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Thanks motherfucker!
You should learn how to feel sad without actually being sad.
-Laurie Anderson’s Buddhist Teacher
Self-editing is humiliating. I didn’t start a blog called Going For The Throat to censor myself. There have been times over the years and I’m sure I’ll be called to do it again, for whatever dumb reason life may deal me at that moment. Admittedly, I’ve steered away from skewering certain individuals because it would’ve only esteemed them. Those come out in the wash, though. It took me a couple years but I was able to call out certain cunts on here who’s name I never would’ve mentioned before. Of course there are professional considerations, but if you’re a dayworker like I am you have very little control or catharsis-I’ve found that biting your tongue on a shitjob only rears in the end. You can abstain from speaking your mind but if some boss deserves it, it’s only a matter of time before your hands are on him in the alley behind the break room. Things have their way of working themselves out. Living in fear is worse than dying which might soudnd idealistic to you but any jerkoff who posts at least 600 words about himself on the world wide web every week isn’t playing with a full deck of practicality to begin with. What that means is if I’m crazy enough to dream it, you know I’m just plain crazy too. Self-editing, or censoring, is bullshit and I only do it if I’m at an impasse. If I’ve stared at the same post, and re-read it enough times to know it by heart, then it’s time to flush it and start anew. This isn’t poetry. At best, Going For the Throat is a gun-I’d only point it at you if I’m shooting to kill.
Greetings from the Hewitt Lake Club, Population 7. It looks like rain on Lily Bay, but it’s looked that way since 9. The sky is turning silver, there’s a low thunder rumbling and a high wind swaying the gingkoes and lone evergreen to the left of the screen porch where I write this self-censored post. Whether it rains or not means little. I’ll be wet by the time I get to the greasy barn and it’d be great to build a fire in the pod. Two days ago I would’ve had a completely different answer, with Ben in Brooklyn and the rain coming down it was just me and Blair sitting around the fire-in our pod, all day long. I was worried my resentments had ruined this trip, but woke up charged, on my day off yesterday, bounding out of bed at 6:30AM and writing over a thousand words about the horrid grind my life has become. Thank Christ that’s over with.
Out on the drive behind the cabin, by the garage where I sing, working on a tune called It’s Been A Long Time That I Should Be Far From Here-I realized something. Music, songs and songwriting, lyrics-these could be the last haven for wonder in these paling years. Fantasy. Myth. What I’ve rued since giving up the life-otherness, lust, change. Of course the fear is that perhaps I only use songs to help me through rough and large transitions. SWAMP EP, for example. I must’ve buried 3 exs alone by the end of The Winner, SWAMP‘s opening track. I resolved some issues I had with my dead Father in So Many Roads, acknowledged that I loved her in Back (I Want You) and laid out LA Telegram and Back In The Game like a dream map of the South, the Rockabilly Night and my new Spring in Austin ever dawning. I’ve penned some tunes since then and unearthed even more. I wrote down the titles to anywhere from 12-15 solid songs, songs that I’ve written that I like…which ain’t bad for someone who thinks he doesn’t write enough songs. So the fear is that, at the end of this ordeal, I’ll have 3 or 4 tunes that have helped me through, but I won’t be closer to my songwriting heroes. I’m sensing a theme here, and just wrote to Compatriot Cole this morning about never realizing what I call the Rollins ideal. Oh well. At least with songwriting it’s easy to keep in mind that it’s good work if you can find it. Songwriting is a different kind of spell-it’s writing and self actualizing but it involves the Gods on an intimate level. As a songwriter you can become anything (or anyone) you want to be. It’s instantaneous and only a fool could ask for more.
When peace comes it’s profound. The blood in my head sinks at the same rate as the sun, and I’ve expereienced dusks here both utterly sublime and completely ordinary. That’s all I ever wanted. I don’t need fireworks. I never wanted Heaven though I guess I settled for Hell. Didn’t I Brother. I never wanted a panacea or a cure all, but that could be depression talking (why bother trying to feel good when it’s such a short ride from the good life to the blues?). Know what I mean Sister? Life is…life. I got a good feeling about leaving this gig even if I only heard back from 3 of the 20 booking emails sent out from the greasy barn last Friday. I wrote another verse for an old tune and revisited one that’s been brimming from the heartlid before 10AM yesterday morning. This tenuous balance, periods of synchronous bliss coupled with torrid maelstroms of anger and irritation, sounds like life to me and of course there’s so much more I could do.
