Showing posts with label hey fuckers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hey fuckers. Show all posts

Saturday, July 13, 2024

HEY, FUCKERS #28: 1 YEAR AND 364 DAYS

 WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT? What the fuck is this? Hey, Fuckers? Number 28?!?!?!?!?! Yeah, I haven't written a Hey, Fuckers column in almost ten years. But I wanted to commemorate something, and I didn't want to use Goodnight, Fuckers for it. Rather, I'll have a similar GF on Monday celebrating something related to what I want to talk about right now.


Most alcoholics celebrate the anniversary of  quitting the booze. I'll be doing that tomorrow, and then I'll tell you all about it Monday night. But Hey, Fuckers was a column for when I wanted to discuss things right off the top of my head instead of waiting for it to be the last thing I do before bedtime. And there is something I want to celebrate today.


Two years ago *this* day I drank for the last time. This time two years ago I was hammered out of my mind. I'd spent the night previous talking to this guy named Sonny, possibly the most Italian man I've ever met, and I'm Italian, myself. Whenever I was in the hospital for booze related illnesses, they'd send him in to try to convince me to clean myself up. He'd sit down and talk at me for at least a half an hour each time, and he was somehow more profane than I am. But I talked to him that night. I talked to a few others. The conversation I had with my buddy, Zeb Carter, is the one that tipped me over, helped me decide that yes, I'm going to call Sonny and have him help me quit the sauce. (Incidentally, Sonny looks eerily like Mad Sam DeStefano.)


This time two years ago I knew the following day I was going into detox, but I had all this booze still in my bedroom, including the dozen or so hiding places I had for back up bottles. (I didn't find them all. Not too long ago I found the rest of them, including a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 that still has an inch of bourbon left in it, which I have not thrown out. I keep it as a reminder.)


I hate it when things go to waste, so I decided I'd better drink up everything I had. Later, when I was in detox, I decided I was going to drink when I got out. I thought it would be a good idea to continue to drink, just not nearly as much as I used to. I'm super glad I didn't feel the urge to actually follow through on that. Now that my head's on straight, I know that I would have tried that, but I would have failed spectacularly. I'd be back to guzzling directly from a handle of cheap shit in no time.


[Here's an aside. I went back and forth on posting this link because contrary to popular belief I sometimes *am* embarrassed by myself. But if you really want to know how bad I was, you should read this. I am absolutely mortified by my behavior in that post. I do not remember driving that day. I *do* remember the sunlight coming through the open curtains destroying me, and I remember picking up that handle of Fleischmann's so I could continue drinking that morning. And then I blacked out again almost immediately because I don't remember anything else for the rest of the day except the moment at the strip mall where I can back to myself before the booze took over again. I don't remember anything else until I woke up the following day. I cannot stress this enough: I SHOULD NOT HAVE DRIVEN THAT DAY. I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I've driven drunk when I shouldn't have.  But I know this story is 100% true, because others have told me about my black outs, and they stress me shouting everything and calling people YOU FOOL! So yeah, if you think I made a mistake by quitting the booze, then read that post and realize that I was like that OFTEN.]


I figured I'd throw myself a little party. I had about two inches of cheap Canadian shit in a handle, so I drank that. I forget what it was called, but you could get a handle of it for six bucks at Corner Cottage. I also had some Fleischmann's, maybe half a handle, so I drank that. I had a sleeve of Jim Beam airplane bottles, so I drank that. And I still was not drunk enough for this to be my final hurrah. (Yeah, I was a fucking heavy drinker if you weren't around for that period of my life. I was like Julian on Trailer Park Boys, always with a drink in one hand. The problem is, unlike Julian, I didn't pace myself, so I was always rip-roaring Jim Lahey drunk.


Back then I aged my own whiskey, so I had a small barrel on the kitchen counter filled to the brim with high proof whiskey. So I drank that, too. I don't remember finishing it, but I did because the next morning I went looking for hair of the dog and found none.


The guy Sonny sent to pick me up got me and drove me out to Carol Stream. Along the way he told me it was nice not driving someone who was shitfaced to detox because he, too, was an alcoholic. In that moment I realized my foolishness. I should have saved some for the ride over. What was I thinking?!?!?!?!?!?!


But that all happened two years ago *tomorrow* so we'll skip that. This time in 2022? I had the blowout boozer to end all boozers, at least for me. And I really enjoyed myself, from what I remember.


To quote a great man, "OK for now." To be continued in Monday night's GF.

Monday, January 8, 2024

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #786: HE'S BACK . . .


 

GANDHI II!


So. I have good news and I have bad news. The good news you can guess: I'm back. The bad news? I'm only back for 2 weeks. I just scheduled a surgery for my left hand and, as with the one performed on my right a few months ago, it will be forbidden to use that hand until I'm cleared by the physical therapist. So after next week, I'm taking another break, although this one should be much shorter than the vacation I just had. I want to keep this week light, as I don't want to bum you out or anger you, etc. Because next week is going to be the first (and probably last) 5-part GF column, and it's a doozy. The kind of thing that might get me killed if I was important enough. We'll get to that next Monday.


For now I just wanted to welcome you all back. I have a metric shit-ton of topics. I'm sure once I get back from my surgery hiatus, I'll have enough columns for months to come. During my time off I decided that any and all writing topics should be handled in my newsletter. I subscribe to a lot of newsletters, and almost all of them have very little news. Instead they are essays about life. I'm not bashing those. I love to read them. But if you want essays on life, you'll find them here in Goodnight, Fuckers. If you want writing essays, check out Good Morning, Fuckers! (Ain't I clever? Should I do something called Good Afternoon, Fuckers, or is that pushing it?) (Hey, for a while there I did an irregular column called Hey Fuckers. Maybe bring that back?) (No, maybe I should do surprise blogs and call them Good Evening, Fuckers. That sounds classy, don't it? Especially if you hear it in Alfred Hitchcock's voice, right?)


All right. Tomorrow we'll get into something a bit meatier, and I have a pretty good Abraham Lincoln idea to close out the week on Friday. Stay tuned, ye glorious fuckers, ye.

Friday, October 21, 2016

HEY, FUCKERS #29: CATHOLIC SCHOOL GIRLS

On the train today a couple of Catholic school girls sat next to me. How did I know they were Catholic school girls? Because they were wearing the uniform. The skirt uniform that so many perverts go crazy over.


