Pops (pointing to an apartment building on the other side of Calle Sierra Candela): I've never seen any lights on in that building. Is it an apartment building?

Me: It looks like one.

Cesar: Maybe they're all blind.

(Laughter.)

Pops (pointing to an office building a couple blocks from CSC on Palmas): I've also noticed that that building never turns off its lights.

Cesar: Maybe those people aren't blind.

A horrible transcript, I know, but you fuckers weren't hanging out with me and my pops and Cesar, who is currently working on the Kierkegaard portrait for me.

Mexico City needs some 24-hour tiendas that sell cigarettes, because I'm down to my last Raleigh. (The filtered ones come 20 to a pack, cost roughly $1.60, and ain't got nothin' on the unfiltered ones. Big surprise.)

Oh, yeah: I watched Wisegirls and Ali G: In Da House tonight. Both were enjoyable. The former gave me a modicum of respect for, of all people, Mariah fucking Carey, and the latter was pretty damned funny despite the incredibly formulaic plot. Having never seen Da Ali G Show before, I must say that it was a laugh and a half, and even my pops seemed to enjoy what he saw of it. I also saw the final half-hour of some Czech movie about the communist military (it was fuckin' hilarious, and rather sad too) and the last twenty-odd minutes of 28 Days Later, which I dug the first time and appreciated more the second time around. I've been thinking about zombie stand-offs ever since.

I think it's time to hit the sack and read some of Titus Groan.

1 AM. I've got a sense of deja vu, because I'm sitting at the same ink-scarred, slightly undersized computer desk that I used back in 1997. My brother and I haven't had the chance to scrawl more email addresses, phone numbers, and metal-related slogans on the desk for the past few years, so it's definitely become a relic of the past, a testimony to those first couple years after Venezuela.

It's not just the desk, though. I came in here after my folks hit the sack and got online, and I immediately felt the same connection I used to. Not to this desk specifically, but to the net, which over the years has been a good place to turn to when you're feeling very far away from friends and familiar situations. It's been a long time since I felt that way very strongly- maybe as long as six years- but I'm almost comforted to know that despite the net's increased shittiness, there's still a glimmer of the connected feeling it once provided so regularly.

Unrelated:

-I haven't seen a single cat since I got to Mexico City. I haven't even seen many dogs, though I did take a picture of one running around the ruins at Teotihuacan.

-It's very odd being somewhere that doesn't require air conditioning and where you can (hell, have to) leave doors and windows open. My time in Houston, and with the ferrets, is obvious.

-Since my sleeping schedule has been thrown off, I spent a couple sleepless hours last night thinking about Infinite Jest, and how I should have brought it with me. I don't know that I've ever thought that way about a book, with the exception of some of Lovecraft's works, particularly Dreamlands-related ones.

-I started a short story on the plane down here, and intend on finishing it during the return trip to Texas. I'm curious to see what such a limited time frame of work will yield.

Well, here I am in Mexico City. It's pretty much like I remembered it, although the folks live in a more central location than the last time. I'm drinking Corona de barril, am slightly sunburned from spending a few hours climbing pyramids at Teotihuacan, and am smoking Raleigh cigarettes, which are gloriously unfiltered, oval in shape, and come 18 to a pack. I traded a pack of Luckies for 'em with the security guard downstairs, who is one hell of an artist. I'm gonna have him ink a portrait of Kierkegaard for me.

Paris Hilton's bony frame can be see on billboards and posters all over the city, along with metric fucktons of cell phone ads, weirdly familiar cars, and a smog level that has to be seen (and breathed) to be believed.

So, yeah, I have nothing to say about Ciudad Mexico that hasn't been said by every other lazy gringo that's come down here. Thankfully, unlike a lot of said lazy gringos, I'm just familiar enough with living in a Latin city to not be too thrown off by this place. It's easier just to shrug and accept things for what they are.

Hope all is well with y'all.

Sixty hours from now I'll be on my way to Mexico City. The only thing that makes me nervous about the trip is the time I'll have to spend in airports. I haven't been in one since 1999, and all evidence points to it being an even more unpleasant experience than it was six years ago.

Tonight was unexpectedly pleasant. Matt and Herr Professor Davis dropped by, and we headed out to see the Observers at Mary Jane's. Shit was talked, beer was consumed, good times were had.

That's it for now.

I feel this dude's pain. Kind of- I save most of my half-read magazines, but they end up on the floor, or in a box somewhere, until my attention span goes to shit and I want to read two or three pages instead of fifty or sixty, or want to cut out pages to decorate my walls with.

Speaking of magazine subscriptions, those fuckers at McSweeney's/The Believer still haven't sent me a tracking number, or even a reply to my email inquiring about said tracking number. Dave Eggers must be busy doing something promotional.