Sorry for the hodge-podge, good Reader. I tried to salvage the high points of my charge and kept the low points of the original missive to myself. No good deed goes unpunished ain’t it though, ’cause now I’m out here in the garage writing this. I flew the screen porch and came out here to wrap this fucking thing. Our pod got too full of good vibes and company, no room for me and my bitterness, which, truth be told is only killing me. Jill just walked by and said I could turn on the light if I wanted to. I told her I’d just suffer in silence and we laughed, this 86 year old Artist and me, hard, because she’s right. I could turn on the light if I wanted to.
So much for Objective Journalism. Don’t bother to look for it here―not under any byline of mine; or anyone else I can think of. With the possible exception of things like box scores, race results, and stock market tabulations, there is no such thing as Objective Journalism. The phrase itself is a pompous contradiction in terms.”
–Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72, Hunter S. Thompson
When I first got into the blogging business, I was up to my knees in a day gig. It didn’t pay much, $7.50/hr, and not much was expected of me—40 or so hours a week putting tags on orange merchandise for the University of Texas COOP, in a cold building on the corner of Real&Alexander. I could’ve played it right so many ways back then but I didn’t play it at all. I was young, 34, new to town and working the warehouses. I didn’t have the luck or what some call confidence to go for the Rockabilly Dream I had come to Texas for. But I had my first piece of journalism published by the end of my 5th month here so it looked like I was leading in with the writing and I went with it. I started blogging soon after that.
Laid off as a bartender and emboldened by articles appearing in Verbicide magazine, along with the news that I’d be receiving $444 biweekly from the state of Texas in unemployment compensation, I felt the time to be a writer was now, or, then. The Fall of ’10 saw me suffering one of many crises of faith I’ve suffered throughout a lifelong career in the arts. A crisis of faith can best be described as do or die. If I didn’t make it as a writer, while on unemployment in Texas and during my 35th year, I’d be doomed to factory warehouse or promotions work, bartending or hospice care. That’s what life offered me then, what my choices were and what it looked like. What a wild, reckless time it was, trying to be a writer.
The image of me standing up bourbon drunk in a black convertible speeding through the barrio with a sexy redheaded nurse at the wheel is a good one, a fine image to hold on to. But also, there were many black mornings, much anger and frustration, and much banging of the head against the wall. I upped my writing regimen from an hour of writing 1,200 words a day and it was nothing but pain. Looking back I was learning the hard lesson that whatever you do in the Arts, and more importantly, despite what you think about whatever you’re doing in the Arts, doing something is not doing nothing. It all counts. If you’re diehard and Irish like me, something’s got to give and if you’re up against the wall, does it really matter what gives? Your head or the wall, Pilgrim—but let me tell you something, there are many ways through a wall and you can make your Art about that and many will join you and celebrate through you, get behind you and push you until you’re through.
This blog is what it looks like on the other side. I know that with the littlest amount of discipline, I can come up with a 644 word missive and whale-killer of a blog that’ll sink any amount of blues and malaise, anger or sexual frustration I’m dealing with. I know how to do it because I put so much time in to doing it. My blogging medicine is strong. When I say the littlest amount of discipline, I mean that what you’ve read so far took me 20 minutes. Most blogs do. It’s the excruciating tweaking and editing that takes up the nut of time needed to get these up and posted for you good reader, but 20 minutes to wrap it and dull the jagged edges of sobriety and Kelvin depths of loneliness. What a blessing. What a goddamned miracle. You know how I can do all this in 20 minutes? Because I’ve spent days doing it. Yep. 1,200 words used to take me 8 hours, a 6-pack of Black Lager and a late night drive through the barrio. Now I do 600, for your benefit, and at the speed of the Age of Information we are living in, and I do it in 20 minutes. Is it good? I’m happy with it, and extremely proud at times, but ultimately I am comfortable in the knowledge that if you want to write good you need to write bad. At the helm, in the War Room, at your desk or easel, even on the road at the MAMU—there is no wasted time creating Art. This, right here, is the best 20 minutes I’ve spent in the last 3 weeks. Now if I could only find something to do with the other 1,420 minutes of the day.
See you next Thursday motherfucker.
Vote with a bullet.
Trainer, Going For The Throat
Austin, TX-Nationwide
“Fuck Yoga,” my partner was saying, “you should take up boxing.”