(Side note: I honestly don't get that fetish. Maybe because when I was in junior high I got my first blowjob from a Catholic school girl. I don't know. I just don't get it.)


It's in the forties today. That's pretty cold to be wearing a skirt with no leggings. I guess the Catholic church wants these poor girls to freeze. Why do they even wear those uniforms?


I looked it up, and the official reason, per Wikipedia, is the following:


"Stated purpose for uniforms, often set forth in school uniform policies, include reducing clothing expenditures for parents as well as avoiding distinctions among children based on whose parents can afford to buy them fashionable clothing to wear to school. The conservative clothing is also said to reduce distractions and help with student identification, ensuring that a stranger will stand out among the uniformed students."


Apparently there are some schools that give the option to wear pants if the weather is harsh. I'm not saying that it was a tundra out there today, but those girls couldn't have been comfortable. I would think that given a choice, they would have worn pants. This suggests to me that this is not an option for them. If that's true, I think that's a pretty cruel thing to do to a kid.


Am I wrong on this? Personally I'm against school uniforms for anyone, Catholics or otherwise. I think uniforms remove personality, kind of like what prisons do by taking away prisoners' names and giving them numbers. I think that's a dangerous thing. But to make these girls suffer through cold weather in such a way seems to me a bad thing. The boys get to wear pants. Why not the girls?


Let me know what you think in the comments below.

Thursday, October 20, 2016

HEY, FUCKERS #28: IT'S FUNNY THE DIFFERENCE A HALF AN HOUR MAKES

I had to go into work a half-hour early today. My commute turned out to be quite different from my usual schedule. First of all, and best of all, I got to park on the first floor of the parking garage today. That's pretty cool. But then I got to the train station. It was dark out. I read every morning while waiting for the train. I had to read by streetlight, which was awkward because I had to tilt the book in order to see the words.


There weren't a lot of people there. Once on the train I saw that there was plenty of room. Weird. I even got to have my own seat. At one point I glanced out the window and saw the dark skyscrapers of Chicago. The sun was lurking just behind them, not quite up and out of bed but getting there. The predawn light made the buildings look like dead, empty monoliths.


I took to the streets, and yet again I noticed that there was barely anyone walking to work. It was far from the seething throngs I see every day. Even the homeless guys were just showing up. They didn't have their cups out yet. It was kind of like they were showing up for work, and they were just getting settled in.


As soon as I got away from the river it was almost like a dead zone. I saw maybe a handful of people before I got to my office. It almost got to the point where I had to wonder if someone had closed down the streets to film something, and I was just walking around on their set. I kept expecting some angry director, possibly Michael Bay, to yell at me.


Just as I got to my floor I saw the front doors locked, and there was a pile of newspapers just outside. No one manned the receptionist's desk.


Very odd. I wonder if my commute home will have any differences. My initial thought is that there won't be, but I could be wrong. The difference this morning was a half an hour, and I'm leaving a half-hour early. It's funny the difference that makes.






















Hey, I bet you thought I forgot about HEY, FUCKERS. Well, I did, sort of. Remember when I got that new shift at my old job and decided to quit writing GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS because I'd be writing it at something like 8:30 or 9? That's not a bedtime. 10 or 11 or even midnight, those are fuckin' bedtimes. I got antsy and started this series, which could be written at any point in the day. But then I found myself in a position to resume GF, so HF fell by the wayside. Unfortunately my laptop is in the shop right now, and I'm chomping at the bit to write more GF's. Until I get it back, I might send off a few HF's if I have the time. The laptop isn't due back until Halloween.

Monday, January 11, 2016

HEY, FUCKERS #27: CAUGHT IN THE ACT

Writers, you must always be wary of your readers. If you fuck something up, they will be all over you. Remember details of your work, or you'll be sorry later. The most famous example was pointed out by Stephen King in regards to ROBINSON CRUSOE. In one scene in that book, Crusoe strips naked and swims out to the wreck of his boat. He then proceeds to fill his pockets with items he thinks will help him survive. Except his pockets are on his pants, which are back on the beach, so . . .


Don't make that kind of fuck up. Be vigilant in the facts of your work, or you'll end up like Graham Masterton.


I just read THE MANITOU, and then I started MANITOU BLOOD. I was not aware that there were a few books in the series between these two, and I don't have them. Not to worry, though. It doesn't seem necessary to have read the others to enjoy this one.


Except . . . well, in THE MANITOU Masterton (spoiler alert for a book older than I am) kills off the character of Amelia Crusoe (no relation?). Yet in MANITOU BLOOD, she's alive and well and as helpful as ever. Wait, what? How does that happen? Did I miss something in the other books I didn't read?


I scoured the internet, driving myself crazy trying to figure out this mystery. I read synopses of the other books, looking for any clue. Did Masterton bring her back to life with some kind of occult ritual?


And then I found the answer in an interview he did years ago. The solution is so much more basic than I ever thought it would be. He admits to fucking up pretty badly on this one. When writing the first sequel, he completely forgot that he killed Amelia. (Which I guess is understandable since he killed her "off-screen." I think maybe that's why all the books after the first aren't strictly told from first person POV.) It didn't occur to him until much later. (I wonder if a reader busted him. That's probably what happened.) (I gotta stop it with these parenthetical statements. It looks ugly, and I shouldn't be doing it in the first place. Sorry.) He gave no reason for her resurrection, but according to the interview, he came up with this lame excuse: that her body was so charred it was easy to misidentify her corpse. Huh.


Let that be a lesson to you all. Thus endeth this edition of HEY, FUCKERS.

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #26: ENOUGH TO MAKE A BIBLIOPHILE CRY




I just finished reading FINDING ATLANTIS by David King, which I highly recommend. It's the great true story of a man who thought he'd discovered Atlantis in Sweden. I loved the hell out of it even though I don't think he was right. (I don't think the author believed in this theory, either.) While reading this book, however, I came upon something that ripped my heart out, and I know it would pain any of my fellow bibliophiles.


Ever hear of the Silver Bible? It's a Gothic translation of the gospels of the Bible. It was taken from the Goths in battle, and it was eventually (over the course of centuries) brought to Sweden where it is kept until this very day. It's a very valuable book, as there is only one copy in the world. The keeper of the Silver Bible thought it was so valuable that he figured he'd sell it by the page.


