I was going to discuss some jumbled thoughts I've had about morality and the approaches thereto, but frankly, I don't have the energy or focus to do so right now. Shit, I don't want to do anything except drink more beer, smoke a cigarette, and bask in the pre-dawn glow of my three-day weekend.

It's official: Brant Bjork and the Bros, August 11th, Walter's on Washington. Be there.

Not being able to see anyone except coworkers four out of seven days a week is demoralizing enough, but when I think about the possibility of spending the next couple years with a schedule diametrically opposed to everyone else's, it's downright bleak.

I pray to God that in the near future I find an agent for Critical Hits, and, more importantly, start writing a new novel. I dread to imagine what'll happen if I don't put something down on paper soon.

Now playing: Blut Aus Nord, The Work Which Transforms God

I woke up around nine this morning and couldn't get back to sleep, so here I am, awake at an hour I'm usually not. At least I have the whole day ahead of me, unlike yesterday, when I got out of bed at three o'clock. The night shift does strange things to the ol' circadian rhythm.

I went to Jay's party last night with AJ, and while not as big a gathering as I'd expected, it was fun. We left around one o'clock or so, and I rudely didn't say my goodbyes, so here's an apology to everyone.

It's time to stretch out and read.

Goatsnake has a new EP, Trampled Under Hoof, out. Buy it now. Any band that can write songs as bad-ass as "El Coyote," "Black Cat Bone," and "A Truckload of Momma's Muffins" deservers all the support they can get.

There is a party at 1920 W. Alabama tomorrow. It starts at roughly 9 PM, and I hope to see you there, drinking beer and havin' a good fucking time.

Until I get all the piddly shit fixed on the Blue Bastard, driving will make me feel like Ichabod Crane, always hoping to get to the bridge before the Headless Horseman catches me. Inspection and tail light bezel aside, I do have a pretty sweet Jim Anchower upgrade in mind. It will be put into effect tomorrow, since I've got the next three days off.

Go buy Local Angel by Brant Bjork if you haven't done so already.

Please send me $1,000, preferably in cash, so I can purchase fuckloads of metal albums and talk about them to people who don't give a fuck about metal. That means you.

I realized a long time ago that my taste in metal is nowhere as obscure as non-metalheads think it is, if they think that at all, since most metal is obscure to the general public. Nevertheless, since I'm neither an obscurantist or GRIMM AND KVLT AS FVCK, I will hereby issue statements on a fairly well-known metal record, simply because I want to.

Voivod, "War and Pain": Having really only heard Voivod's weirder, more clinical "schizometal" (thanks, Erik Davis, for that one), this came as a surprise. Fuckin' A, it's the archetype of well-done American thrash in 1984, mais du Quebec. Of course, my version is the remastered one, and I have no idea what it sounded like for some sixteen-year-old headbanger when it was originally released twenty years ago, but I bet it fuckin' ruled.

Saint Vitus put out an album named "Born Too Late." Sometimes I feel the same way, but I know I couldn't have been put on this earth at any other time, as cool as it may be to have seen the birth of metal as we know it (among other things). No, I'm here and now, and it's good fuckin' times.

I was sitting at work having a cigarette this evening when something odd happened. Right behind our building, abutted against our barred and covered rear driveway, is a bar, and a fairly popular one, as far as I can tell. Some dude comes out and kneels down next to a Jeep Cherokee parked on the other side of the bars and begins letting air out of one of the tires. He didn't punch a hole in it, but was merely letting the air out through the valve. At first, I thought he had a flat and was filling his tire with an air compressor I couldn't see, but then I noticed that a) the tire was fine, and b) upon standing up, I couldn't see anything next to him. Several times, he got up, looked up and down the street, and went on with his less than valiant attempt to deflate the tire.

I took in all of this within the span of about twenty seconds, and within the first ten I realized that this guy was probably pissed at someone in the bar and was getting some kind of pathetic, petty revenge on them by letting the air out of their tire. Not being one to yell "WHAT THE FUCK, DUDE?", despite being on the other side of an impenetrable wall of bars, I took a moment to figure out how to stop him. After all, not only was his attempt weak, but I couldn't just stand there and let it happen.

The solution to the problem was easy. I coughed loudly, and the echo made sure he heard me. Clearly, he hadn't thought about looking down the driveway while getting back at his new enemy, and he jumped up when he saw me standing twenty feet away, staring at him. He applied pressure to the tire valve stem one more time, then jumped in his truck- parked next to the target of his vandalism- and sped off.