We were on the long slink into Texas from Louisiana. Crossing the gulf coast underneath godheads of clouds that rained on us as we passed.
“Something where you can hit someone, and get hit.”
I was wound tight but it wasn’t the traffic. It wasn’t from my third cup of gas station coffee either.
“Just sit back,” I told him and eased the stereo up to 10.
Suddenly the rain broke and the road wound long to the horizon. A good sign. I rolled the windows down. My partner fell asleep without another word.
The close quarters of a black 2016 Hyundai Santa Fe were enough to make us buggy, rolling down the windows or reaching for the stereo, a set of earphones or a piece of gum. Any way to create some space. My partner slept for a lot of the drive. Most in fact, which was ok, and much better than unsolicited advice about my “short fuse” or spartan road diet of sliced apples and bread and cheese from Starbucks. It wasn’t all bad and in fact was mostly good. We had a good run and he offered encouragement with his criticisms, especially after my set at Siberia on Saturday.
The gist of it is that in twenty years of booking bands, Bernard can spot talent and according to him I’ve got it. As much as I’ve heard that over twenty years of performing, his words sank in, really got in there. It was undeniable and I heard him. He also offered that maybe the dayjob shouldn’t be anything but. When I told him my plans of riding my caregiving gig as long as I could he said it was a mistake. I heard him, too. This blog ain’t about him though. At least not specifically.
This post is about a life devoted to the creation of Art. An attempt to disabuse myself of fearful notions that have only kept me doleful and caged. I took the safe route. Perhaps. I still made Art. In Yoga this morning I realized that everything I think is just that-what I think. This is some powerful medicine, Brothers&Sisters, and between the kind words of my tour partner and the self-realization afforded one on the Yogic path, I can see out. I ain’t so scared anymore. So, then- what am I waiting for?
I don’t know. But my laziness knows no bounds. There’s been a lot of fucking about since we pulled off LaTex Road last Monday. I started back working full-time, which ain’t easy. I’ve submitted some work and attempted to book some. But much like when I was smoking and boozing and knew I was not living authentically-I know now that I’m not at 100%. The details of it are shameful. I don’t know why you’d want to read about it, but you do, and for this I am forever thankful.
Philly is the last to be booked on my east coast mini-tour. Perhaps that’s how it should be but I’ve known about these dates since May- when I pushed back my usual June shows to September, and added Boston and NYC. Some shit fell through. Mostly unforeseen but now I know. Also, I don’t need to be reminded that throughout my endeavors I will find a way to blame myself, to prove that I’m not good enough or worry about screwing it up long enough to actually screw it up. Fly into Boston at twice the cost of a ticket quoted in May, without radio, without a local third act and without a place to stay. Not to mention without New York City booked at all. Some shit fell through. Other shit I worried myself into a fit over, while doing nothing but laying on my back and masturbating.
Shameful, I know. It’s fucking crazy being me. I don’t know what I’d do without you, good reader. I’m still kicking against it, the blues, insisting on this life and burning down the savage road I first stepped foot on over twenty years ago. I’m still fucking it up colossally too, making twenty year old mistakes. It’s as if I’m doing this for the first time, which, in a way, I am. Sober. Completely me. Raw. Nervous. Wanting a cigarette so bad I could cry, at times, but knowing that my pain would only stop there. It’s quite the ride Brothers&Sisters. I’m quaking in my boots. I’m nervous and raw and completely me. Still after it. Still alive. Still going for the throat.
Namaste
There is no Buddha but the Buddha that you are. If you meet the Buddha on the road you haven’t understood what the Buddha is. It is none other than your original mind. The idea of seeing the Buddha as outside of your self is conceptual-as is “becoming enlightened.” One can not become enlightened because that would assume that you are gaining something that you don’t have. Your basic nature is enlightened, awake, free, non-dual. This is completely experiential and not conceptual. You have to kill the concept of Buddha both inside and out.