THAT'S RIGHT. HE TORE OUT EVERY PAGE WITH THE INTENTION OF SELLING THEM TO DIFFERENT BUYERS AT HIGH COST.


That's absolutely disgusting behavior. He was a librarian, so he should have known better. But according to King it would seem that a lot of librarians back then were unscrupulous sorts. Still, it hurts just thinking about that. Luckily the chancellor of Sweden (known, incidentally, as "the most beautiful man in the world") at the time managed to buy up most of the pages, so we have a good deal of the book today. But it's not complete, all because of that dickhead librarian.


Fate wasn't done with the Silver Bible, though. A scholar along the way changed the wording of some passages to make it fit his theories. No one knows who did it. Everyone has their suspicions, but whoever it was, he's a dickhead, too.


And then there are the assholes who broke into the university library in the 1990's and stole the whole thing. It was eventually recovered, but still. Come on.


(It should also be noted that the Silver Bible was almost lost to the sea during its transport to Sweden from Prague. Apparently the only thing that saved it was being locked in a sturdy oak chest.)


So yeah. If you happen upon some ancient text, like there's only one of it in the world, try not to tear it to pieces and sell it page by page. That's dickhead behavior, and some guy like me will call you out on it centuries from now.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #25: THE SHIT BLUES

It's one of the most depressing things that can happen to you when you're in the bathroom. You're bloated almost to the point of pain, and you feel an overwhelming urge to shit. So you sit down and get ready for it to just slide out of you.


A timid fart is all you get. You can feel there's something more than gas in there, but it's just not moving. You give it a push, and it nears your asshole. But then it doesn't go further. Maybe it touches the rim, and if you could bend that way, you could probably see it through your stretched anus.


But it doesn't come out. There's no way it's coming out without getting some blood in your stool. It's just not ready to leave your body. There's nothing you can do but suck it back up and wait for later. You wipe, just to make sure, but you don't expect to actually see any shit on the toilet paper. Surprise! There's a thin brown stripe. So you wipe again and again and again, and it just doesn't stop. Jesus hell! You didn't even get to shit, and now you've got to put up with this?!


Finally it subsides, but now you're a bit raw and in a foul mood. You pull up your pants and wash your hands, still feeling bloated but now there's a touch of anger and sadness. There's nothing to do but wait until your log is fully incubated. Time to go back to work and wonder when the bastard will be ready.

Thursday, November 26, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #24: THE MURDERERS' NATIONAL DRINK

Before we go any further, you should read this. Nothing I say here will make any sense without it, and it's a pretty short and entertaining read.


Now: to business. I have never had Wild Irish Rose, although I've kept an eye out for it thanks to the above mentioned article. Someone asked me to buy wine last night, and while I was looking for what she wanted I found, in a dusty and forgotten corner of my usual liquor store, three bottles of WIR. It's a four day weekend. I would be a fool not to try it.


When I got home, I cracked the seal and smelled the neck. It smelled like wine, all right. Nothing special. I took down a mouthful (because something tells me the only way to drink this stuff is to drink it directly from the bottle), and JESUS GOD! This vile swill tried to poison me! It's horrible, horrible shit. But it's cheap shit. I got a fifth for five bucks, and that's cheaper than the cheapest vodka Mom ever had me go out and buy when I was younger. Despite its cheapness, I would never waste alcohol. The last time I felt like this was when I got Bacardi's 151 rum, and it tasted so godawful I wouldn't drink it straight. I could barely tolerate it mixed in Coke. I might as well have drank gasoline straight from the pump. But goddammit, I didn't waste it, and I wasn't going to waste this WIR.


I drank half of the bottle, and I didn't even have a buzz. I never get a buzz when drinking wine. My system is used to high proof bourbons. However, WIR has an exceptionally high (for wine) proof of 34. I should have felt something kick in. No dice. I gave up and switched to the half of a fifth of Jim Beam I have on hand for just such emergencies.


That's when I discovered the true power of WIR. It's not something you can get drunk on, not really, but if you need your pump primed before you move on to something that WILL get you drunk? This is what you need. I soared with the goddam bats once I'd finished that bottle of Jim Beam. The Jim Beam alone would have given me a nice buzz, but on top of the WIR I felt like a god king. I was bulletproof, and I didn't really want to horsewhip someone with my dick, but goddammit, I could have.


I've been working on a story for a top secret anthology for a while now, but I just couldn't get into the right mind space for it. It involves being able to get into a specific person's head, but God broke the mold when He made this man. What I was working on just felt like a pale imitation . . . until last night. WIR and Jim Beam propelled me into his head, and I'll be goddammed if I didn't THINK like him. I sent out posts and texts, and it wasn't me. I was possessed by this man. And I got the best writing on this project I've done so far. And now I can't get HIM out of ME.


I still have half the bottle of WIR left, and I have a shit-ton of whiskey. When the proper holiday is over, I think it's time to rock and roll.

Friday, September 18, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #24: MY THOUGHTS ON ATLAS SHRUGGED BY AYN RAND

[AS POSTED TO GOODREADS]


Whoo-boy. Where do I start with this book? If capitalism could have a wet dream, it would be ATLAS SHRUGGED. It is insane and outlandish and unreasonable. But it is also entertaining. I tend to enjoy Ayn Rand's work despite her best efforts. That's an odd thing to say, I know, but I'll try to break it down.


First, the things I liked: I really appreciate how well Rand gets corporations nailed down. If you ask someone who lives the corporate lifestyle a direct question, you will always get a long, rambling, meaningless answer, even if it's a yes or no question. No one wants to make any decisions because if they're wrong, they'll be blamed. Culpability is certainly shifted around constantly in this book until it nails some poor guy who didn't really have much to do with whatever went wrong. It's also like these corporate swine can't hold a decent conversation with intelligent people. There are quite a few instances of Dagny talking with someone, and it's like there are two conversations happening. Dagny asks direct questions, and the other person will ramble on about their life story, or whatever. They just have this narrative in their head that they have to get out, and poor Dagny gets stuck listening to it. I really identify with this kind of dialogue because I deal with it constantly every day at work.


The things I don't like are a bit hard to discuss because they start with something I do like. I agree with many of Rand's ideas, as I'm sure most creative people would. I'm a strong believer in independent thinking. I think taking other people's ideas to make it their own is a watery thing to do. I believe that if someone earns something, he or she should be able to keep it. Plus, if I may be so bold, I'm a bit selfish. As anyone who has ever dated me will attest, I tend to put myself before anyone else. Maybe I'm delusional, but I justify it in the same way a parent would justify putting  the oxygen mask on themselves before putting one on their kid while on a plane.


