Hank Williams died on New Year’s Day. So did Townes Van Zandt. I think that would be a good day to die. If I end up dying on New Year’s Day, I hope I’m doing something like screaming at the sun while birds eat me or something.
In thirty minutes it will be midnight, and also the year 2015, and I am alone in my bedroom sitting crosslegged on my rug and listening to ‘Feedbacker’ . . . and of all the things I could possibly be doing in the final moments of this catastrophic year, I am thinking about the instruction manual that came with my new space heater, which said this:
“KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN AND INVALIDS”
“Here Lies A Lonely Diatribe”
My friend McCune said that lately I’ve been dispensing a lot of “lonely diatribes”
And I told him: “Baby, listen, there’s nothing ‘lately’ about my lonely diatribes”
Here are three things that feel really good to me:
- Locking, dead-bolting, and chaining the front door of my house from the inside when all my roommates are out of town and knowing I’m not going to leave again for at least a day or two
- Being invited to something and later having it cancelled because of weather, or the place being closed, or whatever
- Going to a party and leaving without saying good-bye to anyone
Whoops! Sorry but It’s all true~
AMONGST CERTAIN GROUPS I am known by about a hundred different nicknames here in Oakland, California, but here are two that are super cool:
. . . yeah!!
(BONUS: Star Shoes ☆)
You wanna know how to take over the world? And enslave all of its inhabitants, one by one?
Here’s the secret: Take all the frightened, newly-formed, gelatinous globs of almost-somethings called “people” and sell them ready-made, paper-thin personalities from any one of the demographics you’ve already created for them . . . and don’t fret, because you created them all.
Don’t sell them Coca-Cola. What is this, the 1970s? Sell them culture. It doesn’t matter if it’s bad. They’re terrified! Anything will do. Appeal to the lowest, most miserable parts of the human brain! Reach into that pocket and take out those wallets, God damn it, laughing all the while!
Now get out there and do it, solider! These people are practically waiting for you to pound them into space dust.
Lately I have been writing about the adventures of some idiot I dreamed up named Rayon Starpuncher, who is reluctantly alive in the final days of civilization. It is novel-length. I guess it is a novel. I called it ‘Injury and Aftermath.’ I’ve already sold it to about seventy people. All of them are in for a weird, dumb ride—assuming they don’t toss it into a fire within the first ten pages.