Spotify values Rogan more than any musician in the history of the world.
-Ted Gloria
World domination, not the Fat Mike stuff.
-Brian Baker
He fractured more with every step.
-Sam Sodomsky on Elliott Smith
You are not in control of the emotions that come to you but you’re in control of how you choose to act with those emotions in your system.
–John Moe
Trying to change someone’s mind is like a termite gnawing on a temple.
–Mark Thousands
Nice headline, eh Good Reader? Don’t get your hopes up. I’m just checking in to say that going on is the new crazy. Remember when this wasn’t the case and not being able to deal was the chink in your armor? Back in school, you didn’t go along, they put you in a room, called you retarded or faggot. Then some kid sang on TV in a glorified garage-punk band and suddenly you were a hero. Jocks dyed their hair. Girls talked to you. Nevermind, for my generation, was the looking glass. The world went through but the tried and true knew a ruse. We’d never be able to tell who was cool again. The same jocks who did an about face on calling us freaks grew up and straightened out and married the girls who did it, too. No one wants to live on the fringe too long. Even I gave up, after thirty long and lean years. Point is was a time when dropping out made you weird. You didn’t want what they were offering the fuck was wrong with you. It’s hard to tell exactly when the world went through the looking glass again. ‘16’s a good bet but I remember how dumb and rabid they all got in ‘01. There’d be no Kid Rock without 9/11 although the pandemic’s tripled the dead we’ll never forget with nary a peep from the Kid Rock-MAGA-marrying-your-high school-girlfriend crowd. Wow…point is, damn, point is now, if you go along you’re nuts. If you’re able to deal you’re crazy. Step outside into streets filled with blood, drive to work in the tropical rain hoping your car doesn’t need a new starter or some emergency dental work doesn’t put you below the poverty line and having to make that call where you kiss your mom’s ass and tell her she was right about college and that she could vote worse than Trump.
I’m in a bad mood. Life is great. It rains all the time here. The weather is wrong. I’m not feeling getting by. Getting by is why—600 words here every Thursday since I got shot down by a gilf who wanted me to pay for a shiatsu session before sex. Nowadays it’s flirty phone calls in the middle of the workday and and anyway insincere invitations over for coffee. It’s a good thing that after all this time I’ve learned to be alone. I just gave up on jerking off minutes ago if that’s any indication of how dumb and inured and off the charts mind-boggingly fucked and at the chipper blades the world and life in the Final Century has become. Getting by is batshit cuckoo. I don’t wanna talk about my problems. That Trump supporting cop choked that poor man to death while his partner stood by trying to look hard but only coming off like a sociopathic piglet. 100,000 people have died. There’s lots of talk about tests but I haven’t seen one in 3 months of being locked down. Austin’s tropical. The yard’s being overrun with lizards. To get by and go along there is no way you aren’t part or all the way gone. The Goddamned plane has crashed into the mountain. The amount of denial one needs to get through any given day is colossal. I’m a denial-mummy, wrapped in it like gauze, loading up on wipes and dish soap scowling at the bums outside CVS and living down the 11 years we have left before the planet’s taken over by cops and lizards. It’s not lost on me, however, that there’s an opportunity for me here.
To get better now is crazier than a Tomi Lahren think tank. It even out-crazies me to get better, now, as everything is failing and somehow rise to the occasion and be my best in a dark and tumultuous world where if the humans don’t kill you the weather will. I feel it too, truth be told Good Reader. Every day I don’t live up to my best me I’ve a shame but worse–a sediment and soreness in the bones. There’s something in me that’s got to come out. Truth is I don’t get better I might as well end it, leave it all to Mama Jul and Little Brother and take a high and final bow from the ceiling. That would be the sane thing to do. Ain’t it the way, too, that just as I slipped the mortal coil and stepped outside forever my phone would ring and she’d be hoping I could pick up some half and half on my way over.
Going for the Throat 