The problem is, Rand takes it waaaaaaay too far. The heroes of this book are so fiercely individualistic that they don't care about anyone else (for the most part). They're so selfish that to help someone else is unthinkable to them. Not only that, but they are absolutely dedicated to the dollar. Their symbol is the dollar sign. It's even on their cigarettes. This is militant individualism, and it's too crazy for me. I do believe in helping people, after all. I do care about society. I do think that there should be safety nets because disaster can happen to any of us. (Although I do think that American safety nets are a bit too giving to the point of rewarding questionable behavior.) I believe in pulling oneself up by the boot straps, as the old saying goes, but it's unhealthy to live your life dedicated to that kind of thing, and if you need a helping hand every once in a while, you should get it.


You know who makes the perfect Objectivists? Terminators. Not Arnold in the sequels, but Arnold in the first one. They are killing machines that stop at nothing until they achieve their objective, or they'll die trying. Remember that John Galt says he'll kill himself before letting the looters exert control over him.


The heroes are cold and inhuman. Ayn Rand, from what I understand, was the same way. Not only that, but I heard that she was buried with a garland in the shape of a dollar sign. So I guess people like that *can* exist. But generally speaking, I think they're rare (and possibly sociopaths).


The only time they're passionate is when they're making love, and Rand's description of these scenes makes it sound more like they're fighting each other. This is some violent sex, folks. In a way I kind of like it because it's not something I expected from her work. But on the other hand, I think it's kind of messed up because this is the only time in Dagny's life that she's submissive. I think it sends the message that strong women want to be treated like "just a woman" in bed, which I don't think is true, generally speaking. It's also out of character for her.


Rand uses interesting language in this book, though. I like the way that some of the tougher characters talk like sergeants in WWII movies. It's "goddam" this and "those bastards" that. Conversely I don't like the way that the looters, as she calls the villains, talk. They're all hysterical and screaming when something they don't like happens. And they all sound the same. They use the same phrases. Come to think of it, the heroes run together, too. There are two types of characters in this book: heroes and looters. The heroes all sound the same, and the looters all sound the same.


Two characters do not fall into either category: Cheryl Taggart and Eddie Willers. As a result, I actually like these two more than any of the other characters. In fact, I kind of identify with Eddie, mostly because I'm not a one-track-mind kind of guy. I also feel pretty helpless in the big picture, but I also find the situation funny. As America faces utter destruction from the looters and their red tape, Eddie utters a mad laugh, amused by the fact that no one is changing anything because they're all convinced that they're right.


Speaking of red tape, that's another thing about corporations that Rand gets spot on. I find there are way too many regulations in government, and they hamper real creativity. Yet once the red tape gets spinning, it's impossible to stop without destroying the system entirely. Which is pretty much John Galt's mission. I'd call that a spoiler in any other book, but this one is revealed 500 pages before the end, so to hell with it.


Speaking of length, the number one thing that annoyed me about this book is the sheer thickness of it. I'm not opposed to reading long books. When I was a kid, my favorite book in the world was Stephen King's THE STAND. The extended version, that is. My problem with Rand is that her prose is incredibly bloated. She needlessly repeats herself as if she was afraid that people would miss the point. Don't worry, Ms. Rand. We got it pretty solidly by the hundredth time you repeated it. Some characters get speeches that are pages long, and they're all rambling and repeating themselves a lot. For Christ's sake, the climax of the book is John Galt's 60 page speech. At the risk of coming off like Rand, let me repeat that so you can let it sink in: A 60 PAGE SPEECH. The edition I read is 1168 pages long. If I were to write this book, I think I could get it done in under 300.


The story is simple enough to do that. On the surface, it's about a woman who wants to build the best railroad she can in the face of her incompetent brother and her lovers' (that's not a typo) attempts at destroying America. Meanwhile, all the most competent men (and it's almost universally men) in the nation are being recruited by a mysterious man to live in a secluded valley from which they intend to rebuild America after they've let the looters destroy it.


This story actually takes a few odd turns, like when Dagny arrives accidentally at Galt's Gulch. (By the way, I should mention the completely insane idea that she piloted a plane to get there--and she doesn't know how to fly it, but she learns on the spot. That's how capable a person she is, I guess.) It has this weird feeling, like the end of THE WIZARD OF OZ. She's seeing all of these people who have disappeared, and it feels like Dorothy telling the farm hands that they were all in her dream. It's a pretty dreamy sequence, too. For a moment, I thought she'd died in the plane crash, and the afterlife turned out to be some kind of Capitalist Heaven. I wouldn't put that past Rand, even though there were still 500 pages to go in the book.


And I certainly didn't expect a book driven by ideas to have something as crude as a gunfight in the end. I do have a few things to say about that, but they're spoilers for real, and I try to avoid those for Goodreads reviews.


This is probably the longest I've written about a book since college, but I think I hit all the major points. I don't want to be as bloated as Rand, so I'm going to cut this off by saying this: for a book that aggravated me so much, I really enjoyed it. Despite all of its flaws, it's a good book, and Rand is a captivating writer. If anyone else had pulled this BS, I would have quit on them. (Truthfully, I almost quit when I reached Galt's super-long speech, but I was already 1000 pages in, and I wasn't going to quit when I was that close to the finishing line.) As an added bonus, this book made me think a lot, and I really love a book that can do that.


WHAT I DIDN'T PUT INTO THE GOODREADS REVIEW (SPOILERS): There are two things that really turned me off about this book. One of them involved the gunfight in the end. It's one thing to be a cold, uncaring asshole, but it's another entirely to cold-bloodedly murder someone, as Dagny did in the end. When the heroes are trying to rescue John Galt from the looters, she holds a soldier at gunpoint. Granted, she gives him every opportunity not to get shot, and the dummy just couldn't give her a straight answer, but that's no excuse for shooting him in the heart. The other heroes get to commit a few murders, too, much in the same way she did. I'm a firm believer that people can be assholes. I, in fact, am an asshole. People can take me or leave me. That's their choice. But once you cross that line into hurting and/or killing people you disagree with, that's downright evil. That's some Hitler/Stalin-type shit right there. I get the idea that this is the kind of thing Objectivists think about when jerking off.