I went back to work bewildered by the man's cowardice, pleased that I had taken care of things without any semblance of violence or threats (to him or myself, mainly myself), and chuckling at the fact that despite the vandal's efforts, the Cherokee owner's right rear tire had lost no more than a pound or two of pressure.

Well, it's official: Realm of Chaos has to be one of Bolt Thrower's finest works. Along with ...For Victory, it's one of their most consistent albums. Of course, even when certain albums aren't solid from beginning to end, Bolt Thrower never fail to deliver. They are the 88mm of metal, punching holes in the weak armor of all others. Should I ever command an army, I will have all of my armored divisions outfitted with grotesquely loud sound systems which will blare Bolt Thrower at 300 decibels. If my superior firepower (said tanks will have fucking 12-inch naval guns as their primary cannon) doesn't win the day, then my foes will flee in fear of the mighty Bolt Thrower.

Bolt Thrower, who are anti-war, probably wouldn't appreciate this, but they have to be aware that their music is the sonic equivalent of a tank division rolling through no-man's land.

I'm drunk, sleepy, and listening to Voivod, Blut Aus Nord, Cruachan, and Bolt Thrower. Earlier I hung out with AJ, watched Better
Luck Tomorrow with the Mann, drank beer with my brother and
company, and took a nap. Like is pretty damned good.



Within thirty minutes I will hit the sack, and life will be even better.

Quality happenings in el mundo del cadaver, folks.

-Work's over for the week.
-Got paid.
-Have beer and cigarettes.
-Listening to Cathedral, Deathspell Omega, and Grand Magus.
-Probably gaming this weekend.
-Making a trip to the record store tomorrow, since I now have a job that allows for such things without fiduciary stress.

All right.

Ha! Some dude wrote a review of Axis Mundi Sum for Amazon, bitching about the lack of an ending and my presence in the book as a character and the author. He said he hoped it would be the first book of a trilogy, and if it wasn't, it would be even worse.

He's got some valid points. The author-as-character device is hackneyed, but it was amusing at the time. As for the ending, well, finality ain't much fun. Neatly wrapping up a book's worth of ramshackle adventures didn't strike me as the right thing to do, especially since half the characters- Kellogg, Null and Void, and Jennyquinn and Leigh, mainly- weren't in a position to conclude their escapades.

Fuck it, though. At least he read the thing and wasn't completely appalled. Then again, he did recommend reading one of Dan Brown's books instead of AMS. This doesn't strike me as a particularly creative, or even apt, suggestion, since (as far as I understand), Brown is a poor man's Umberto Eco when it comes to conspiracy fiction, while I'm the equivalent of a lazy fuck sleeping off a hangover in one of Eco's semiotics classes, and make no claims to much of anything. Comparing us is a waste of effort, but at least I'm the one not wasting it.

I would very much like to live in a world that resembled a Nicholas Roerich painting.

What a fuckin' night. Morning. Whatever. My neighbor's friend's boyfriend and she (the friend) are having some kind of fight and it's keeping me from sleeping. Not that it really matters, but fuck, I wanted to be in bed by 3:30 so I could get up at 11 and have some time to kill before work. It's 4:30 now, and if I'm lucky I'll get outta bed by 1 PM.

The worst part is that I'm out of cigarettes and alcohol.

I read BoingBoing every day. There are some interesting things to be found there, but to a large degree, it irks the living fuck out of me. You see, BoingBoing is run by a few intelligent folks that talk about shit I usually don't have very much interest in: copyright laws, the Disney company, wireless networking, blogs, and so forth. I realize that plenty of people care about these things, but I'm not usually one of them.

However, this isn't really the problem. My bitch, and Wiley Wiggins once voiced a related opinion using a Bob Black essay as a reference, is that they almost fetishize every little gadget, cultural trend, legal battle, piece of furniture, and hip blog they run across. Cory Doctorow, who's a sci-fi writer and a good one at that, has to be the worst offender. His whorish use of the adverb "screamingly" makes me want to hunt him down and tell him that NOT EVERYTHING HE GETS A KICK OUT OF IS REALLY THAT FUCKING GREAT! Another violator is Xeni Jardin, a writer for Wired among other things. She strikes me as the ultimate high-end, post-ironic hipster with an iPod and a fuckin' camera phone. BORING!

Fuck this. I'm not thinking coherently enough to make even a quasi-logical argument. Not that I need to, because this is just a near-buzzed diatribe. I have nothing personal against the BoingBoing staff; I'd just prefer to sit on the porch with a cigarette and a beer and shoot the breeze than run around talking about wifi and DRM. If some lawmaker thinks downloading songs is theft, or that using an open wifi connection is wrong, fine; there are plenty of other laws not pertaining to serious moral or ethical that suck. Just break 'em and be done with it.