WE MADE IT

Ext. Sunset. Sweeping panorama shot of a major metropolitan city. The setting summer sun sends spikes of hazy copper light between buildings. As the camera moves slowly, but not too slowly, across houses, storefronts, apartment buildings, etc., the inhabitants of said buildings come into view, either stepping out their doors or opening and leaning out of windows. It rapidly becomes clear that every doorway and window and porch is populated, and everyone is looking at the sunset. Nobody speaks to, or even looks at, anyone else.

Zoom in on an assortment of people, one by one. Each of them wears an expression of extreme despair, their visages those of potential suicides moments before they follow through. Some people are crying, noiselessly and with almost no movement.

Close-up on the hands of one person after another. Everyone is holding something that can facilitate suicide: an open bottle of pills, a razor blade, a ligature, a handgun, a glass of poison.

Pan to the skyline again, hold for a while.

Cut to series. Blood dripping onto pavement. Pills striking the ground and bouncing or rolling in all directions. Shell casings caroming off of door frames. A noose made from a power cord, taut against a balcony railing. A razor blade falling to the planks of a wooden deck. Empty glasses shattering against brick walls.

Pan back to the sunset. Hold for a while, again, and fade to black.

End.

Music: Jesu, "Your Path To Divinity" and/or "Walk on Water"

Life is good, but man, people suck. Suck like a coprophage with his/her lips stitched to a prolapsed rectum.

OH, FUCK. I made the mistake of Googling "prolapsed rectum" to make sure I used the term correctly, and the motherfuckin' image I ran across has got me wanting to puke up the four beers I've had since I got off work three hours ago. Jesus fuck.

Anyway, if you're reading this, it's more than likely that you don't suck as much as the aforementioned sutured shit-eaters, and for that I give you my utmost thanks.

It's time to do some editing, and then it's off to bed, where I will read Anglo-German WWI naval history before visiting Nasht and Kaman-Thah.

I get nostalgic a lot. Tonight's particular case of nostalgia was spurred on by listening to American Pyscho by the Misfits, which, no matter what any cuntrag purist may say, is a fucking good record. Anyway, it makes me think back to the summer of 1997, when I was fresh out of high school, had just returned from a solo trip to Britain, and my family had moved back to Spring. Both my brother and I had this album (I on tape, he on CD), and I recall many a day spent listening to it, along with an Against All Authority/Operation Ivy tape Bill had given me and maybe some other albums that I can't recall and probably never will. It was a fantastic summer, man: I was back in a neighborhood I knew, I got to see old friends like Andy (in Louisiana) and Brad (still only a few blocks away) for a few weeks, had my first internet connection at home, and was about to head to Mary Washington College, where I would meet some of the finest people of my life. Add some MonsterVision to the equation, and life was good.

It's about potential. There was so much back then. There's plenty these days, but it's not the same. I miss not having responsibilities.

"We're living on this island Earth!"

Another Thursday night, or more accurately, Friday morning. I sat on my back balcony and drank beer as I watched some dude in a tie undergo a sobriety test across the street. It was boring, to say the least, but I bet the dude who'd been pulled over thought otherwise, and the young lady in his car's passenger seat probably wasn't going to put out after the incident.

I've been good about writing every afternoon and morning this week, but man, completely fucking off sounds good right now. I can't afford to shirk my self-imposed duties more than a couple nights a week, because I need to make steady progress with CH and Unheimlich.

Fuck this equivocation. I'm going to sit here and see what happens.

I'm starting to feel nominally professional about my writing. This feeling has come about mainly due to Angela Livingston, who a while back offered to help me find ways to get Critical Hits published and has been a persistent, but not annoying, force towards making an effort towards in that direction. We met up early this past Sunday afternoon, and she put forth, in simple terms and on paper, her strategy for getting CH in the hands of potentially interested folks. She also delivered unto me a copy of a particular word-processing program, which was lent to her on my behalf by one Match Kilfoil. Cheers, comrades.

Anyway, I've started revising Critical Hits again, as well as transferring/creating newer Unheimlich material. I am thoroughly enjoying both activities, and have even set out to discipline myself in regards to working on the two projects. Should I not lapse, I will work on CH in the afternoons before work, and Unheimlich after work. If anyone has one of my CH manuscripts that they're not reading and would be willing to return to me, I'd appreciate it; trying to read 364 pages on-screen while making notes is a bitch.

This new attempt at being professional, or at the very least disciplined, is refreshing. It almost reminds me of the early days of writing Axis Mundi Sum, when I would routinely crank out ten pages every afternoon or evening. I doubt that I'll ever get back to that level, but I'm not sure if I want to, given how much I hate rewriting. (Critical Hits is a slightly different story, because I haven't looked at it in ages, and the writing I'm doing these days should do CH a world of good.)