The other thing that bothered me was Eddie's demise. The last we see of him, he's a broken man, weeping on the railroad tracks before the monolithic Taggart train. I don't think he deserved that. I know that was part of Rand's heartless message, that even those who believe the importance of individualism despite being unable to do anything about the state of the world will perish with the looters. But still.


OK, that's it. Sorry if I bored the hell out of you. This is just something I had to get off my chest.

Friday, May 15, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #22: THE WORLD NEEDS A BIZARRO SOAP OPERA

My hero


When I was a kid, I envied George Newman, Weird Al's character in UHF. I wanted to have my own TV station where I could play shows about whatever the fuck paraded through my mind. Hell, I would have filmed me playing war games with my GI Joes, because I thought my adventures were rad. I wish I could be a programmer for my very own station.


Yesterday I saw my grandmother watching a compilation of popular scenes from DAYS OF OUR LIVES, except there was some weird storyline about a demon or a vampire or I don't know what the fuck. I could have sworn it was PASSIONS, I asked her if DAYS OF OUR LIVES really had a horror story arc. She said it had happened in the 'Eighties. I guess they were trying to capture the interest of people who missed DARK SHADOWS . . . ?


And then it occurred to me that there should be a bizarro soap opera. Why the fuck not? I thought I should write that book, but it wouldn't appeal to me much in book form. No, I would want it to be a TV show, for sure.


I started thinking about the characters, and I'm pretty sure I have a few winners. Obviously, the show has to revolve around a wealthy family. Husband, wife, two kids (one boy, one girl) and a pet. I'm thinking the husband is a Batman type of superhero, and none of the family knows about the secret headquarters their mansion hides. The wife is a serial killer, and she's being hunted by her husband, but neither one of them knows the other's identity. And she's just brutal. Cannibalism. Sex torture. You name it. Their girl, the older of the siblings, is incredibly hot, but she's got an insane, Monk-type list of phobias that keeps her confined to her bedroom where she spends her days eating spiders because spiders are the one thing she's not afraid of. Their boy tries to run an Encyclopedia Brown kind of detective agency, except he's profoundly stupid and can't do the job. Their pet is a dragon who routinely burns down neighbors' houses and constantly gets the family in trouble. Speaking of the neighbors, one of them thinks he's the action star version of Liam Neeson, but he's a clumsy motherfucker, and he never knows what his prostitute daughter is up to for real.


And then there's the extended family. A vampire uncle who tries to hide the fact that he's a vampire, even though EVERYONE knows he's a vampire, and his pedophile caretaker. Their wacky grandfather is Charlie Manson. A cousin is a writer who, instead of spending his time writing, is obsessed with his Twitter numbers and all the fights he gets into with people online. Another uncle is a deformed guy who has a normal sized head, but the rest of his body is super-tiny, like, the size of an ice cube, and he constantly tries to hatch I-shall-rule-the-world schemes which are usually foiled by his tendency to over-think things.


I think their neighborhood needs an Irish cop walking the beat. Nothing fancy, just the stereotype times a thousand.


What do you think? Do any of my readers have the kind of money and connections necessary to make this happen? I'd do a Kickstarter, but what network would give me the chance to air this show?


Maybe we could get Rex Hamilton as Abraham Lincoln in there. What's he doing these days?





[EDIT: Ah, fuck. Looks like Rex Hamilton is dead. Never mind, then.]

Thursday, April 9, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #22: AN APPRECIATION OF TOM LEHRER

When I was a kid, I liked to check the same things out from the library so I could enjoy things over and over again. The items I checked out the most? Dr. Demento cassettes. Each one was dedicated to a decade, starting with the 'Fifties and going through the 'Eighties. Great stuff. I found a lot of gems in there.


One of my favorite discoveries, however, was Tom Lehrer. I'd already heard "The Masochism Tango," but I didn't know anything beyond it being a funny song. I didn't know the songwriter or performer or anything like that. And then I found it on one of those cassettes. More delightfully, however, I found "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park" on another. Now that I knew Tom Lehrer's name, on a whim I looked him up and found TOM LEHRER REVISITED, which the library luckily had.


And so my life changed.


I can't tell you how wonderful it was to discover this treasure trove of comedic songs about brutal murder, dope peddling, the end of the world and many other topics. Plagiarizing mathematicians, boys pimping out their sisters (for a good percentage of her price, naturally), southerners who haven't seen a good lynching in years, these are the savages that prowl through Lehrer's lyrics, and they're all funny as fuck.


After hearing his music, it's hard to imagine that his true love is mathematics. He attended Harvard at the age of 15, and he worked at Los Alamos during the Cold War. He taught at MIT. Up until recently, he was teaching math in California. This is an incredibly smart dude, and you could see he poured a lot of that into his viciously funny songs.


If you follow me on Twitter, you know I've been posting some of my favorite songs of his throughout the day (it's his 87th birthday). Classically trained on piano since the age of seven, he has released songs that sound innocuous enough . . . just so long as you're not listening to the lyrics. Once you tune in to the words, you'd be surprised to find him, say, taking on the Catholic church in a ragtime song. Or maybe you wouldn't have expected to hear the story of a crazy woman who murders her whole family hiding in an Irish ballad. Or the guy, who cut off his lover's hand after murdering her, living in what sounds like a classical romantic tune.


He's also really good at writing songs that are incredibly hard to sing along with, like "New Math." Another song, "The Elements," is a recital of all the elements on the Periodic Table performed in the style of Gilbert and Sullivan. Even so, the songs are catchy as all hell.


He once talked about his humor in these terms (paraphrased, as I don't have the article in front of me): first you throw the baby in the air, and you catch it. And the baby laughs. Then you throw the baby in the air, and you don't catch it. Then YOU laugh. This is very true, and it explains my sense of humor pretty well, too. He was also fond of saying, "If after hearing my songs just one human being is inspired to say something nasty to a friend or perhaps to strike a loved one, it will all have been worth the while."


Apparently, he stays pretty current. When 2 Chainz sampled "The Old Dope Peddler" in a song, Lehrer wrote to him, stating: "As sole copyright owner of [the song], I grant you motherfuckers permission to do this." And even though he's retired from music, there is a rumor that he's tinkering with a song about late-term abortion called "Bye-Bye Baby."