I can't believe I've wasted as much time on this as I have. Fuck.

Getting home between as late as 4:15 is a weird feeling, but so far, life at the new job is worth it. I stay busy enough to keep my brain from rotting, but not so busy that I get pissed about having to work too hard. I also get to go to sleep when the sun rises, if I'm so inclined, which I was yesterday.

I think working the night shift may end up being just what I need.

I started my new job yesterday. While hardly exciting, it seems like it'll be all right, in the blase sense; the people are decent, there's just enough work to keep my busy, and it requires more thought on my part than any other job I've had. Tonight will be my first night shift, from 5 PM until 3:30 AM. I hope it goes smoothly.

I thought there was something else to say, but I'll be damned if I can remember what.

I have to thank the International Channel for pickin' me up last night. Around nine I hit the couch with some cold wine and had the pleasure of watching what is now one of my favorite kung fu flicks, Buddhist Fist. See this movie as soon as you can, especially if you like a bit of humor with your chop-socky. It's got bad-ass fight scenes, tons of item-fu, a recognizable plot, a creepy hunchback, shabby-looking cigarettes, hardcore old monks, a crafty xiang qi player, an unstoppably lazy but fierce temple guard, and hilarious dialogue. (It was dubbed, which I usually don't like, but it added to the comedy.)

I'm also writing again. What'll come of it, I don't know, but it doesn't matter. Life ain't too bad, dude.

"Left hand Buddha Palm, right hand Buddha Fist!"
"Sleeping Buddha!"
"Drunken Buddha!"
"Furious Buddha!"

Yeah, life is fuckin' sweet. Especially since I just found a bunch of Buddhist Fist .wav files!

Deep sense of unease. Much of it is probably the result of being nervous about starting a new job in a couple days, but there's something else I can't quite put my finger on.

At least I've got Local Angel to listen to. Brant Bjork can do no wrong.

It is done.

Now I have a few days of respite before I jump into the maw of a new job. Let's hope I can make the most of them.

Ha ha! My work-induced apathy rules. Here's a snippet of a conversation I had with a customer today. Apparently my answers weren't emotionally fulfilling, and my lack of small talk affronted his sensibilities as a responsible consumer.

(N.B. The actual topic of conversation is beside the point, so don't worry if you don't know what's being discussed. I guarantee that it's boring.)

14:33:25] Aymen : Once I purchase it do I need to set it up on Plesk
14:33:30] Aymen : or is it done automatically
[14:33:34] Aymen : as part of the purchase?
[14:33:37] Dave S : You need to set it up.
[14:34:58] Aymen : Thanks. Is there anything else that I can help you with today?
[14:36:43] Aymen : Well thanks and have a good day. I thought at least one of us should be doing the Nice Sales Rep thing since you don't seem to be in the mood.

Damn right I wasn't in the mood. I'm never in the mood to put up with human colostomy bags like this. Fuck customer service. Proofreading will inevitably be better.

I think I started this bit of fiction two and a half years ago. I've looked at it from time to time, but never gone anywhere with it. Given my mood as of late, the stars may be right to expand it.

Please note that this isn't all I've written, and it's by no means a finished, or even polished, product. Comments are nonetheless welcome.


A year ago she took up the worship of a dead god, acquired and failed to kick a fungus habit, and was photographed in the company of SS men thought to have been executed on the Eastern Front in 1944.

It was not a good year for her, according to the liquor store clerk and the revolver-carrying Malaysian in the back room of her favorite Chinese restaurant. She, of course, said otherwise.

Despite the demise of MonsterVision years ago, Joe Bob Briggs is still alive, well, and funny as ever. He is the embodiment of everything that is good about Texas.

In the spirit of Chin Shengt'an and The Idler magazine's reader-submitted take on his "Thirty-Three Happy Moments," I give you The Corpse's Handful of Happy Moments. I am in an exceptionally good mood, so I might as well try and lift the spirits of my six dedicated readers.


Waking up at two o'clock in the afternoon and drinking a beer. Ah, is this not happiness?


Spending a long evening by the pool conversing and drinking warm beer with someone you barely know. Ah, is this not happiness?


Being surrounded by good books in every room of the house, and having the time to peruse any of them at my leisure. Ah, is this not happiness?


Expecting a new album to arrive in the mail any day. Ah, is this not happiness?


Not being at work. Ah, is this not happiness?


Having a little money in my pocket that I can spend however I please. Ah, is this not happiness?


Casual correspondence with friends and the possibility of spending time with them. Ah, is this not happiness?


