple enough to accomodate the theory that Revelations was some sort of hallucination, because it's not that uncommon for those suffering (or being blessed by) hallucinations to turn an otherwise ordinary notion, in this case descending Roman numerals, into something far more signficant than it is, or at least appears to be.

I'm sure someone else in history has noticed this amusing bit of trivia, so when I remember to do so, I'll look it up. Right now it's off to Catbirds.

It's old news now, but I can't believe I forgot to report it earlier:

Rob Halford has rejoined Judas Priest.

"Freewheel Burning," "Painkiller," "Electric Eye," "Heading Out to the Highway," "Metal Gods," and all the other classics, coming to your town in 2004.

Holy shit.

I thought I was lucky to see Iron Maiden with Bruce Dickinson. Looks like, to quote Down, "there's something on my side."

JUDAS PRIEST, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Well, the day went well, all things considered. I got my list of errata for my novel mailed off, drank lots of water, finally finished Lin Yutang's The Importance of Living, which is a phenomenal book, and saw Sara. There were a few downers, namely my brother's getting ill from being at work- literally- and my foolish failure to call him when I went to the bar this evening. I really feel bad about having forgotten to let him know we were there; I'd told him I would, and neglected to do so, so I feel as if I broke a promise. It sucks.

I've got a job interview six days from now. Nothing spectacular, but it'll pay the bills, which is all I really expect from a job. (Of course, by writing this, I open myself to all sorts of paranoid behavior, since I can't help but think that my potential employer is searching out every reference to me online in order to assess my viability as an employee. Highly unlikely, I'm sure, but nevertheless a concern.)

I haven't written much in a while, but that's fine, because I'm simply letting my mind fill with the thoughts that constant writing rarely allows to accumulate, thoughts that may very well strengthen my ability with words. I ranted tonight to some folks about how much I despise the culture of denial, but, following Lin Yutang's advice, tempered my words with a certain amount of reasonableness, in that I noted that it is not entirely impossible that sometime in the future I might join said culture. As it stands, however, I don't intend to apologize for certain behaviors, and hope to never turn my back on them, even if doing so means I have material for a memoir or what have you.

Whenever anyone asks me what my favorite albums are of all time, I have to remember to include Ulver's Perdition City. Simply put, this album is the future, as filtered through Norwegian musical geniuses and contemporary technology. Utterly unbelievable, Perdition City is required listening for anyone seeking to understand the condition of urban man, especially the urban man who does not fall for society's pitiful tricks and half-assed cultural deceptions.

Good night, world. I leave you with this and this.

I received the proof copy of my novel today. Aside from some serious typesetting problems, which I guarantee weren't my fault, it's utterly bizarre to hold a book in your hands that you wrote. I really have no interest in re-reading it, since I've already gone over it more times than I have brain cells (that's at least three), but damn, to see my name on a piece of paper that I didn't put text on is unreal. I just hope that people like it and buy enough copies to support my unemployment habit.

Speaking of not having a job, I need one ASAP. My finances are incredibly bad, so come Monday I'm going to spend all week hitting the streets looking for work. I despise doing so, but any income is better than none. (I don't count what the state of Texas gives me, since I haven't received a single check yet.)

Listen to Acid King, kids. "Teen Dusthead" is somethin' else.

Despite all the hassles that come with it- especially those of the financial nature- unemployment is fantastic. I really, really like loafing around, much more than I like having a job. I like being able to do just about any damn thing I want when I want, since I'm not under any real time constraints. I like knowing that, if only for a little while, I'm not one of those people out there being forced to "do something." I like doing nothing, and until I can no longer afford to do nothing (which, if you think about it, is an absolutely absurd notion, because it should be cheaper to do nothing than do something), I'm going to do exactly that. Nothing.

Here's to Monster Magnet for writing "Negasonic Teenage Warhead."

And here's to my brother for setting up this stylish website for me and my novel.