–JJ Simon
I’m about to have a nervous breakdown, and my head really hurts…
-Black Flag
Sooner or later we all hit the wall…
-Nathan Hamilton
How would you like a worms-eye view of your own psychology? The nuts and bolts of the machine, the blood and guts of the monster, your reasons, your dreams, your desires, your doubts and fears? Any of you curious about what really makes you tick should publish your own book of poetry. You’ll be pulled through the eye of the needle and shot from the mouth of the cannon. Hours of synchronous bliss working on a dream coupled with marrow scraping minutes doubting every decision you ever made. Putting your work out into the world can prompt some gnarly questions. The design of my book saw my coveted verse suddenly swarmed by an army of critical voices. And but Christ the questions. Keep in mind that you’re the one asking, especially if you’ve been sitting in the same chair in your apartment for 14 hours on your day off. Best believe you’re the only one there. You’re on your own and these questions of worth and purpose will surface, and pass through you like hot shrapnel. In fact it could just be the emotional equivalent of Newton’s 3rd Law of Motion. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Translated, for every wild desire to be manifest there is a nightmare of Karma rearing at the same speed.
One of the biggest inspirations for this blog, its main thrust, is that one day I will finally and fully unreel the inner-diatribe of self sabotage. I will have fully documented the script that grinds out any high hopes or goodwill about living like a cigarette butt. And it will be here, online, out in the open for all to see. And we will laugh. And laugh and laugh and laugh. We will die laughing. It’s the byline of this blog for a reason. I really feel like I can do it, finally get it all down and slay the dragon, using words as brick and mortar to wall the fucker in. I bring this up because I smell like shit. I’ve been smoking a pack of triple-nickels every day since I first opened InDesign. I don’t answer the phone, don’t go to Yoga. My diet is the simplest form of protein which means bacon and eggs, every day, gross, and caffeine aho I been mainlining the shit. Espresso, iced mocha, bullet coffee (thanks Ceci!) and iced tea. I drink more seltzer than 10 recovering alcoholics and I hate my computer. I’m suffering a certain and specific stabbing pain which can only mean that my hips are cranked beyond any reasonable range of motion and I woke up, this of all mornings, throwing my phone against the wall, for reasons unclear but in doing so jarred something loose and nasty in my shoulder and I can’t wave my right hand without looking like I’m heiling Hitler.
My creative flow was blocked. Which could explain the colorful language of this post. But at least that shit still works. Like wildflowers sprouting from my skull. I mention this morning of all mornings because today was the day, or, depending when you read this, yesterday was, but today really is. Final file time motherfucker. Last proof before I get a mockup from Minuteman Press. After mockup and final file and any last edits there is no turning back. I’ll have 100 copies of the book-block of September. I’ll have accomplished a heaping third of actualizing a dream I’ve had since I was 17. But it came with a price.
This wasn’t free. Remember that?
Please live your dreams. It’s the best and worst thing you could ever do to yourself. The most ecstatic torture. While reaching for the stars you’ll feel the cold pull of the earth, and old voices will waft up from the grave, telling you a story of a 17 year old kid sitting on a stoop at his friend’s house in Upper Darby, looking down in awe at Rollins’ One From None. That’s when the dream gripped me and this whole thing started. We both know what happened next. The dream laid in my guts for 23 years, while on shift and in the yard, pissing my time away for a dollar, heinous in itself but tragic if my stagnancy came from a deficit of confidence. As it turns out all I had to do was confirm that that way of life was killing me.
When I say Karma I mean history. The dream won’t be wrenched free easily. Reaching for a dream you’ll be checked at every venture, Brother,and every task and turn from frame to finish, with every edit and redo—you’ll hear a a nagging voice telling you it can’t be done, shouldn’t be done and you’re only your parents failure, you never should’ve left your hometown, should’ve stuck around the campus of community college and bided your time with a new drug addiction until you found your rightful place on Megan’s List. You’ll feel a fatal gravity of doubt-but none of that matters because if you keep bucking and kicking you will confront yourself. You’ll live through it and have confronted yourself. You’ll come to the new understanding that Karma is behavior. And you’ll know what you always knew. The writing life is a courageous life.