Being four blocks from the public library. Ah, is this not happiness?


Yes, a solid theory of leisure and idleness is most definitely key to recognizing the greatness of life. My thanks to Lin Yutang, Len Bracken, The Idler magazine, and everyone else who knows that the best way to live life is to keep it casual.

Hinda65



"Now it's time to walk the line
It's a beauty so pure and so fine
Watch the chumps go floatin' by
Three suckers high in the six-five


I think it's time to meet her
It's so easy to please her
Now we take it all 'til the end of time
She's a ride, she's a sweetie pie


Took a month but now I'm movin'
Back to the world where I belong in


Don't mind the fuzz, we'll burn 'em up
We're so bad when we fuck it up
Rollin' in downtown
To get our kicks underground


She's all mine, she's givin' me sunlight
Feelin' her curves, now I'm livin' the high life


Ain't nothin' gonna stop the rock tonight.


I got the rock tonight
Feelin' good it's so right


Ain't nothin' gonna stop the rock tonight"

Last night I happened to be watching the news and they brought up the bizarre coronation of Reverend Moon in the halls of Congress. This happened months ago, and only now the news mentions it. They also called him the "head of the Unitarian church." They didn't even fucking tell their anchor the proper name of the church!

There was something else that was utterly late, but I can't remember what it was.

I don't know that I've ever felt as close to a literary character than I do to the protagonists of Haruki Murakami novels. I've only read Dance Dance Dance, and I'm working on The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, but something about the narrators strikes a very deep chord with me. Sometimes I very much feel that I'm in the same tiny subclass of humanity that they are.

I don't know what to make of nights like this, slightly shiftless, alienated, thoughtful, aiming-for-something, Murakami nights. I'd wish that I had someone to share them with, but then they wouldn't be what they are. Unless I was at a party, where whole nights like this get condensed into the space of minutes, or maybe an hour. Those moments when you're alone and are ambivalent to the presence of everyone else, yet are incredibly aware of the world.

I take back my statement about sharing moments like this at parties; I wouldn't want to. It isn't something to discuss with others. Much of life shouldn't be shared; I suspect that my belief in this statement (which admittedly wavers) is part of the reason that I'm not a particularly social creature.

Now playing: (left) tree frogs
(right) "Girls" by Death In Vegas. Over and over and over and over and over.

Holy mother of God, Matt Pike (of High On Fire and, formerly, Sleep) has to be one of my favorite fucking guitarists ever. I just downloaded a new HoF tune, "To Cross the Bridge (The Axe-Wielder)," which I heard live a couple-three months ago, and listening to this shit on headphones is un-fuckin'-believable. The new album can't come out soon enough.

I know that posting this kinda shit firmly cements my status as a (bluuurgghhFUCK) "blogger," but fuck it. Everyone needs to learn some fuckin' metal appreciation.

Fuck me, Destroyer 666 gets better and better with each song I hear. I really need to buy the rest of their albums. Once I get a nice paycheck from the Greensheet, I'm gonna roll up to Spring and hope that Diamondhead still has their shit. I wish these Aussies would tour the States; until then, I'll have to hope that the rumors of Bolt Thrower landing on American shores later this year come true.

Now playing: Destroyer 666, "An Endless Stream of Bombers"

"How is it that I have become the Hunter and the Hunted
and thought has become my enemy?"

-Destroyer 666, "Lone Wolf Winter"

Although I'm free from this at the moment, the lyric above most accurately describes the affliction I've battled a few times in the past couple years. It's nice to find such a description.

Had a good weekend with my folks, my brother, and his dame in Galveston. The beach was, to pull a line from Peter Ackroyd's Milton In America, "highly delightful." (Alas, I never finished this book.)

Well, I've been offered the proofreader gig. Fuck Everyones Internet and EV1Servers- in two weeks, or whenever I decide to walk, this place can kiss my ass.

Hell yeah.

Well, it's Bloomsday. Even Google has noted it. My plans for today include eating a kidney for breakfast, picking up mail, spying on girls at the beach, hanging out with an impetuous younger friend, getting in a near-fight with a one-eyed nationalist, having a hell of a bad time in a brothel, and stumbling home in the wee hours with the aforementioned friend, only to crash in bed and start all over again.

Wait, that's what Leopold Bloom did a hundred years ago today. I'm going to take a drug test, sleepwalk through work, then come home and read Ulysses.

Here's to that a-mazing halfblindhandcramped scared-o-thunder Dyoublonger, James Joyce.

I interviewed for a job as a proofreader yesterday and did well. Today they called and asked me to piss in a cup tomorrow. I'm set. This shithole I'm in now will soon be a bad memory.