I can go on forever about my love of his work, but I think I've gone on enough. If you want to learn more, check this out. And then go out and buy all of his albums. The live ones are best, since he adds commentary in the introduction to each song. Also, on REVISITED, he introduces himself in a most unusual manner. I love the bit about translating THE WIZARD OF OZ to Latin, and his bit on doing impressions of diseases. If you're a sick and classy fuck like me, you will love Tom Lehrer.

Monday, April 6, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #21: HOW TO MAKE A MANHATTAN

To commemorate the return of MAD MEN (and the return of me drinking Manhattans), I thought I'd post my grandfather's recipe, which I posted a while ago in GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS and before that, on my MySpace blog.


Gramps taught me how to make a real Manhattan. Mixologists get it wrong all the time. If there's ice in your Manhattan, the guy who made it fucked up. A long time ago, I posted Gramps's recipe on MySpace, but since that's no more, I'll post it here for posterity: Take two shots of whiskey (it can be rye, but it's better if it's regular whiskey) and one shot of sweet vermouth. Stir it together over ice. DO NOT SHAKE. Then, pour it into a martini glass, but make sure none of the ice gets in there. Put a cherry into the glass (I skip that part, because I'm an asshole and I hate fruits and veggies), and you're done. Gramps told me that he knew a guy back in the 'Fifties who would drink about 10 of these things and then drive home to his family. Do that math: three shots (two of which are whiskey) times ten. I asked my grandfather if this guy died young, and he didn't. His heart gave out about twenty years ago, which placed the guy in his seventies.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #20: YELLOW-BACK BOOKS




Have you ever read this book? I consider it the best book on reading ever written. It even includes L'Amour's reading list in the back. I learned a lot from this one, but one of the most fascinating things he slipped into my mind was the concept of the Little Blue Book. During the Great Depression, a publisher with the noble cause of putting literature into the hands of people who couldn't ordinarily afford it started creating incredibly cheap, pocket-sized books and pricing them at a very affordable ten cents. I love that concept. I wish I had some of them in my personal collection, but I doubt many of them are extant today.


As I'm sure you're aware, I've been reading THE FIFTH HEART by Dan Simmons (OK, I get it, I'll shut up after this . . . maybe). I've learned a lot from this book, too. One of the outstanding things I learned is of the existence of yellow-back books. I fell in love with this concept immediately. These things were created as competition to the penny dreadfuls, and I'm almost certain the creators of Little Blue Books were inspired by them. After penny dreadfuls, this is the next step in the evolution of what would eventually be known as the pulps (and what would later inspire the fabulously popular concept of comic books).


I have some good classic comic books in my collection. I also have a lot of great pulp magazines. But I don't have Little Blue Books or any yellow-back books. I wish I could change that.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #19: BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY AROUND COMA PATIENTS

On Tuesday I watched the new episode of SIRENS, in which the father of one of the main characters ends up in a coma. The son wrestles with the possibility of his father's death, all the while wondering if his father can hear him. (It should be noted that this is a comedy. While there is some seriousness, the situation is ultimately played for laughs.)


Be careful what you say around coma patients. The character advised his father to go to the light, and when the old man wakes up, he gives his son shit for telling him that. It comes as a surprise to the guy that his father had heard him, but it didn't come as a surprise to me.


When I was in high school, my mother got into a horrible car accident. She was at a bar, and the guy she was with was giving her a ride home. Along the way, they rear-ended a UPS truck, which turned his car into an accordion. Mom never wore her seat belt the way she should; she always put the top belt behind her. As a result of this, she was damaged pretty badly. Her injuries were so unique that the doctors wanted to write a medical paper about her. She required a lot of surgery to fix her, and most of that time, about a year and a half, she was in a coma.


My family and I all wondered if she knew what we were saying in all of that time. When she woke up, she confirmed it for us: she was aware of us the whole time. She knew we were there, and she knew what we'd said. Could you imagine being aware of everything around you while you're in a coma for more than a year? To top it all off, the doctors had to keep her torso open. They had to keep getting inside of her for reconstruction of her organs, and to close her up each time would have been crazy. So they left her open and stuffed with something they called packing.


She told me that at one point, she thought I was playing a practical joke on her. She thought I'd dressed up as a doctor and was fiddling around with her guts inside of her. She tried telling me the joke wasn't funny and tried to get me to stop, but she couldn't communicate. Then, the doctor took his mask off, and she saw it wasn't me, which was a great relief, even though she was still aware that someone had been putting his hands inside her torso.


She eventually made a full recovery, but it always haunted me that she could stand being a prisoner in her own body for that length of time. I couldn't stand something like that. That's why I'm a firm believer in pulling the plug on me if I'm in a coma. Wait maybe two weeks, and if I'm not back by then, pull the plug and be done with it. I don't want to be bored out of my fucking mind for more than two weeks.


And if any of you fuckers tells me to go to the light . . . ugh. (Unless it's a POLTERGEIST reference, which I'll find funny the first time. Anymore after that, and I'll be plotting your death.)

Sunday, March 15, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #18: THEIR DANSE IS OVER



I've taken it upon myself to reread DANSE MACABRE by Stephen King. The last time I read it was in high school, and while I knew a lot about horror back then (to give you an idea, I graduated in 1996), I still had a lot yet to learn. I wanted to gauge my current knowledge, and as an adult at the age of thirty-six, I've discovered a lot since then, enough so I'm on the exact same page as King. There are still a couple of references I don't know about, but I'm sure by the time I reread this book at the age of fifty, I'll have that covered.


Most interestingly, however, I note the dedication page. King says, "It's easy enough--perhaps too easy--to memorialize the dead. This book is for six great writers of the macabre who are still alive." And then he lists them. Much to my sadness, I realized that all six of them are now dead.



If you'd asked me back then who my second favorite writer was (first favorite was King), I would have to say it was Robert Bloch. He adapted with the times. He built himself with Lovecraft and then moved on to his own style. No one did psychological horror like he did, and very few imbued it with his special brand of humor. He died in 1994, very shortly after I'd found his work. If you've never read ONCE AROUND THE BLOCH, his autobiography, I highly recommend it.



It is my shame to admit that I've never read anything by Jorge Luis Borges, but I've heard a lot of good things about his work. This is something I intend to fix at some point. He died in 1986, a mere five years after King wrote DANSE MACABRE.