GREETINGS ALIEN
If you’re receiving this email, you are a visual artist or a writer and you are featured in
RAW PAW VOLUME 6: ALIEN
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Love,
Raw Paw
Y’all sure know how to make a guy feel loved. And it’s just like you said you’ve got to be the love you seek. Which is lofty and idealistic and perfect for an old romantic like me. And there needs to be a saying for when good shit keeps happening. Am I right? I mean, we know the hits keep coming is a good one when the shitstorm is raining down and the mud is rising up. There’s Kismet, that wink from out in the unknown saying ‘Yass‘ ‘Go Forward’, or ‘Word’ … I’m not examining this journalistically, but do we not have some colloquialism or turn of phrase for when good fortune continues to arrive? It just gets better and better? You kidding me? That’s a go-to, for me, when the shit’s so bad you gotta attack it with marrow scraping sarcasm. Ultimately, when you’ve spent the last 25 years battling depression you have the luxury of not feeling bad. Not ever feeling good, mind you, and when I say not feeling bad I mean not feeling like there are two tons of hot metal slowly pouring down from a white sky of pain and just when you’re numb as a statue, the sun sinks, the heat gives and you’re left like some life-sized figurine, the night air sticky and humid and giving the copper of your flesh a patina of green. I don’t know the parlance of victory or strength, let alone the unassuming joy in eternity’s sunrise. All I know is I haven’t smiled so much in a very long time, last night, beginning to read all your wonderful comments. As a recovering depressaholic I’m loathe to hang my hat on any kind of cure-all but it sure is nice when I rediscover and Y’ALL REMIND ME THANK YOU VERY MUCH, what this work is for and exactly what we’re doing here. With the blog and the everything, what is it, we’re sending out, to other souls like radio, to connect. Could it be that you, my followers, are all part of my generation? Does that even fucking matter? I’ve made connections with folks I never would’ve even met, and I continue to connect with them in profound, life affirming ways. My letter to Brother Chris, quoted above for example. Maybe I’ll reprint my initial letter to him some Letter Day down the road when I can’t come up with even a pastiche of a blog like the last one (let alone a slick 6 or mean 8). All I wrote to him-all I did-was shine back what he had only been shining out. I wished him well, in print and earnestly ( I can’t even begin to describe my joy about the power of the written/typed word, so I won’t ). I wrote him a letter. Remember those? Before all of this, ever went down? Before the Terrible Century, back when rock and roll meant so fucking much and the attention and the girls were only caveats? We played it like we meant it because we fucking did. Now that that storm of anger/August has passed like a warhead, and I can walk down west 6th with a little Philly in my step, I’ve caught up on sleep and I can dig my heels in a faceoff with my anger, do work and get back to the grind. As far as your boundless love and strength, sent to me vis-a-vis Facebook and etc., y’all sure know how to make a guy feel loved. Oh, and I never had a problem with anger as an emotion. Aho. It’s just that I’m too old to be missing sleep over it. My needs in service to the body are many. In some kind of cosmic joke, my hatred and anger have raged on and only grown ha ha ha but the body is tired and soft. But also wisdom has been accrued, even all those fuckaround years when I thought it was a curse, I have done nothing if not gotten wise, and I can’t unsee it which of course was the problem…oh christ I’m a riot eh? From the depths of loathing to the christ like idealism of a poet. Believe me, I know all about being me. Which could be a perfect beginning to wisdom, Know Thyself. And as a superstitious X-depressaholic I’ll play it safe, hedge my bets and say that on my good days I have found a way to put rock and roll into writing. Songwriting, well, let’s open that can of snakes some other time, eh good reader? When I say y’all are keeping me alive you have no idea how true it is. We keepers of the flame, old punkrockers and yogis and wives and laborers. Oh yeah and the last part, the alive part…with my phasers set to choke the last 2 weeks I had forgotten to be that wisdom. Alive.
And here for you.
Trainer
Austin, TX
Good Reader. The schedule got blown. I can’t do anything about it now but offer you this-scattered thoughts and remembrances of a particularly spiky and brutal week. Gets the best of us all I suppose and I can’t thank you enough for being out there. I’m out of the shark shallows, the enemy has retreated and my phone is off.
Some names and places have been changed to protect the innocent. The guilty have no place to hide.
That’s the preface to a spoken word piece I’m working on called Worse than Whiskey, The Artist Who Sold Medical Supplies. The preface could easily work here except to say that I have had to cut wide swaths of the original post out. I know. I’ve had to edit and it is rueful. Let’s just say that it would be better for me if I cooked up something much bigger for them to chew on and that when I do take aim it’ll be for their throats and we can be together again, just like old times.
“The blog is a weekly read for me. Thanks for being real.”
It is my succinct and true pleasure good reader, to provide you with the Real. As discussed with social media mogul Charles Link a few days ago, we live in a post-authentic world. I was in the attic. And I was sweating. A culmination of slow screws and fuckarounds had resulted in this dripping hot night in the attic of a dead Confederate palace tweaking on bad hash and triple-nickels while yelling into the phone.
“Ask yourself, are you sure Ian woulda done it this way?”