Niall Ferguson is well-spoken in this piece about Iraq. I need to retrieve the book about WWI he wrote from my brother's car.

Speaking of reading, I've been tearing through Ladislas Farago's The Game of the Foxes, a history of the Abwehr, and Dreadnought, Robert Massie's account of the buildup to WWI. I love good history books.

This is going to be a fairly fateful weekend. I have two job interviews on Monday that will determine my direction in life in the immediate future. I am going to finalize my query letter in the hopes of enticing an agent into representing Critical Hits. I'm financially destitute until Wednesday, which means I won't be doing much of anything except sticking around the house.

I'm out of beer, having consumed it all, along with much rum and wine, with Matt and Sara last night. There are also disturbingly few cigarettes present. I will need to rectify this situation.

"There's that word again, heavy!"

Nobody bought Axis Mundi Sum last month. Big surprise.

If that isn't disheartening enough, my new RPG.net column is up, and it's as shoddy as ever.

I dare say this has been a productive evening. Since I got home, I've- in no particular order- almost finished A Scanner Darkly, cooked some tasty vittles, broken Critical Hits into rough chapters (23 of 'em, no less, though that little Erisian conceit will probably give way in the face of further editing), worked on my query letter, thought of an idea for a novel, drank a couple beers, smoked some cigarettes, and exchanged pleasantries with a Venezuelan comrade from the Southern Lord forum.

On top of all this, even the last hour of work was good, though I'm morally opposed to discussing either work or the reason for its decency- which, of course, had nothing to do with actual "work."

Someone needs to throw a party soon. A big one, with a good sound system and cold beer and room for me to get loaded and talk dames into dancin' to the Eagles of Death Metal. It's summertime, dudes! Someone get on it, chop fuckin' chop!

A glimmer of hope: I have an interview on Monday for a job I think I'm actually qualified to take. Even better, it doesn't pay coolie wages ("Take me to the Bund, boy, and here's a chit for your efforts").

Philip K. Dick's A Scanner Darkly is one of the best books I've read in a long time. I really wish he'd lived a little longer, since his best work was coming out in the last decade of his life.

Man, I want this job.

Fuck that doddering hack-actor apocalypse zealot Reagan. If this ain't a hoax, the world just lost someone worth a damn. Hail Quorthon!

Like I've said before and will say again, everything is inevitable.

Fuck.

"One room to find myself in
One axe for talking to God
One pill for self-medication
Sweet flesh is all that I've got"

-Orange Goblin, "One Room, One Axe, One Outcome"

Contrary to reason, I feel let down right now, and not by the quality of the new OG album. I suspect it'll be a long night, so it's a good thing I've got a bottle of whiskey and the urge to write.

Fuck.

I'm such a consumerist whore. I just blew money I shouldn't have on

Trouble- Psalm 9 (ahh, riffs)

Darkthrone- A Blaze in the Northern Sky (which I owned as a teenager and fucking sold)

Orange Goblin- Thieving from the House of God (because it wasn't available when I saw 'em live)

AND I DON'T FUCKIN' REGRET IT AT ALL.

Man, I need a new job. Fuck.

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.

Don't forget tomorrow's May Day party at 1920 West Alabama, folks. If you haven't decided to come, let me give you a reason: free beer.

Once I get paid I'm gonna buy a ticket to Arrowfest, the mostly-lame classic rock get-tother at the Woodlands Pavilion. Why? Because Blue Oyster Cult is playing, and I ain't gonna miss it. Everyone should go see 'em.

I hate listening to coworkers babble.

All hail Dungeons & Dragons, which has turned 30!

D&D, and role-playing in general, has been one of the biggest influences on my life, and no matter what non-gamers may say about it, IT RULES. Here's to Rat, Wolfgar (not the one from the Icewind Dale books, but my buddy Brad's Damaran barbarian), Rogo Frostybeard, Hood, Zalandros, Greegan (a crumpled dollar bill for anyone who catches the reference) and every other D&D character I've ran, interacted with, or been Dungeon Master for. I've utterly enjoyed almost fifteen years of (increasingly infrequent, alas) role-playing, and I can definitely say I'm a better man for it- hell, without D&D, I never would've written Critical Hits, or Axis Mundi Sum for that matter.

To quote Cronos, "HELL FUCKIN' YEAH!"

Sometimes I ask myself why I signed on to write a monthly column for RPG.net. I've met all my deadlines thus far, but since they run them at the beginning of the month, a new one is upon me, and I have no idea what to write since I've finished the second draft of Critical Hits but haven't started looking for an agent yet. I'll manage something.