Unemployment, as I understand it, is at an all-time here in the glorious US of A. Our government is raping its people with the stealth of a drunken frat boy slippin' it into a passed-out sorostitute, with all the insidious, destructive results. Nobody outside the US really likes America, or at least the mob of brain-dead whores that announces itself as America. God, if he ever reciprocated the trust that America had in him, certainly doesn't now. Can you blame him? He's got fundamentalist beasts roaring in his name, and I bet that if you were to sit down with any of them and discuss theology, you'd get nothing but idiotic literalist interpretations of the Bible, quotes from which would come mostly from the fucking Old Testament. Convicted fucking criminals hold government positions, underpaid, uneducated, and apathetic drones carry out those criminals' orders, and the economy is a motherfucking joke. Hell, America is a joke, and a bad one at that, because the monsters telling the joke have a prison cell waiting for everyone who doesn't laugh and ask politely to hear another one.

Christ, this country is the best place I've ever lived, but it disgusts me how it became such a great place to live. Is it because Americans are conscientious, well-informed, and caring as a people? No, it's because of dirty tricks, lying politicians, disinformation, hysteria, and war. But you know what? Despite all the underhanded shit pulled in order for me to have the standard of living that I do, I'm willing to put it aside- not entirely, but momentarily, because I understand history well enough to accept that nobody has ever come to power through altruism and virtuous behavior. Nevertheless, the wretched power wielded by the government is growing at such a rate as to exceed the standard level of deceit and shadowy activity pursued by governments worldwide. It exceeds the standard so much that America will set a new standard: no longer will the US be beholden to the Corruption Index, but it will become the focus of a Corruption Index 2.0, the Aberrant Democracy Index. How willing officials and businessmen are to take bribes will only be a small part of the ADI; how willing the government is to sacrifice the ideals it was founded upon will be the new measurement. And not only will the government be accountable, but the sheep, the people who unswervingly believe what the news has to say, the people who support half halfwit/half cunning fucks like George W. Bush, the people that believe that slapping a US flag bumper sticker on their car means something, will be accountable.

And there will be no mercy for them. Those who choose not to vote for ethical reasons will be receive more leniency than those who willingly pissed away the ideals of America into the mouths of the politicians, businessmen, bankers, and multinational con artists. The fools who express joy that America is being eaten alive by snitches, databases, lawyers, soldiers operating on national soil, politicians, and related vermin will burn far more fiercely than any poor soul in any of Dante's circles of hell, because they are giving in to the atavistic human urge, an urge that Wilhelm Reich was fully aware of, to let someone else take control. They will be consigned to a hell wherein they are eternally raped by flaccid politicians, mouth-fucked by the batons of cops who couldn't even earn their GED, and mournfully stared at by the loved ones- and even strangers- that they sold out in the name of that false, greedy, and thoroughly wicked god, SECURITY.

Fuck security. Security is for people who do nothing and believed their high school teachers. Security is for all the poor bastards in the Korean DMZ waiting for the shit to hit the fan. Security is for people who think the God they hear about on Sunday bears any resemblance to the true God. Security is for paranoids, who know that someone is out to get them (and probably a whole lot of others in the bargain). Security is for assholes who shop at the mall. Security is for anyone who thinks the government won't fuck them over to make a buck, sieze an oil field, or secure a seat in the Senate.

"...all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed." -The United States Declaration of Independence

Translation: people are far too willing to take shit. If Americans would read this damned document, they'd realize that it's their right to tell the government to fuck off and die.


As a famous fellow Virginian once said, "give me liberty or give me death."

As famous fellow Texans once said, "come and take it."



-D.A. Smith, July 5, 2003


Thanks to Hunter S. Thompson, for all the obvious reasons.

"Reaching for the sun leave Atlantis escape the sea."

Saturday. No job yet, and after seeing what my unemployment benefits will be like, I hate to say that getting one may actually be a better idea than trying to eke out an existence without working. Even if I do absolutely nothing, literally, the money unemployment will pay out isn't enough to get by. I don't know why I thought the government would be even remotely generous.

I'm paranoid about my mail service, or the seeming lack thereof. I should start sending everything through W.A.S.T.E., despite the insidiousness of such a system.