Of course I was referencing that punk guru and bald hero of the times, Mr.Ian MacKaye. And of course we were railing against this hall of mirrors the terrible Century had become.
“I had no idea, ” I continued, spouting, “that being an Artist would be seldom more than coffee in the morning with social media, seltzer w/lime, maybe type a little, do something else, jerkoff and go to sleep with social media. It’s solitary and wretched, Chas, and the most amazing thing. The world is full of folks who have something to say and I am one of them. I’m so connected. I’m so alone.”
“We are all titans with our own torments I suppose.”
That’s from another Charlie, and I was thrilled when poet Charlie O’Hay wrote me this week, while also offering this jewel of wisdom:
“Drinking is pain. Sobriety is pain.”
I’m having a bad week. And I hit a snag in the publishing schedule. Let’s just say this outlet got clogged, and without any other release beside playing guitar and talking to friends, I was set to blow. Don’t get me wrong-friends, you’ve helped. But the pressure was on and I’ve no more access to the self-destruct button that drinking had become. I need to get a grip. Somehow make a tower of myself where the disappointments and cunts of life won’t sour me to the point of inactivity and shunted expression. The attic is a metaphor. I need an attic. A rehearsal space, some refuge.
But for now I take my refuge in you. Thank you for being out there. My whole deal is about you being out there, and divinity is in the space between. I have found no new coping mechanism, the world has taken the round, my anger got the best of me. But you are still reading me and I am still writing it down.
See you in the rooms motherfucker.
“Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.”
―H.L. Mencken
Under conditions of peace the warlike man attacks himself.
Oh boy. Quoting Nietzsche now. Smoking cigarettes and drinking black coffee too. This is getting old. I came off the road fresh and ready. I was pounding it to the boards and doing work. But now the grind has caught up with me. Anger, my rediscovered superpower, has run its course and I’m spent like a shell casing. Sitting on the roof. Watching the birds. I tried feeding the fuckers but war broke out. The fucking grackle. At first I was amused. He strode up as if he was in tophat and tails saying “I say good sir I do believe the bread you are holding belongs to me…” But then the others flew in and, get this, they station themselves around the booty, stand there and yell out to the others “This is mine!” and “Fuck off.” It got nasty out there. Survival is war. There is no free lunch at least while others are around and no private joy can last. To further illustrate this point, the crews are up the street, pounding and drilling and erecting towers of greed into the hot sky. Ah, there it is, thee hated drill. You know how many times I’ve been woken by the sound of drilling rock? Put it to you this way, I’ve been working this gig for over 3 years. Barring my first 4 months here there has been construction of some kind every fucking day. First it was the turnaround at the corner of 8th&Rio Grande. Then it was the condo, 7, they’re calling it. Then a repave of the turnaround. And now another condo at Nueces. I sometimes think I had more peace living at Oak Run and working as a bartender at the Whip In. It was quiet at least and a man could do some reflecting. My life was allot simpler then but maybe I was dying. I’m certainly dying now and the windfall of working in a mansion downtown has become a cold hard reality. Yep. It’s a grind. I could’ve done allot better with my time, my life and my everything. But I’m only human. And I’ve got a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas. And I can’t take my rest. I’m bleeding my time for dollars¢s, I work around the clock and my time off is filled with the nerve scraping sound of rock being drilled and backhoes being backed up and the yelled Spanish of laborers wafting up above the heat and smoke.
Maybe I’m ungrateful. I just need something to complain about. Some thrust, the high drama, but at the end of the day I know this is a grind, like any other, with its trials and bullshit and pitfalls to health and sanity. You know, work. And humans…humans are like jewels. I’m lucky to have you. The others-dumb as rocks. I guess this post is a retort to the last time we spoke. Anger leaves you hungover, too. Sobriety is one answer, and a great one, but there is no cure for life. No remedy. You can be alone in a crowded room, but that’s not always a good thing. It’s not like you can get some work done. Not while folksingers are asking you where they can find a cheeseplate and dudes are swingin they dicks around. Here’s the biggest problem with others–they leave you alone just enough to be in need, but never enough for you to practice and earn true solitude. True solitude is the chalice. Heh. Now I sound like a Nietzsche quoting misanthrope, which of course I am. Viva la hatred. Got to wrap it, some shit’s going down with the grackle out there. Look like everybody tryna get a piece of bread.
Going for the Throat 