The Harris County Library is hiring again, so I'm going to make what I think is my third or fourth attempt at getting a job with them. Here's to success; I need a new job badly, for many reasons, and working at the library would be ideal.

I'm out. Take it easy, folks.

I'm still not used to 10-hour days at work. Not only does my job... I was going to say "suck crab-infested balls," but that's too generic. I'll have to think of some other perjorative later, since my brain's fried. I decided to be a prick and skip tonight's Conan game, and even though I sent Ted an email saying I was going to do so, I'm sure everyone wants my head on a pike for flaking out. I can't blame 'em, but I'll be damned if I didn't want to come home and relax. Sorry, guys. Ich bin arschloch.

And relax I have. I ate some fish sticks ("neither a fish nor a stick, but a fungus," to paraphrase Matt Groening), drank a couple beers and a whiskey sour, and sat. I also pushed myself to finish the second draft of Critical Hits, and now that that's out of the way, I can no longer avoid the hunt for an agent. Urgh.

Now that I've offset my anti-social behavior with a bit of personal fulfillment, I'm going to stretch out on the couch and finish Harlot's Ghost. Since I've only got a hundred or so pages left, I won't feel bad if I don't read them too closely.

A final note: one of the life-changing dreams I had a while back may be slowly realizing itself.

Hot damn! I sold half a dozen copies of Axis Mundi Sum in March! Peanuts, yeah, but six times the peanuts I'm used to seeing. Thanks, folks!

The weird dreams keep coming. Last night: threat of death at the hands of a 7' British cretin with a pipe in his hand, and a long bout of playing some shitty Clay Fighter-type game. Seems like the brain's having a ball while I'm sleeping lately.

Advance notice: Jay is having a May Day party on, of course, May 1st, at 1920 W. Alabama. BYOB and go balls-nuts by the pool! Be there, bastards.

It seems that none of my buddies are particularly content with their lives right now. I myself have some complaints, but I can usually push my problems aside by opening a certain .doc file and hammering away for a couple hours. Of course, once that's done, I sit back and think that I'll never get this book sold, thereby whisking myself back to the ever-troubled sphere called "reality," where I am more plagued by philosophical issues than temporal ones. Way to be, Smith.

As for my friends, I can sympathize with their reasons for being restless or discontent or bordering on despair. Of course, my general silence on personal issues keeps me from discussing things with them; I suspect that, in the long run, being taciturn about my inner life may bite me in the ass. It should be obvious that I'm gibbering now, too reluctant to reveal details to say anything concrete. Maybe that's my problem.

Back to my main point... which does not exist. I've confounded myself. It is time to look elsewhere for words that mean something. And no, I'm not going to play Quest for Glory.

I had three dreams last night, only two of which I remember in any detail. One of them was freakin' fantastic, uplifting, and, I dare say, inspiring enough to possibly enact changes in my waking life.

The other one was horrible: I was in a vast room containing Simpsons-type characters (yellow skin, three fingers, etc.) that had been crucified. Hundreds, if not thousands of them, all nailed to the walls, bleeding, collapsing under their own weight. I was repulsed.

I don't remember which dream came first, but I enjoyed that there were two of them.

"I got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm!"

These new ten hour shifts are all right, if, unsurprisingly slow. I'd rather be cruising around. Or something besides working. Fuck, I am brain dead.

My newest shoddy excuse for an RPG.net column has been posted here. Go nuts.

Check out the Eagles of Death Metal while you're at it. They'll brighten your day.

So.

I'm going to see Hellboy tonight, and then drink some beer.

Tomorrow I may go to Huntsville.

I'm going to type up revisions all weekend.

I may borrow Lost in Translation from my brother and watch it again.

I am a very exciting man, as you can clearly see. Care to stop by for a beer?

Tonight's been Chesterfields, Lone Star, Popeye's, The Stoned Age (complete with director commentary), Harlot's Ghost, the new Clutch album, and a lot of silence. Pretty damned casual, even by my own standards.

I'm sitting here looking at the manuscript of Critical Hits, wondering if I should work on it.

I might as well.

Long silence on my part. I apologize to anyone who might've noticed. Life's changed significantly in the last couple weeks: Sara and I broke up, I finished editing my novel, my car is now mostly street legal again, my ferret's recovered from his illness, and I haven't done much of anything with myself. Been drinking some beers, hanging out with the buddies, reading, the usual. Certainly haven't felt like discussing shit on the internet.

Now that you know I'm alive, I'm outta here.