The coolness, and I don't only mean that in the modern vernacular sense, of William Gibson's prose- especially his last few books- amazes me every time I read it. Even his blog posts read amazingly well. I think that once I'm finished with James Blaylock's The Paper Grail, which is quite good by the way, I'm going to reread some Gibson.

Now it's back to writing.

Cool air, Turks, uneasiness, promise of beer, gruesome night, phone calls from the bewildered, thick throat, sore arm, intense listlessness, thrum of fans, fifty-cent Galaga, leaden stomachs, Hunter S. Thompson's middle finger, James Joyce's failing eyes, stretched tendons, spiral notebooks, staggering Franciscans, erudition, geography dreams, lungs, advance checks, mailboxes, wrenched neck, night's not even fucking over.

AC is finally getting fixed today, after almost a damned week without it. I'll believe it when I feel it, though, since this isn't the first time that the problem was supposed to be corrected. The proof copy of my novel should be in my hands very soon, along with my advance check, which will provide some brief economic respite. Once I approve the proof, my publisher tells me that Amazon.com, and hopefully other online retailers (including, of course, Invisible College Press themselves, will be good to go then as well.

Not having a job is, as expected, excellent. I'm slowly building up steam in terms of working on the new novel, and my pointless posts to this so-called "blog" are becoming more regular, which should provide some pitifully small amusement for my three readers.

Everyone should read Lord Kinross' The Ottoman Centuries, especially if you consider yourself interested in history. 150 pages in, I can barely put the damn book down.

AC: dead.
Car: dead.
Energy: virtually nil.
Ferret: struggling with heat.
Beer: none.

Aside from this small checklist of complaints, things are tolerable. Got my last paycheck from work, which should hold me over until unemployment benefits appear. High on Fire was as good as expected. Working on the book, but haven't gotten up the steam to crank out the usual high page count that comes with unemployment. Not much else to report, really, but what do you expect from a chump like me?

What the fuck is with every air-conditioning system I spend time enjoying? Do they all hate me? Is it a conspiracy by the beer industry to force me to drink more crisp, refreshing Lone Star and Shiner Summer Stock? Am I cursed? Whatever the case is, this is the third time in about a month that the AC has gone belly-up in my vicinity, and I'm sick of it.

Speaking of belly up, my car's followed the route of the AC. It's either the battery, the alternator, or the starter; I hope it's the battery, which would be the cheapest to fix. Naturally I found out about my car's (hopefully temporary) demise when I was going to head up and get my final paycheck from the Shutterbug. Thankfully Sara is picking it up for me, so I really don't need the car for a while. Nevertheless, it's a pain in the ass, because it's tapping cash that I don't have in order to take care of the problem.

June has been a shitty month across the board. The only redeeming thing- and this hasn't even occurred yet, so it might not even qualify as such- is that High on Fire is playing tomorrow night. Oh yeah, and my book might be available for purchase by the end of the month. To be honest, I don't expect the shit to stop hitting the fan anytime soon: God, or the City of Houston, or the Freemasons, or some other dodgy collection of suspicious bastards will inevitably intervene against me. That's always how it works.

Happy birthday to both Matthew and Leslie. Since all the relevant crooked parties already know your DOB, I'm not worried about posting it here.

Yesterday was Bloomsday. On top of being the 99th anniversary of the day that James Joyce's Ulysses took place, it was also the day that I got laid off from my job. I knew it was coming, but it came two weeks earlier than I expected, and frankly, that's fine by me. I'm getting my final paycheck and three weeks of severance pay, which should hold me over until I start getting unemployment checks and/or find another job. Not that I want another job, really. I'd rather stay home and write than work, but I'm sure everyone knows that already.

But I can't stay home and write, because I literally fried my computer the other night. My hard drive, and the writing thereupon, seems to have survived, but right now I'm without a computer to write on. I could sit here and use my brother's, but a) I don't have my new novel available, and b) it's highly uncomfortable. My only option is to write by hand, which I hate to do, so I won't, unless it's something minor.

Jim Knipfel's novel The Buzzing is an enjoyable read, by the way. So is Umberto Eco's newest, Baudolino, especially if you're into all the weird shit that Christians believed circa 1200. I've started Samuel Delany's Dhalgren, but I'm not far enough into it to make much of a judgment yet.

