Waiting to Die

It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die. A fat man will feel his heart burst and call it beautiful. Who knows? If there is, in fact, a Heaven and a Hell, all we know for sure is that Hell will be a viciously overcrowded version of Phoenix- -a clean well-lighted place full of sunshine and bromides and fast cars where almost everybody seems vaguely happy, except for the ones who know in their hearts what is missing. . .. And being driven slowly and quietly into the kind of terminal craziness that comes with finally understanding that the one thing you want is not there. Missing. Back-ordered. No tengo. Vaya con Dios. Grow up! Small is better. Take what you can get. ... 

Heaven is a bit harder to figure. And there are some things that not even a smart boy can tell you for sure.... But I can guess. Or wonder. Or maybe just think like a gambler or a fool or some kind of atavistic rock & roll lunatic and make it about 8-1 that Heaven will be a place where the swine will be sorted out at the gate and sent off like rats. With huge welts and lumps and puncture wounds all over their bodies. Down the long black chute where ugliness rolls over you every 10 or 16 minutes like waves of boiling asphalt and poison scum. Followed by sergeants and lawyers and crooked cops waving rule books. And where nobody laughs and everybody lies and the days drag by like dead animals and the nights are full of whores and junkies clawing at your windows and tax men jamming writs under your door and the screams of the doomed coming up through the air shaft along with white cockroaches and red stringworms full of AIDS and bursts of foul gas with no sunrise and the morning streets full of preachers begging for money and fondling themselves with gangs of fat young boys trailing after them. . .. 

Ah ... but we were talking about Heaven ... or trying to . .. but somehow we got back into Hell. 

Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found out a way to live out there where the real winds blow to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whiskey and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested... 

Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll. 

HST 
Paradise Valley

 

 Good God, that fellow could write, but he can screw your head up like a twisted tornado, too.  I recommend it.  But take him as a giant metaphor.  You don't want to literally travel the same proud highway.  It is too much for mere mortals.  Otherwise you will end up in the dust and mud of a flooded Burning Man holding hands with strangers praying for Peace on Earth while drug dealers count their money beyond the sight of the Converted and the Devout.  

These are dangerous times.  Even science can't keep up.  This from a bona fide government weatherman.

“Stuff just doesn’t feel right,” Mr. Klotzbach said after NOAA released its updated forecast in August. “There’s just a lot of kind of screwy things that we haven’t seen before.”

Strange new forecasts for a Brave New World.  

But I have my own problems.  It was a rainy day.  I was going to exercise.  I was going to do many things.  Rather, I sat at the computer, always a big mistake.  I dug through files and came across a folder of stuff I'd saved about my dead ex-girlfriend Emily, My Own True Love.  And I went down the rabbit hole again.  Died in 2016.  From what?  I can't get it out of my head.  I watched her Tribute Video again.  Not hers.  Those who remain.  Her redneck husband had more photos of his family than of her in it.  I'm sure the fucker ruined her.  She was beautiful, though, even late.  But where are the photos of her as a young woman?  I was ready to hire a private eye.  

Yea. . . . 

I wrote to Red to see if she would be making an appearance at Burning Man this year.  Oy, she said, she had tickets, but she was uncertain.  She was just moving into her new apartment and was living next to someone who. . . well. . . in her own words:

"Life is having some fun with me. My new place happens to be right next door to my neuroscientist friend who kinda looks like a version of you at my age.  Would love to hear the convo between you two."

WTF?!?!?  Really?!?!?  

Cosmic payback, I guess.  She did say that her new place is cute and that I should come out and see her.  Maybe I'll send a younger version of myself in my place.  

Dinner with my mother included a couple hours of Naked and Afraid.  I learned that burning a termite nest will produce phenyl-something or other that will keep mosquitoes at bay.  Isn't it something they all knew that?  That's just knowledge most of my friends never acquired.  It's really an educational series, that show.  

After dinner, I came home to text messages from two of the gymroids, both trained fighters.  I had called Dana White, head of the UFC, a shithead mafia don who didn't pay his fighters.  

"Dana is running a biz and they signed up for it. He has 475 fighters on the roster. He can’t pay them all 20 million per fight with benefits. Lol"

I am, if nothing else, though, a scholar and a researcher, so I provided these rich capitalists with many substantial articles about his bad business deals and his wife beatings.  Things got quiet after that.  Just a few attacks on my character, etc.  

I need to learn to keep my fingers off the keyboards when I'm feeling lonely.  When I finally turned on the television late, I was feeling old and fat.  I made resolutions.  

Today I start a new regimen.  Not sure what it is yet, but I have oatmeal cooking on the stove right now.  I will do more movement exercises and work on my core.  I'll cut calories and drink green tea.  I'll meditate and use retinol and collagen.  

Shit!  I'm out of milk.  My oatmeal will not be the creamy thick stuff I normally make.  I'm beginning my morning with gruel!  

Selavy.  Not to be morbid, but. . . fuck!