Saw Coffee and Cigarettes this morning. Quality stuff, and oddly tense. Go see it.

I really wish the CD player in my car worked. I could really go for some cruisin' right now, Jim Anchower-style. Instead, I'm at work until ten o'clock. Damn.

What a night.

FUCKIN' A!

I'm stickin' to either being a homebody or cruising for a while.

If anyone's interested in "All Right," the movie about takin' it easy I plan on making this summer, drop me a line at dave@axismundisum.com. Especially chicks, 'cause there ain't enough in the cast. Seriously, motherfuckers, this is probably the only chance you'll ever have to be immortalized on film.

One day, I might regret drinking and smoking as much as I do, but for now, I'm damned glad that I've got something to help me through nights like this.

Yeah, booze, cigarettes, and Orange Goblin do a pretty fuckin' good job of keeping shittiness at bay.

When it comes to bars, I'm willing to check out new ones; however, I'll stick to Catbirds if I feel like drinking in public. It's not staffed by pricks and the drinks don't taste like shit. Note to world at large: stronger ain't better.

Thankfully, the waste of time that was my trip to the bar last night was justified by the conversation I had with Jay and my brother afterwards. Thanks, dudes; I needed it.

Threw my hat in for a new job today. Again. I'm convinced that employers hate me, which is fine, because I hate them too, and more than they hate me.

I really don't know why the fuck this horrible, evil plan came to me, but here you go, folks. Sometimes I sicken myself more than usual.

1) Bring Boushh figure (if you don't recall, this was the bounty hunter that Princess Leia posed as in Return of the Jedi) to the bar.

2) Set action figure on bar.

3) Yell "HE'S HOLDING A THERMAL DETONATOR!" like C-3PO did in ROTJ.

4) Watch everyone freeze in terror, and score free drinks all night. Nobody is gonna fuck with you or Boushh, lest the bounty hunter activate the aforementioned thermal detonator. You're safe because you're the one that came to the bar with Boushh.

If step 4 fails, continue.

5) Watch bar patrons laugh at you, and/or observe the bartender stealing the action figure.

6) Threaten bartender: "if you don't give me back that action figure, I'm going to blow your jaw off your face."

7) Watch bartender laugh at you again.

8) Light stick of dynamite and cram it into bartender's mouth.

9) Watch jaw explode.

10) Tilt bartender's ruined head backwards and insert tea bag into gurgling pool of blood that fills what used to be the oral cavity.

11) Steep tea in blood for 2-3 minutes.

12) Tea's ready! Drink from bartender's throat-crater.

13) Score free drinks all night. You did, after all, just set off a crude version of the thermal detonator that Boushh, your bounty hunter friend, threatened to use earlier. You've also drank blood-tea, which makes you look fierce; combined, these two things make you un-fuck-withable.

Whole lotta nothin' going on. Been meaning to sit down and do some writing, but I keep getting distracted. I'm actually going to watch movies tonight, which will most likely be fun, but nevertheless seems like a waste of time. Fuck, I really need to get my shit together, in more ways than one.

Time for a cigarette, simply because there is nothing else to do.

I now know that Australia has at least three verifiably bad-ass musical exports: AC/DC, Nick Cave, and Destroyer 666.

Destroyer 666: Cold Steel... For An Iron Age

Go buy this album NOW. For years I laughed at the name, only to be missing out on some quality metal. This album has everything I've been craving from a metal record lately: raw-but-not-shitty production, riffs from hell, and atmosphere. In some ways it reminds me of latter-day Immortal; in others, all the good thrash albums from the '80s, cross-bred with black metal and some of the more musically intriguing death metal. Fuck, this is good shit. I need to find more of their albums.

Poverty has forced me to not see Blue Oyster Cult tomorrow. I really can't afford to drop $25 (or more likely $35- thanks for nothing, you cocksuckers at Ticketmaster and ClearChannel), plus gas money, to go to The Woodlands for a mere hour. I don't feel as disappointed as I thought I would.

My throat's almost entirely back to normal, which is good. It's nice being able to swallow without feeling like there's a bird's nest lodged in my esophagus.

Another quiet evening. I'm working on what will most likely become my next RPG.net column, and hopefully something much greater- something worthy of publication, even. Either way, it's something I'm compelled to write, which, as my last column discussed, is rare.

Only my blind readers, of which there are none, will fail to notice that the look of this commentary has changed. As of this post, I've also enabled comments, thereby allowing the peanut gallery to squawk their hearts out. Go nuts, folks.

Take it easy, and for the love of yours truly, buy my novel, and leave some comments on Amazon.