Oh yeah- Invisible College Press has put up a not-quite-complete website for my novel. Check it out here.

Once I get a computer back, transmissions from the Corpse-Satellite will become more regular, I hope.

Boredom, the greatest of all evils, has spawned a notion that probably won't go anywhere, but is nevertheless interesting. Since removing various advertising/industry-related things from beneath the glass countertops, Matt and I have been replacing them with bizarre drawings and captions, and it's only a matter of time until we have dozens. I'm going to take them all and work them into some piece of fiction. It'll suck, naturally, given who's doing the work, but hey, it's a laugh.

The sooner that I'm not surrounded by customers too stupid or heedless to read giant signs saying "GOING OUT OF BUSINESS," the better. If I thought people were idiots before, the fact that they fail to see a 3' by 4' sign right by the front door only reinforces my disdain. That and their almost total lack of sympathy for the half-dozen chumps here who are going to find themselves without income in a matter of weeks.

Fuck 'em all. I'll be happy to collect unemployment and give them all the finger from my porch, where I'll be working on a new novel and drinking cold beer. Fuck customers, and fuck jobs.

Days later, I've moved everything I own to my new apartment in Houston and withdrawn my person to Conroe, where I await the impending demise of the company I work for. It's been a long, brutish week, studded with bruises, mechanical failures, depressed animals, and very little time alone. I can't even enjoy my new apartment since I'm working at a fucking store that should just call it a day right now.

At least it's all out of the way, and once June expires, it's off on a new course of strangeness.


np: Ulver, Perdition City

"Night of the Shape": One of Electric Wizard's greatest tunes, and an amazing piece of music to write and/or think to.


H.P. Lovecraft: All his flaws and idiosyncrasies aside, one of the 20th century's greatest writers, and the perfect
author to read every night before bed.


Moving: Immense hassle that it is, it gives one the chance to sit in a room stripped of decoration and ruminate over
any number of things.


Paranoia: Horrifying, yet exhilarating. Spend several years reading strange books and removing yourself from the
company of others, add a window to peer out of periodically, and mix with an innate distrust of government and
virtually all other institutions, and you're on your way to becoming fast friends with non-clinical paranoia.


np: Electric Wizard, Dopethrone

Fuck this horribly typeset piece of shit "blog" thing. Ever since my ferret went nuts on the keyboard during my absence,
it's never looked right. I'm no perfectionist, but damn, poorly-set text is a nightmare (with certain exceptions- see Mark
Danielewski's intentionally typographically nightmarish novel House of Leaves).

I'll be living in Houston in two days. This fact still hasn't sunk in, really, and won't for a while, since for most of June
I'll be staying in Conroe. I refuse to commute from H-Town to my current job five days a week for chump change, especially
since this place is 99% likely to go under within a month. Unemployment line, here I fuckin' come.

Sounds like Ted and Sean are makin' it. Having recently read
Ted's post about the greatness of drinking beer, I wholeheartedly agree. Beer for breakfast is pretty good, though I
don't usually have any sort of breakfast at all, save perhaps cigarettes. I hope Ted runs his Unknown Armies game again
soon. That shit is bound to be good, and I only got to play one game!

More later, maybe, unless I actually get home and do the packing I'm supposed to. Yeah, right.

It looks like everything's in place for my novel, Axis Mundi Sum, to go to print in the near future. I hope I get a
set of galleys to look at before the text is sent to the printer, just so I can make sure everything looks all right. In all
honesty, I'm really nervous about this whole process, since it's the first time I've done it, I have few concrete ideas on
how to promote the book, and, naturally, I have doubts as to the quality and salesworthiness (is that a word?) of my work.
If I'm lucky, I'll sell a couple thousand copies and get reviews from quiet, far-flung corners of the literary world, which is
all I really want. Sure, I'd love to make enough to quit my day job, and I'd certainly like to get future novels published-
particularly Critical Hits, the one I'm working on now, but frankly, I've already achieved one of my life's goals just
by getting a novel published. I'd merely like to extend that dream to last a lifetime. I say lifetime because I'd like my work
to revert to the public domain no more than a decade after I leave this mortal coil.