Yesterday was a mixed bag. I spent the whole day waiting to see Brant Bjork, and before I got home I found out my ferret, Tim Finnegan, was sick. Sara and I took him to the emergency animal clinic, where we found out he's most likely got a virus he caught from our new ferret, Dr. Oliver Long Ghost. Poor Tim; he's thin as a rail and has almost no energy. We have to feed him foul potions and elixirs numerous times a day, but it looks like he'll make it.

Then it was off to see Brant Bjork and the Bros. It was everything I hoped it would be, and I got to briefly shoot the shit with Captain Lovestar himself. His merch/photography/tour manager chicks were quite cool as well, and everyone seemed thrilled that the turnout was decent. He played a lot of stuff from Jalamanta, and I gave him a copy of Axis Mundi Sum.

So there it is: bad and good. Today my ears ring and I worry about my ferret while trying not to react violently to certain people at work. At least I've got last night to remember, which takes the edge off work.

Oh yeah. I finally saw Lost in Translation. It was easily one of the best movies I've seen in years, if not my whole life.

PAY NO MIND

Writing news:

Over halfway done with first round of revisions for Critical Hits.

The new RPG.net column is up. Read it here.

Reading news:

Haven't been reading much lately, which is disturbing, but I am working through Dream of the Red Chamber, which has more characters than I can hope to remember, as well as some Shakespeare.

Other news:

I have discovered the black heart of internet despair, right here. Fascinating stuff.

That is all.

While I anticipate the oncome of warm weather, I lament the disappearance of the seasons that accomodate listening to Agalloch. Since it's rotten outside, and it's approaching two in the morning, I can listen to them and not feel like the atmosphere is out of place; however, in a month or so, if not less, it'll feel strange putting on an Agalloch album, unless it's fairly late and I'm dreaming of vast, possibly wooded expanses.

As much as I love it, I hate seasonal music. Brant Bjork is not for the winter, and Agalloch is not for the summer. (No, it's not even close to summer, but we're in Texas, folks. Lone Star weather obeys no meteorological laws.)

My God, Agalloch fills a void. Or expands it, depending on how you assess the situation. Sometimes it's both.

I saw a midget driving a car full of bullet holes today.

GUH

I'm exhausted. Dunno why, but I am, and enough so to give into the foolish urge to tell everyone on the internet as much. Fuck. Pathetic.

Sara cooked a tasty dinner. We watched the Simpsons. I put on my headphones, listened to Death, and edited Critical Hits. Sara went to the bar. I kept editing and drinking beer. Very quiet, except for the click of ferret nails on hardwood floors and loud metal blaring from the stereo. Now I am typing and listening to Electric Wizard's "Mountains of Mars" on repeat. It's the most relaxing thing I can do and still remain awake.

I hope I didn't leave my Lovecraft books in boxes when I moved in here. If I did, I'm gonna be pissed. Fritz Leiber ain't gonna cut it tonight come Crawl Into Bed And Pulp Out Time.

Looks like Ted's Conan game is gonna kick ass, Gullah willing.

For some reason I signed onto MySpace. Since I haven't done anything with it since joining, I think I'll quit.

I am tired. I do not want to go to work tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again.

I've written enough meaningless pap here to last a week, so unless boredom or good times roll around and intervene, consider this your seven-day dose, chumps. I'm off to scrub the taste of Alzheimer's out of my mouth.

I SUCCUMB

Half an hour left on the clock and nothing to do, so I'm giving in to the banality that is posting the occasional thought. I'll justify it by saying that if I didn't put things here, I'd forget it, but that's not really true. I could just write them in my notebook.

What would a novel written like a black metal album sound like? Not about black metal, but like black metal, the primitive old Darkthrone kind, raw and shrill and utterly lacking in low end. What the hell qualifies as the written equivalent of 'low end,' anyway? How do you write a book that sounds like Transilvanian Hunger? I think I'll go home, listen to Hate Them, and see if I can figure something out. I do know one thing: it wouldn't be a long novel. The literary equivalent of 35 rasping minutes might- might- be 200 pages.

Well, that's all. Time to start counting minutes.

FINALMENTE

Alguien que hace algo respetable con los servidores que vende la compañia donde trabajo. Incidentemente, hoy tengo un libro de Borges conmigo.

SKULL MEETS WALL

Short and sweet:

Work sucks.
Money's tight.
Critical Hits editing begins this weekend.
Probot record=good.
I'm hungry.
Car needs work.
Work sucks.

(I notice that I've long since forgotten to title each entry, so...)

IF IT WAS 80 DEGREES AND SUNNY...

This would've been one sweet-ass evening. As it stands, it's still rad.