There is nothing I can say about Ray Bradbury that hasn't been said a thousand times by writers better than I. His work is a sheer delight, and I'd be surprised if anyone reading this right now hasn't delved at least a little into his stories. I would be hard-pressed to name a favorite of his work, but if you put a gun to my head, I would probably say SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES. He died a mere three years ago in 2012, the longest-living writer on King's list.



Frank Belknap Long contributed a great deal to Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos. His writing has gone in many different directions, but he is most remembered for my favorite story of his, "The Hounds of Tindalos." I highly doubt you're reading this and you haven't read that short story, but if you haven't, make it your business to read it immediately. Like Bloch, he died shortly after I found his work in 1994.



Donald Wandrei is one of those writers you will find if you hang out in old pulps and anthology books. Usually, his name is uttered in the same breath as Lovecraft's and for very good reason. Of these writers, he is probably the least known, but he's a very good author. My favorite of his work is, hands down, "The Red Brain," which I reviewed here. Right now, I think this story is only available in the first volume of John Pelan's THE CENTURY'S BEST HORROR FICTION, which can be found for a hefty sum here. Wandrei died in 1987, shortly after DANSE MACABRE was published.



And finally, we have Manly Wade Wellman. He's another writer you'll find if you like to read old anthologies (and every once in a while, a new-ish anthology). He is probably best known for his John the Balladeer stories about a wandering guitar player who helps out people with supernatural problems. I love it whenever I find one of these stories. I feel like I'm wandering myself, and when I find John, it's like hanging out with an old friend for a while. I could probably get a complete collection of his appearances, but that just wouldn't feel right. However, as much as I like him, I like John Thunstone even more. He's a hardcore supernatural investigator/warrior who had a particular beef with humanoid creatures known as the Shonokins. My favorite of Wellman's work, however, is a novel about John (sometimes called Silver John after his silver guitar strings, though Wellman wasn't fond of that appellation): AFTER DARK. He died in 1986.


King adds this final warning to readers: "Enter, Stranger, at your Riske: Here there be Tygers." A fitting warning for the dedication page. Tygers lurk in all six writers' works. If you're going to tackle them on my (and King's) say-so, beware. They're not for the faint of heart.

Friday, February 20, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #17: TALKING SHIT

I just came up with another useless show idea that would never happen because no one would ever want to do it. Except for me, obviously.


Envision this: an interview show. I'm the host, and I interview A-list celebrities, but it's not conducted in a studio. Nope. The interviews will be shot in the bathroom. I'm in one stall, and, say, Channing Tatum is in the next one. I ask the tough questions, and he gives the tough answers while we grunt our way through our respective defecations. I'll call it TALKING SHIT, and it will be the new TONIGHT SHOW.


I can see it now: upon completion of the interview, we'll wash our hands and do the wrap up. I'll point to the camera and say, "23 JUMP STREET is in theaters now. Channing Tatum, everyone." And I'll shake his hand, and the cheers from the other stalls will begin. Hey, the studio audience has to take a shit with us. Thems the rules.


My sidekick? I'm pretty sure Curtis Armstrong would be down, but he only gets the job if he performs as Booger.


The band? I don't think Dr. Dirty would have a problem with taking a shit while playing the piano.


The announcer? I don't know. What about that dude from Double Dare? What's Harvey up to these days? OK, him. I'll take him.


I'm pretty sure Fox would love this idea. They'll greenlight anything.


*sigh* I can dream.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #16: HE WHO INSTALLS INTERNET BEHIND THE ROWS

As some of you are aware, I recently had big boy internet installed at home, so I'm no longer depending on a measly little Jetpack for my internet needs. Since my house is old enough to be wired for antenna only, not digital, it involved having the Comcast guy drill a hole through my wall and add to my wiring in order to support said big boy internet.


As I watched him do this from below (he had to climb a ladder to the second story to do this), it felt kind of odd knowing that he'd just drilled a hole from the outside world into my bedroom. How unusual that must be. And then I looked around and saw all of the other wires that ran from the poles in my alley into holes in the brick of my building. I was suddenly awed because I've lived here for about 25 years, and I have probably seen these wires all of my life, but I never noticed them until now. I looked at the insane amount of wiring to each building connected to the alley out back, and I wondered how much planning and effort had gone into this project so many decades ago. I was dumbfounded, mostly due to my complete lack of understanding when it comes to infrastructure, the world that exists below the world we casually observe. I imagine it's like fitting a puzzle together, only to realize that it's a part of a vast network of other puzzles, something I just can't wrap my head around.


No matter where you are in the city or suburbs, there is a world behind the world you see, and that world is what makes this world function. How many residents of my hometown Elmhurst know, for example, that the downtown area (in particular the York Theater) is connected to the quarry through a subterranean maze? I wonder how many bootleggers made use of this during Prohibition.


It's staggering to think about, but at the same time, it's kind of ordinary. So before I start wondering how magnets work, I'm going to shut up.

Saturday, February 14, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #15: SURREPTITIOUS READING

Reflecting on the ride...
From Lamebook

I love Lamebook, but at the same time, I'm glad no one I know has been posted there. I think that shows I have great taste in friends. Anyway, I was hanging around Lamebook when I found this post of a guy who just couldn't wait to get home to watch some porn. He thought he was being clever by turning his device away from everyone, not realizing that the window would show the reflection of what he's watching. I thought, "What a stupid thing to do. Just wait until you're in the privacy of your own home before you watch people fucking." And then I realized that I was kinda-sorta guilty of the same thing back in November.


I'd gone out to Vegas to visit my father, step-mom, sister and brother, and since it's a long flight, I brought plenty of reading material to keep me sane. The perfect reading material for a flight? Bizarro fiction. The books tend to be short, and they always tend to be interesting, so I can usually knock out a couple of them on the way out and a few more on the way back.


This time, I had brought Carlton Mellick III's THE BABY JESUS BUTT PLUG. I have no problem with reading nasty, crazy books in public. I proudly read RICO SLADE WILL FUCKING KILL YOU by Bradley Sands with the cover facing the entire world, so I figured tBJBP wouldn't be a problem. And then I discovered that there were illustrations in the book. Very questionable illustrations. I have no problem with them, of course, but the people who had to sit next to me? I kind of worried about them. The thought of being jailed for public indecency got to me, and while I read the book, I covered the illustrations with my hand if they were on the right side of the page (I was at the window seat on the left side of the plane). If they were on the left side, I turned the book slightly, so they wouldn't be able to see. (And I closed the blind to the window to avoid any reflection.)