My ferret, clever fellow that he is, escaped some time last night, and was found in my neighbors' garage, thank God. I had
no idea how he made his break, but after getting home, getting apprised of the situation, and stationing myself on the porch
for a cigarette, I saw him dart under my car! It was then that I discovered his escape route via the recently-vacated dryer connection.
When Jay moved out his washer and dryer, it left a gaping ferret-sized hole to the outside world, and Tim Finnegan promptly
investigated the hole's explorational possibilities. Now the laundry room is closed off, so I shouldn't have to worry. Christ, though,
I was horrified that he got out, since who knows what could have killed him. Now he's safe, though, and getting plenty of tasty
raisins.


Oh yeah: kim chee and beer mix strangely.

Beautiful proof of the weird blood flowing through America's veins.

What's today? Today is the day that the Law of Fives is perfectly seen through the filter of the Gregorian calendar!

5/23/2003! 2+3=5 and 2+0+0+3=5!

It just gets better at 5:23 PM (I slept through the first occurance of 5:23 this morning.) Two moments when the
holiest number appears + # of fives in the date= FIVE!

Go nuts, fellow Discordians! HAIL ERIS! ALL HAIL DISCORDIA!

Gnosticism and other weird strains of Christianity are, I think, the only things that have kept me fascinated with Christianity
since I stopped considering myself a 'Christian.' While I have yet to philosophize on Christ and all the strangeness that
surrounds him as thoroughly as I'd like, I still think that there's some truth to the notion of a messiah, if only because
mankind has consistently proven that its bad streak seems to grossly outweigh its good one, and therefore needs
some semblance of redemption. Of course, it could be several years of being surrounded by Christian dogma talking, but whatever the case, I simply cannot deny the value of the Christ-ideal.

Not to say that most of the people passing themselves off as Christians, especially in America, have anything to do with
my notions about ol' working-class Yeshua of Nazareth. No, fundamentalism does nothing but scare me- on several levels- and does absolutely for the virtues of scholarship and well-reasoned theological/philosophical thought, and I think that Christ would (or is, depending on what you believe) be quite depressed by how those who claim to dedicate their lives to him act. At least, that's what I like to think; one of my biggest unfounded fears is that the fundamentalists are right, and while I have no proof, or belief, that they're any more correct than I am, I still worry. Most of the time, I think it's old-fashioned religious guilt at work, but I cannot help but wonder am I right or am I wrong, and what will happen to me if I'm wrong?

A pox upon any faith or philosophy that makes a man doubt the validity of his own introspection.

np: Cathedral, "Astral Queen" (from Endtyme. This song forces one to make a journey across the plain/plane of the soul, and
for that it will always remain one of the best mellowing-out songs I've ever heard... even by Cathedral's own standards.)

I'm currently installing Deus Ex, which I've heard a lot of good things about recently- foremost
among them that it caters to paranoid mentalities such as my own. My only complaint, and hopefully
the game will render this statement null and void (ha! an unwitting reference to my novel there), is that
it's first-person. I'm an old-school third-person gamer, hence my general aversion to computer games
for the past several years, excepting The Longest Journey, which I barely started, and Grim
Fandango, one of the best, most atmospheric games ever made.

I've never felt the Internet to be a place to discuss anything but inane shit and momentary pseudo-
intellectual notions, which is why you'll never see any gristly (yes, gristly, think Pound's notion
of "paideuma") personal material here. Not that anyone wants to, of course.

Wasted much of the day taking care of trivialities regarding my impending move. On the
way home, Sara and I saw that it was 104 degrees outside. I need not say more.

I could use a beer, but I'm too lazy to go buy any. I'm also out of gin, so maybe I'll have
to resort to (ugh) vodka and tonic with a little bitters. Or, perhaps, raki or Pernod on ice. We're
also out of bourbon, you see, so I have to fall back on the liquor we rarely drink.