Got a case of Lone Star on the way home from work. Got home and found all the records I've recently ordered, along with Sara in a good mood. Threw on the Probot disc, dug on the visuals of the two Brant Bjork albums (the Jalamanta vinyl includes a cover of "Take Me Away," a bad-ass song by the almighty Blue Oyster Cult, which is why I went for it), drank some beers, shot the breeze with the neighbor, and ate dinner/talked with Sara. Fuckin' A, dudes.

Fuckin' A.

Finally got a car: a nightmarishly ugly, but strangely pleasant to drive, 1986 Mustang. Who'd have thunk it?

The new RPG.net column is up right here. Read up, chumps.

I'm fixin' to get off the clock, so I'm keeping this short. Everyone take it easy, and if you're in Houston this March, save some cash to see Brant Bjork and the Bros. Good times, folks.

I'm not cut out to write about any sort of social, cultural, artistic, political, religious, or philosophical currents in the world. Why? Because someone else always beats me to it, or, in many cases, I'm not suitably compelled by the goings-on of my fellow humans to throw together a written analysis of what they're doing and why. Note that I didn't say I'm not interested; it's just that I'm not interested enough to write about it, except in the form of fiction. Oh, yeah, I'm also not a particularly good nonfiction writer. I find it difficult to verbalize the occasions when I do feel that I have a grasp on the way some aspect of the world is moving.

Of course, if someone were to offer me money and perhaps paid travel expenses, I'd be more than happy to write about something going on outside my own limited sphere of influence. Ain't gonna happen, though.

Why do so many people continue to get humanities and arts degrees, when they know damn well by their sophomore year that said degrees are usually economically worthless? This is something to look into. Gimme your two cents' worth, assuming you have two cents to spare, my fellow broke-ass, miserable, liberal arts fucktards.

Critical Hits is done. Now I get to spend several months editing and rewriting. I also need to rewrite my column for RPG.net.

I need to read Bruce Schneier's new book about security. I've read his monthly Crypto-Gram for a good while now, and the man's lucid approach to security (mainly computer security, but he covers the spectrum) is impressive. Too bad he can't create policy.

Man, now that I'm done with Critical Hits, I don't know what to do with myself.

I'm all moved into my new place in the Heights with Sara, and I've got no complaints. Actually, I do have some: our heater either overworks itself or lies dormant, I have no internet access, and my computer refuses to accept upgrades or run the program that would allow me to have internet access. That said, all is well.

I was talking to my dad yesterday and he, like myself, thinks China is this century's coming superpower. In my last post I mentioned not being much of a multiculturalist, at least in the common, politically limpid sense, but I do try to understand other cultures that either interest me or stand to seriously change the world we live in. China qualifies as both. The government there is poised to march into and dominate the future upon a road of corpses, mainly those of Chinese citizens. Unlike some countries, China doesn't even seem interested in pretending it's got any other agenda. Whether or not the Chinese Communist Party will ever disappear or at least mutate into something a little less repulsive is a mystery to me, but it'll be interesting to see how it all goes down.

On an unrelated note, I went to Macy's yesterday with Sara, and while she bought makeup, I examined the sheer amount of design that goes into creating a product line. My feelings about consumerism and advertising aside, I was quite impressed by what I saw. Some of those cosmetics were packaged and presented pretty damned stylishly, and I think I can kind of understand the preoccupation with design and packaging some folks I know have. Very interesting.

Lots of prognostication out there about the rise of India, China, and Brazil in numerous ways. I wonder how many of the people talking about it are doing so because Bruce Sterling is. Or, possibly, vice versa.

I'm not interested in multiculture. I'm not particularly syncretic, at least not intentionally. Western culture's got shitloads of problems, but it's still what fascinates me the most. China is pretty enthralling in ways, but the language barrier's a bitch. (You've gotta love the nation that gave us Lin Yutang, Wang Wei, and Li Po, even in translation.) I'm not going to fight the wave of non-Western culture crashing over the US and Europe, because I don't really care, unless said wave utterly destroys everything it hits, and I doubt that'll be the case. I'll take what happens in stride.

now playing: Murder City Devils
now smoking: University Flake
now drinking: Lone Star

This year, I'm going to finish writing and editing Critical Hits, and hopefully sell it to a publisher who'll give me a foolishly large advance.

This year, I want to become the owner of a 1970 GTO Judge, or at least my old coworker's '78 Nova.

This year, I want to be able to stop working and live a pleasantly idle life, and I hope everyone else who wants to do the same can.

This year, it looks like I've actually made some resolutions. I don't recall ever doing so before.

Take it easy in 2004, folks.

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.