Tomorrow I need to make some phone calls. I feel bad about not making them sooner, but I can only hope that my guilt will be assuaged by the folks on the other end of the line. I also need to remember to bring Infinite Jest with me to work- earlier I found myself at my desk eyeballing the clock for the next reasonable time I could go have a cigarette and read more of it. Alas, but not really alas, I brought The Puppet and the Dwarf today instead of IJ. Useful change of pace, at the very least, and a fucking great treatment of Christianity- albeit one requiring a modern dictionary of pyschoanalysis und so weiter.

To top everything off, Elspeth is back in Houston, and I should get to see her this weekend.

Fuckin' A, things are All Right.

now playing: Sepultura, Beneath the Remains

P.S. Thanks to my new turntable, I rediscovered just exactly where I became enamored of the phrase 'all right,' only to turn it into a pseudo-philosophy: the bonus/"hidden' song on Kyuss' Sky Valley. Dig it, especially the pronunciation of "all right." THAT is the way it needs to be said when it means what I want it to mean.

FUCK to the millionth power!

The new Battlestar Galactica is the best damned television I have seen since Twin Peaks. It doesn't matter that I've seen neither on television, but only via VHS, DVD, download, etc.

WATCH BATTLESTAR GALACTICA. NOW.

Export-related synchronicity: I'm drinking Foster's while listening to AC/DC. "Shoot to Thrill" indeed.

"That 99% of compulsive thinkers' thinking is about themselves; that 99% of this self-directed thinking consists of imagining and then getting ready for things that are going to happen to them; and then, weirdly, that if they stop to think about it, that 100% of the things they spend 99% of their time and energy imagining and trying to prepare for all the contingencies and consequences of are never good... In short that 99% of the head's thinking activity consists of trying to scare the everliving shit out of itself."

-David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

Seems like every time I have something even mildly interesting to post here, I think about it a bit and decide that it's not worth the effort for now, probably because my words would be better suited to conversations with a select few people. In this particular case, I don't know if I actually know the people I'd like to have this conversation with, but that isn't stopping me from being silent for now.

Time to listen to some Ned's Atomic Dustbin 12" 45s and polish off this beer before I lurch into work. Note to self: get a new needle for the turntable.

UGH FUCK.

I love, Love, LOVE thinking, about almost anything. At this particular moment, I love thinking about utterly impossible scenarios. I will give five hundred dollars (incrementally) to anyone who can guess what the particular impossible scenario in question is- assuming they don't have access to my browser history.

(It's not pornographic, by the way.)

Night one of a hectic workweek is over. By the time I go to bed, I should have some new Unheimlich material posted- rough stuff, and nowhere as eloquent as the stuff I put down on paper with a pen* last week, but it's a start.

I came home to find four bottles of wine in my kitchen. Four large bottles, two of California Chardonnay, two of Italian red table. There was also some kind of cheese tray in the fridge, resting on a shelf above the Chardonnay. I suspect that Tracey brought them over, and that both wine and cheese were remnants of a party; I also suspect that neither she nor my brother will take umbrage at me having a couple-three glasses, though I will consult my brother before emptying any particular bottle.

On a completely related note that I will not expound upon until certain things happen: YE GODS!

*I knew I had my pen with me when I went to work today. Around 3:55 PM, I emptied my jeans, donned my Dickies, and transferred the contents of my pockets as I usually do. While at work, I noticed my pen missing, and swore that I'd brought it. An hour or two later, while taking a cigarette break, I noticed a pen in the breezeway, sans cap (which was, miraculously, a few feet away) and much begrimed. Upon closer inspection, I determined that it was MY PEN, and that someone had driven over it. A quick test ensured its continued value as a writing utensil, and a little scrubbing removed most of the dirt. Reunited, my pen and I have done little this evening, but does that matter? Of course not. All that matters is that my pen rides by my side again, and will do so until it decides that it is neither wanted nor useful, whereupon it will vanish or be cast into a paper-and-aluminum grave. Either fate will be met with morose resignation.**

**I don't think I've waxed poetic about anything to this degree, at least in writing, ever since I consigned the Blue Bastard to the scrap heap, and I don't think anyone but my brother read those particular words.

Good news, bad news, and a little of both.

The good: I did some laundry. Not all of it, but enough to hold me over for a while and allow me to sleep on clean sheets.

The bad: I've heard, but not verified, that Velvet Cacoon has done away with themselves. Not literally, but the band is reputedly no more. While I selfishly wish they would continue to record, I can respect LVG and SGL's decision, and anticipate any solo work they may do in the future. With luck, one day I may inadvertently consume drugs with LVG, and ask her where the cover of "How the Last Day Came and Stayed and Faded Into Simulated Rain" came from.