The ball's rolling again with my new novel. I just hope it doesn't slow down anytime soon.
I'd like to have it finished by the end of the year, though given my usual work habits, that's
not too likely. Maybe if I push myself a little harder...

Saw Dogtown & Z-Boys this weekend, something I've been wanting to see for a while.
Very cool, even if you were never into skateboarding; certainly made me want to go buy a
deck and cruise around for the hell of it, just like I did twelve years ago. Good soundtrack,
too.

I think it's time for that vodka and tonic.

The new Matrix flick is worth your time, if only because its summer-blockbuster approach to basic
philosophical ideas is entertaining enough to make you and your friends jabber about it for a few
days. Alternately, it's worth your time if you're interested in how teenagers, armed with technology
I have yet to indulge in and cigarettes they're too young to legally smoke, act when forced to mill
around en masse in a relatively small space. But that depends on what theatre you go to, I reckon.

Be back later. Asshole coworker fucking w/ computer.

Electric Wizard, one of the best bands I've heard in the past two or three years, has
apparently broken up. I assume Jus Osborn, the guitarist/vocalist, wrote most of the
music, and I hope he doesn't give it up; songs like "Weird Tales," "...A Chosen Few,"
"Stone Magnet," and so on are phenomal experiences. Not just songs, but
experiences. Listen to "Weird Tales" after a few deep hits of good smoke, and you'll
know exactly what I mean- especially if you're into pulp fantasy and misanthropy.

Speaking of doomy, dense shit, Sleep's "Dopesmoker" (what most of us these days
know as "Jerusalem") is being re-released this month. Not content with 52 minutes
of Gnostic dirge, "Dopesmoker" will apparently be the original 65 minutes- ALL ONE
TRACK, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Work sucks more cock than San Francisco, as always. So does poverty.
At least I've got booze and tobacco to stave off hunger.

Beer and cigarettes, Jesus and technology: tonight's conversation
fuels/pieces. Excellent stuff.

Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: one of the biggest influences on
my life, and something I hope to be playing soon.

Alan Moore: Genius. One day, maybe some poor schizophrenic
will look upon me as I do Mr. Moore.

Nasht and Kaman-Thah: Despite many efforts, I have yet to meet
and converse with them.

The intertwining of heart and brain: my ultimate goal.

Good night, world. Know this: I want nothing more than what you
have to offer.

We've finally got AC back, albeit temporarily. The final repairs should be done this week, but for the time being, I'm enjoying my freon fix.

This article and this one is about Jayson Blair, the NY Times journalist who recently got caught writing PURE FUCKING FICTION and
passing it off as reality. Despite a long record of being chided by his editors for mistakes and whatnot, the Times claims that they had no
idea that Blair was essentially a pathological liar, or just a lazy, unprincipled journalist, wielding a pen and the paper's finances.
Interesting story, but it makes me think. All right, this guy's a fucking fake, right, palgiarizing and making stuff up for the paper and lying about
his expenses. Not good. However, this is merely a blatant example of what happens EVERY DAMNED DAY. When editors and boards
prevent journalists from printing certain things, they're essentially doing the same thing Blair did: lying to the public. They're just omitting
things instead of fabricating them, which is simply a more subtle way of controlling what information reaches the public.


Now, this Blair dude is obviously not the man to be reporting on what's happening in the world, because he utterly lacks ethics. But so do plenty
of other journalists and their bosses, who are beholden to any number of corporate and/or governmental interests. Like I said, they filter out
what comes across their desks at the behest of the powerful "boards and syndicates," to use Bill Burroughs' term, who have no interest
in actually informing people as to how the world works. Shareholders, editorial boards, whatever- they manipulate what you read and watch, and
then, when one of their lackeys gets caught lying through his teeth, they wash their hands of him and try to convince everyone that there are
only a few bad egges, like Blair, in the world of journalism. Never mind that newspapers routinely whitewash governmental and corporate misdeeds,
promote wars, and generally do their utmost to muddle the average man's understanding of world events. The media in general are about as unethical
as Jayson Blair- no, they're far more unethical, because they demand their employees to hold themselves to a standard that they themselves will
not. They, after all, are management, and everybody knows that it's never management that fucks up, just the workers.