I loved the book, and I discovered something odd about the people sitting next to me: THEY DIDN'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT ME. They never even glanced in my direction because they were too involved in their own boredom-killing attempts. I was paranoid for nothing. Even now, as I write this months later, I don't even remember their faces, and I'm sure they haven't given me a second thought since getting off the plane.


So fuck it. Next time I'm on a plane, I'm going to watch A SERBIAN FILM.

Thursday, February 5, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #14: AN EVENING OF FREE BOOZE WITH TONY STARK

Last year, the office building I work in hosted a beer and wine tasting. I managed to get a free ticket, along with a few friends, which meant I got to drink a lot of alcohol for free. There are very few things more magical than that. I wound up getting a lot of stories out of that night. One of them involves Iron Man himself. A guy who runs a design company in the building has a hobby of building very realistic Iron Man suits. They look like movie props, and they even light up. I wouldn't be surprised if the fuckers can fly. He had one on display in his office window, and it was amazing to behold. I actually got to meet the guy, and it turns out he goes to C2E2, as well, and he's usually wearing one of his Iron Man suits. How awesome is that?


The evening was incredible, and I remember walking into the building the next morning with Fitz, who had been there with me. Considering the wild events of the previous evening, the lobby looked kind of sad. Some of the furniture was still there, and movers were working at cleaning up. I remarked to Fitz that we were looking at the last ghostly remnants of a great time.


Shortly after, my pancreas failed me, and I nearly died. I think this party might have had something to do with it, considering the monumental amount of alcohol I consumed. Tickets to this event cost about $35, and I'm here to tell you that I probably drank about five times that amount in the space of three hours.


Fast forward to now. Guess who got a free pass to this year's event. That's right. So did Fitz and another friend who was present last year. Now that I've switched departments, I have a full view of the lobby below from my desk, and I've been watching the staff put everything in place, and I can feel the building excitement of the possibilities of drunken adventures tonight.


You know how, when you drop a pebble in a pond, it causes circles to drift out from the middle in all directions? What if death worked that way? I feel like I'm watching the ghost of tonight's event before it has even happened, and I feel very excited. Is it possible that Tony Stark will make an appearance? I certainly hope so. War Machine is on display right now. I desperately hope this guy puts on the Iron Man suit to mingle with us in the lobby. That would be great. Adventure and debauchery awaits.


Although I should probably not drink enough to put me in the ER again. That would suck, especially since I'm not done paying my hospital bills yet. I wouldn't mind getting shot full of Dilaudid again, but I'm not sure I want to go to such great lengths to get that.


Preparations have been made. A hotel room has been acquired. The event begins at five. The countdown has begun. Wish me luck. I'll wear a red carnation on my lapel tomorrow so you'll know I'm still me.

Monday, February 2, 2015

HEY FUCKERS #13: I HAVE SEEN THINGS YOU PEOPLE WOULDN'T BELIEVE

Yesterday, I was fairly certain that I wouldn't be able to make it in to work today. I let my boss know, just in case, but as it got closer to my bedtime, I saw plows starting to run through the alley behind my house. I figured that if they kept that up, coming to work would be no problem.


When I woke up this morning, I heard a plow go through. I felt that I would definitely make it in to work. So I went about my daily preparation, and after watching traffic reports, I thought I should start my commute a few minutes early. Nothing drastic, I just brushed my teeth a bit quicker. There was the possibility that I might have to dig out of my garage a bit, so I allowed time for that.


And then I tried leaving my house. Surprise! The snow was halfway up to my door, and I had to push like a fiend to get through. Then, I had to wade through snow up to my hips through my backyard to the garage. In that moment, I realized that I might have underestimated my ability to get to work.


When I opened the garage door, I saw that I was fucked. I almost gave up then and there. It would take me twenty minutes to tunnel through to the plowed part of the alley. By then, I'd be late for work, so why bother going in at all?


No. That is unacceptable. I refuse to let weather conditions stop me. Besides, this is a new job, and I sure as shit don't want to disappoint anyone. I grabbed a shovel and in a mad frenzy, dug my way from the garage to the plowed part of the alley. It sucked, because the plow had gone through, and instead of aiming the snow at the fence, it aimed it at the line of garage doors. It took me about fifteen minutes to carve away just enough snow in order to fit my car through.


Or so I thought. I backed out, but when I got to the fence and put it into drive, I couldn't get traction. I tried all the tricks, and it amounted to jack fucking shit. So I got out and shoveled under each tire and tried again.


No dice. I got out and shoveled more, and cursing and sweating, I screamed at my car as I tried to get traction yet again. Snow flew in all directions, but I finally had movement. Roaring my battle cry, I finally got the car heading out to the street . . . where the plows had left a giant hump of snow across the alley exit.


William Wallace himself couldn't beat my war cry as I gunned my vehicle and blew through the snow hump and into the street. My tires slipped across the icy street, but I used the momentum to keep moving through to the main street in front of my house. Only then did I know that I'd finally defeated my city's shoddy weather practices.


And then I got to the expressway. The Empire had sent out an army of AT-AT's to make sure I didn't make it to work, and I suddenly wished for a Tauntaun to get me through. Luckily, I'd just installed blasters on my fenders, and with the help of a lone Jedi, I was able to break through the line and get the fuck off of Hoth--


Eh, all right. The expressway wasn't too bad. Shockingly enough, all of my fellow commuters, even the truckers, were acting like reasonable people (I told you I've seen things you people wouldn't believe), so I made it in to work in pretty good time.


In fact, I was early.


Don't congratulate me yet. I still have to drive home after work, and that's not going to be good. Somehow, I don't see snow removal happening in my alley, which means I'm going to have to break my back shoveling. Seriously, I'm in rough shape as it is. I've got a pain in the side that's almost reminiscent of the time I had pancreatitis, and I can't breathe in too deeply without needing to cough. My legs are wobbly. I'm pretty sure I need a nap right now. Now I know what the guy at the end of "The Raft" segment of CREEPSHOW 2 felt like. Sure, I beat the weather, but it's going to get me as soon as I get home. Fuck.


For the first time in a log time, I dread going home from work. Maybe I should just camp out here until all the snow goes away. Yeah, that's what I'm going to do. Good luck to the rest of you.