GGGYYYYYEEEEEEEAAAAAAARGHHHHHHHH. I feel restless and calm at the same time, as if I was some kind of shitty Taoist metaphor or something. If I could be doing anything right now, I'd be charging down a hill with a big fucking axe in my hands, screaming at the top of my lungs. At the bottom of the hill would be a cask of ale the size of a school bus, which I would tear into with my axe. Then I would drink until I passed out. When I woke up, I'd grab my axe, drink some more, and run off screaming, never to be seen again.

Yep, that sounds strangely satisfying.

Apparently I have strep throat, which is a first, and hopefully last, for me. It's far enough from pleasant to be in the neighborhood of miserable- kinda like leaving say, Spring, and nearing Tomball. Hopefully I'll be over it sooner than later.

Dave's (not mine, the other one) fry-a-thon was, as one would expect from a deep-frying bonanza, spectacular. Everything from battered Ultimate Cheeseburgers to Gummi Worms to Kit Kat-stuffed Zingers went into the grease and emerged generally tastier than before. Kudos to the Mann for throwing down the cash for it all.

I'm going to sleep. This illness wears me out.

Kierkegaard grows more fascinating by the day.

New RPG.net column is up. For a while, I thought it wouldn't get posted, since it's shitty.

I wish it was time to clock out. I want to go home and drink a couple beers before I go see Orange Goblin.

Per the recommendation of one of the fine folks at Duna Records, I decided to try tequila (not Hornitos, as suggested, but the free bottle of Cuervo Anejo I've got at the house), double lime, and soda. So far, so good, and I don't like tequila at all.

It may sound heretic to many, but I fucking dig Black Sabbath's work with Ronnie James Dio, especially Heaven and Hell. Put on "Neon Knights," "Heaven and Hell," "Children of the Sea," or "Die Young" and you'll know what I mean, especially if you're willing to put aside any Ozzy-era prejudices.

"Ride out
Defenders of the realm
Captains at the helm
Sail across the sea of light!"

HELL YEAH!

I'm gonna see Orange Goblin on Friday. Everyone's invited; it's at the Axiom, costs eight bucks, and the doors open at ten. Show your hessian pride and be there! If you don't make it, you fucking better go see Blue Oyster Cult on the 15th.

ACHTUNG!
This is fiction, for your quiet, solitary, not-so-late-night enjoyment. Comments can be directed to dave at axismundisum dot com, though I expect none.

Pardon the shitty formatting.

-----

Yep. This is it.

There’s two beers in the fridge and a couple dozen books stacked against the wall. It’s not even ten o’clock. I

wish it was two or three; that way it’d feel less pathetic. No dice, though. It’s not even ten.

Guess I’ll drink a beer and read.


***

Where the fuck are my keys? Goddamn it, did I leave them at the bar? “Did I leave my keys at the bar?”

“No. Christ, Julia, we haven’t even been to the bar yet.”

“You’ve got booze on the brain, babe. Might want to lay off for a while.”

“Where the fuck are my keys, then?”

“We don’t know, Julia.”

I shouldn’t have worn these shoes. Every time I wear heels I twist my ankle or forget to put on eyeliner or

something. If it wasn’t for these shoes, I’d have my goddamned keys. They must still be at home. Shit, did I lock myself

out? “Did I lock them in my apartment?”

“I don’t know.”

“Me neither. Maybe. It’s fine. You can stay at my place and get your landlord to let you in tomorrow morning.”

Fuck that. “I’m going to run home and check.”

“Do you want to meet us at the bar? It’s almost ten already.”

Bitch. Telling me I drink too much, then getting desperate to make second happy hour. “Yeah, fine. I’ll be right

there.”

Where the fuck is my cell phone? Fuck these shoes.


***

I can’t believe that dude wouldn’t let sixteen cents slide. It I should’ve just stolen the cigarettes. They were

right there on the counter.

Yeah, right.


***

Seriously, how the hell is sitting on a balcony in the Alps wrapped in a blanket supposed to cure weird-ass

medical conditions? Jesus!

“Tony, have you read this book?”

“What book?”

“The one you lent me. It’s good, but the premise is ridiculous!”

“I think that’s the point.”

“So you thought it was kinda stupid too, huh?”

“Man, just read the book. I’m busy.”

Busy getting ready for a date, the bastard. I get this book and he gets a girl. Fuck it, though— he’s also got to

go to work tomorrow. I think I’m going to get some blankets and try out the “rest cure” while he’s answering phones.

Jesus.

I can’t believe I just said that.


-----

What a fuckin' weekend. The Mayday party at Andy and Jay's was a resounding success, despite the threat of perpetually bad weather. Plenty of good people, good times, and good booze; the only way it could've been better is if the party had been thrown around sunset in a nice open field or park with a massive sound system crankin' out the Almighty Riff. That's just me, though I don't think anyone else would disagree.

It's Monday afternoon, and after getting shitloads of sleep all weekend, I'm still worn out. Mentally, more than anything- I need to do some writing to clear the skull. Right now I'll just drink a beer and listen to BOC.