Fuck 'em all, and fuck their lies.

I wonder what life on Arrakis, the main focus of the Dune novels, would have been like if there had refrigeration, or if the Fremen could
have kept their water stored as ice.

It's almost a boon that it's so hot right now. It's making me think about things I usually take for granted.

Day two of the battle against heat. I stocked up on beer and bought tonic for gin and tonics, the quintessential alcoholic heat-killer. Word is that we'll get our AC fixed tomorrow. Until then, I've gotta monitor my ferret closely, lest he overheat.

Speaking of the ferret, he seems to have screwed up the word wrap feature on this thing, and I frankly don't know how to fix it. Damnation!

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I wonder how long Southerners have been drinking bourbon on the rocks. It would make sense that they've been doing it as long as possible, given the sticky heat that \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
m\kes the South




NOTE: I started this post four hours ago, then ended up shootin' the shit with Andy and then going to the bar. After that, we cruised around Spring, and I came home to find the above changes made to my post, courtesy of my ferret. I have opted to leave them as is. God bless that clever albino beast!

The bane of all Texans has struck my house. Naturally, it had to do so mere weeks before I move out, and because this horrible demon chose to show its face now, I will have to pay money to fight it. Money I do not have.

I am talking about the demise of my air conditioning. I have experienced, thankfully, few days in Texas without it, if you don't count time spent in my car, which hasn't had AC in years. Now, however, I am stricken, and probably for the entire weekend. I can handle it, I'm sure, but I'm more worried about my ferret, who is adverse to heat. Should the demon make any attempt upon Tim Finnegan's life, there will be dire consequences.

Get thee behind me, Satan!

I hate the word "blog." Not for what it means, of course, but for the way it sounds. It's almost too juvenile a term for the logging of one's thoughts and online finds, which is not necessarily an art- actually, far from it- but at least a potentially aesthetic sort of mnemonic tool-cum-research pattern. It's amazing how much shit you can find just by following a random string of hypertext, and how much those strings make you remember half-buried thoughts, websites, and so forth. No, "blog" doesn't cut it. I need to find another word.

This is a great place to read up on the lives of people like me, but not really that much like me. The proprietors are some old buddies from college, and, like me, they seems to be blundering their way through life with at least some nominal idea o what they want to do. Worth your time, chumps. So is this. And then there's good old Flatland Books, home of Flatland Magazine and a catalog of more weird books than you can imagine.

While you're at it, don't forget to celebrate idleness, which Kierkegaard said was not the root of all evil, but the only true good. He is, as he often tends to be, correct. If everone spent less time doing things, especially working, life would be worth living.

Given the lighter-than-air nature of my body, it's a good thing that I have hundreds of gold krugerrands bolted to my bones. Otherwise, I'd float off like an untethered zeppelin.

Went to the Big Easy tonight with Scott, Andy, and Jessica. $5 pitchers of Lone Star go a long way toward convincing me to do things I'd otherwise not do. While there, I saw this bad-ass guitarist named Rick Lee (or so I recall him being named), an Asian who played better than any guitarist that followed him. He was cool, and I'm not even into the blues that much.

Before going to the Big Easy, I talked online with Katharine, who was the classiest chick I knew when I went to Mary Washington College for a year. She seems to be doing well, and while I probably sounded like an absolute jackass who'd had too many beers, I was very pleased to converse with her again, since it's been four years.

And now... Rush. "Lakeside Park" is a fantastic song.

np: Rush, Caress of Steel

V-E-N-O-fucking-M!

Venom fucking rules. "Witching Hour," "In Nomine Satanas," "Black Metal," "Angel Dust," "Bursting Out," "Possessed," "At War With Satan"... CAN YOU GET ANY BETTER THAN THAT? CAN YOU?

