I quit smoking again. Let the weight gain begin.

I am returneth.

Where's my fucking trumpet!

I am a kid of television. Of movies. A kid made of Dragonlance novels, Magnum P.I., and 1940's Universal horror movies. Ephemera.

Basically, I think in media. I relate to it, sometimes more than I can relate to people.

So it should come as no shocker that a 75 minute piece of television could affect me to the point of tears.



Of course, Six Feet Under.

It woke me the fuck up. Now I want to get my shit together, actually keep a checkbook as opposed to suffering through the -103.67 overdraft bill I currently own. It woke me up to the fact that I keep saying I want to write novels when I should be doing the writing of novels.

It made me want to park my car on that bridge over Fall Creek and Meridian during the 6pm ruch hour, stand on the hood and scream

"LIVE! YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! LIVE, DAMN YOU!!!"

And most importantly, it made me want to chuck all the shit that doesn't matter (and believe you me, it's a sizeable mound of shit) out of my life. And I am not talking only of the tangible things. I also refer to my self hatred. My fear of silly things like large bodies of water. (I can't swim. Childhood trauma. Scared shitless.)

I quit smoking 7 weeks ago. It is a Hell I have never known. After watching the SFU finale, however, I am more determined.

I AM a non-smoking motherfucker, motherfucker! I'm the Guns of the Navarone! I'm Superfly TNT!

So it's cleaning day. Everything filed under D for Doesn't Matter must go!

It's Liquidation day, and long fucking overdue.


...Unfortunately, for me at this point in time, SuicideGirls is in the D file as well. Basically, I just don't care for this site anymore. I'm not rock and roll enough for SG.

And that's OK.

I was going to go Anonymous, but I think I will just let this stand and, well, whatever happens next, happens.

And I am going to be there to witness it.

See ya when I see ya.

It is amazing how little I have to say about anything at the moment.

...


nope, still got nothing.

So far, so good. Lung-ular intake reaching maximum oxygenation. Nicotinal invasion subsiding. If I can muster the troops to rally for another couple of weeks, the couphing riots may back off.

I've gained five pounds in a week. I'm so fucking fat now, I say with a wink.

9 years ago, I did an incredibly stupid thing for an even more incredibly stupid reason.

I shall fix that.

My heart belongs to Heinlein.

Other than that, things are pretty quiet.

The dastardly Norton Antivirus/Spyware Wars of Twenty-aught-five have left my deck a shambling, sputtering ruin.

Updates for the next week or so may be sporadic at best.

I will make it up with pithy things when back.

Damn the Man. Save the Empire.

"[On love:] I have no respect for anyone who says they've given up, or that they're not looking or that they're tired. That is to abrogate one's responsibility as a human being."

-Harlan Ellison

Amazing what a couple of days of sorrow can do for one's focus. I woke up today, not hurting as much. More importantly, ideas were popping in my head.

A few phone calls later, I was in touch with Hugh, this old buddy from my early improv days. He works at the Starbucks down the street from me now, but more importantly, he is a welder.

So now, I am officially an unofficial constructor of musical instruments. Our first project is a Rebar Sousaphone. Instead of a round bell, it will be pyramidal, each side a different element. It will be a labor of love and sound like utter crap.

But fuck it, it's an idea and I feel like running.

So who else has a breakup-followed-by-wacky-creative-burst story?

----------------------------------------

Moms are great. Mine cheered me up with one line-

"Just tell yourself this, buster, 'That which doesn't kill you makes you Conan the Barbarian.'"