04 May 2016

The sun will be up in something like ten god-hating minutes and I definitely don’t want to see it when it gets here. I gotta stop doing this—staying up this late. I’m hearing birds and looking at my open tabs: the Wikipedia entry for “Queequeg,” the Wikipedia entry for “Ayahuasca,” the Wikipedia entry for “Ghost” . . . and about a billion job listings that I want nothing to do with outside of the pittance they’re offering in exchange for doing something, I’m not sure what exactly. I would rather eat a football than ever leave this house again, but I guess I gotta. When I wake in the afternoon I will make a few phone calls and worm my way into another money-making thing, even if it makes me sick just thinking about it.

About an hour ago friend Stevie told me she was going to sleep because she felt “heavy,” which rules, because I like saying that too. Man I always feel heavy. And before she slipped off I told her about this line from ‘A Scanner Darkly’ that I think about all the time, and which I actually came upon again just yesterday:

“Life,” Barris said, as if to himself, “is only heavy and none else; there is only the one trip, all heavy. Heavy that leads to the grave. For everyone and everything.”

Oh heck yeah, baby.

P.S. Pipefest II is next Saturday. Had you forgotten? I made another little commercial for it. It is hot and tasty and maybe delicious too. I trust you to find it, cuz I sure as hell ain’t gonna tell you outright! My friend Leyla, who has partial ownership of the halfpipe, drew me on a bar napkin at Wolfhound Pub in Oakland, which is where I used to work. Isn’t that nice? She sent it to me. Here it is:

pipefestbaby

Did you know that two fine and wonderful human beings are flying to the United States from Belgium to see me flop around on stage like a cartoon cockroach? Uh, yeah! It’s true!

Belgians! Are you listening? You’re going to be in some scuzzy backyard with a whole host of scuzzy dopes. And I’m going to be the scuzziest one of all, don’t you know. I hope that sounds appetizing to you. I mean, hell, it’ll be something, all right. Probably it will be fun, and here’s hoping. . . .

Anyway, wherever you are on God’s green earth: Good-night you sons of bitches!!!!