I THINK NOT!

np: Venom, In Leage With Satan

Cranks, while sometimes creepy, are what makes the world go 'round. Really, what fun is life and the philosophies it spawns without some highly weird people to go against the grain by promoting bizarre theories? Would religions be interesting without hermits, stylites, and heretics? Would science be interesting without phrenology or the notion of the Hollow Earth? For every "legitimate" discovery man makes, we make a dozen others that might prove delusional, unsubstantiated, or simply too weird for society to accept, and it's those ideas that make life really fascinating. Not to denigrate the advancements that have created everyday life as we know it, but let's be honest, even particle physics doesn't seem as appealing as a quiet guy who spends a decade working on a 2000-page dissertation about the secret life of angels, complete with footnotes dictated by heavenly powers.

Yeah, cranks- who, to be fair, may actually know what's going on, but just don't have any number of certain factors behind them- are the intriguing soul of the intellectual world.

Dude, this is the funniest shit on the net, and I owe my brother for showing it to me. I'm gonna go download an IRC client when I get home.

X-Men 2 was cool. Not completely in line with the comics, naturally, but definitely enjoyable. Too little Colossus, but the setup for the next flick is pretty damned cool. Chances are you won't catch it unless you read X-Men back in the late '80s or so, but even if that's the case I think it'll make for a cool third movie.

By the way, unless you actually give a shit about trying to look hip, don't waste your time going to the Proletariat on Richmond. Their cheap Lone Stars aren't enough to bring me back to that poorly laid-out, red-walled joint anytime soon. At least I went there for the right reasons.

I use the word "cool" too much when I post.

Check this out for a good laugh.

How the hell am I going to promote my book? I'm trying to tell everyone I meet to tell everyone they meet to buy it, but I suspect that'll only go so far. I need about $250 so I can buy a bunch of copies and send them to random people, magazines, and so forth. I also need people to write reviews for websites, especially Slashdot, RPG.net, and other sites pandering to geeks, which my book does.

Tonight I'm going to see X-Men 2, which, even if it sucks, will innately be superior to the first one because it has none other than Nightcrawler, the greatest X-Man ever to grace the four-color page. After that, I believe I'm trekking downtown to celebrate my friend Danielle's birthday. It's gonna be a long night, made even longer by having to get up tomorrow morning and come to work at 8 AM.

Time for a cigarette. While I'm away, ponder synesthesia. I know nothing about it, so I'm leaving it up to you. Also: if you like Alan Moore, read his two-issue comic "The Courtyard." If you're a Lovecraft fan, it'll be an even cooler experience.

Voivod kicked ass.

Despite the sound cutting out halfway through their second song, Quebec's finest export kicked a lot of ass. They didn't play "Invisible Planet," alas, but hell, it was worth the price of admission. I also got a spiffy t-shirt, opting for clothing over beer. Snake, the vocalist, is funny as hell to watch on stage, and Piggy, the guitarist, played this weird guitar made out of what appeared to be aluminum tubing. The drummer, Away, struck me as looking a lot like a less aged, heavy metal version of William Gibson, a comparison I'm sure Away would get a laugh out of.

I met Jason Newsted, who wandered around the crowd during the sonic blackout. He wasn't signing autographs, which I thought was cool, and he talked to everyone who approached him, myself included. I gave him all the information about my novel, and told him that I figured he and the rest of Voivod would enjoy it, given the themes they deal with. He asked me how old I was (I'm 23, if you didn't know) and, upon finding out, told me I was already on my way to doing fine in life. Everyone always tells me that I'm ahead of the curve, given that I'm only 23 and I've got a novel coming out, and I tend to just shrug off those kinds of remarks. Coming from Jason Newsted, though, it sounded completely different, and seeing as how he's making a living doing what he loves, it's pretty heartening.

So here I sit, at a job that might vanish into thin air within a month. It's May Day, which the assholes here in America have decided should be dedicated as a "National Day of Prayer" and "Law Day" simultaneously. God forbid the working class, whose day this should be, gets to say "fuck you, boss" in solidarity all over the world. No, May Day's for the commies. We've got Labor Day. Fuck, why did I come to work today?

I hope Voivod reads my novel, and I hope the working class finally gets its shit together, stops working, and tells all the bosses, managers, scabs, scissorbills, and plutocratic assholes that WORK IS FOR CHUMPS.