A little of both: I just spent more money than I should have at Powells.com, buying books that are not particularly easy to come by at respectable prices. Powell's managed to convince me with their reasonable price tags and willingness to provide almost everything I searched for.

Among the aforementioned books is Herman Melville's poetic magnum opus, "Clarel." I first heard about it when reading a biography of him, and until now the only copies I could find were outrageously expensive. This one cost me a mere *cough* $36.50 *cough* and will inevitably give me something to pore over for a long time. It'll certainly be easier reading than Pound's "Cantos," which is a fine volume but hardly an easily digestible one.

I truly love Herman Melville's work. While I haven't read Pierre or Redburn yet, I have devoured most of his other major works, and I would not hesitate to call him one of this country's best-ever literary offerings. The fact that I named one of my ferrets after a character from Omoo is testament enough to my appreciation of Melville, I'd reckon.

The other books I bought include Nick Blinko's The Primal Screamer, Edward Carey's Observatory Mansions, and Thomas Ligotti's My Work Is Not Yet Done. I do not expect any of them to disappoint.

This is an excellent commentary on the state of BoingBoing, a weblog I've been reading on a daily basis for at least two years now. A while back- I can't find the post in question- I believe I briefly went off on BB and some of the folks who run it. Back then, the only person I knew of who felt similarly was Wiley Wiggins, though I reckon I could've found more if I'd bothered looking. That said, the link above, especially the user comments, does a good job of pointing out BB's weak spots, and I recommend reading it if you're a BB reader.

It's time to write. Fuck not having MS Word; I need to get going with Unheimlich. Expect an update to the Unheimlich site soon.

Oh yeah: listen to Rudimentary Peni.

"So, dude, what's on the agenda for this afternoon?"
"I'm gonna clean my room, by which I really mean I'm going to clean my desk off, pick some shit off the floor, and wire my turntable. Then I'm going to drink beer and think about doing the dishes, which I'll probably end up doing around 2 AM."

And now the first of what may end up being a running series of record reviews entitled "Shit I Got Really Cheap That Kicks Mucho Ass."

Kyuss, Sky Valley
Vinyl LP
purchased for a quarter sometime in 2000 at the annual SHSU radio station sale

Years before I bought this, a buddy of mine had purchased Kyuss' Blues for the Red Sun and talked it up for a while, until he gave up on rock n' roll, moved back to England, and developed a drinking habit similar to my current one. (He was roughly 16 at the time, whereas I'm 25 now.) I remembered the record being pretty good, but didn't think much about it until I found this gem for a mere twenty-five cents.

For a long time during my last year of college, I went to sleep listening to Sky Valley. I would say it is the best thing Kyuss ever did, and one of the finest collections of soulful riffs ever put together. The whole desert rock scene of days past is pretty much crystallized here: vast sound, loose-but-tight musicianship, slightly off-kilter lyrical themes, etc. etc. Fuck, man, just go buy the album. You probably won't find it for a quarter, and probably not on vinyl, but you are doing yourself a disservice if you don't listen to it. It's an album for long summer evenings, and if you don't like those, well, you're missing out on something incredibly beautiful.

Sin City was some kinda enjoyable.

These days, I am exceptionally good at fucking myself over.

In times like these, Avril Lavigne just makes me feel worse, so I am going to listen to Velvet Cacoon instead, after watching some BSG.

Danke schön, Herr Irischer-Amerikaner Miliff, for having turned me on to Rammstein's kick-ass videos over the past couple weeks. Danke motherfuckin' schön.

Rammstein is not a "metal" band that I would usually pay much attention to, but having watched their videos, and enjoyed some of their singles, over the years, I've decided
that, in my world, they are "casual metal," i.e. metal that I can listen to in the presence of non-metalheads without offending them. Don't take this as any sort of weakness on Rammstein's part, but rather a comment on the poor taste of people who don't enjoy metal and can only handle something as relatively standard as Rammstein.



That said, their fucking videos are easily some of the best I've ever seen, and Gott im Himmel, the video for "Sonne" makes me want to do drugs and have sex with Snow White, and the "Keine Lust" video almost- almost- makes me wish I was fat, so I could disinterestedly watch hot dames make out in my limo while I smoked a cigar.



I would trade all the cheap thrills to see Elspeth this weekend. Alas, motherfuckin' alas... she is outta town.

P.S. I have utterly failed to do much writing this morning, but I have finished a book and the second volume of Strangehaven, which may very well be my favorite comic these days.

Tschüss, kameraden.