Done, Dumb, and Dung

My Illinois reunion tour has come to an end. I survived (barely).

I'm heading back to DC at the break of dawn tomorrow, and hopefully will have some time to post up a wrap-up of my Midwestern adventure sometime in the near future.

Happy trails, little cowpokers.

Alcoholidays

It looks like everyone has better things to do this holiday season than lurk about the blogosphere. I don't blame you. I'm getting ready for a two-day Corn-Town hard-drinkin' throw-down. Well, that and thinking of more gratuitous ways to string together hyphenated words that rhyme.

I'll try to post a wrap-up together of the festivities as soon as I sober up and/or make bail.

Strontium, and Other Heavy Metals

My so-called friend, Stormy, is dragging me out to a friggin' Metal show at Otto's tonight. I'm not quite sure who's playing, as the band logos are far too pointy and menacing to be legible. Luckily, I had a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt with a skull on it at my parents' place, so I should blend in fine.

Wish me luck, and remember: Satan, Satan, Satan!

Proser

Okay, after four months of stalling I've decided to clean-up and post the rest of the second-coming short story. I wrote this last July to read at Chris B's Xtreme (il)Literature Slam. I posted the first part back in August, but never got around to posting the rest of the story (despite several inquiries into the matter). I'm kinda a jerk like that.

Anyway, here is the rest of the 5-page version of the story (I didn't have the patience to clean-up the 12-pager). It is the same version I read back in August.

First, read THE FIRST PART .

Then, Here's the rest:

Parts Two and Three

Things have been really fucked-up Jesus came back to Earth.

He descended to Mount Olivet just a few months ago (at least that’s the general consensus). That’s when the entire area became enshrouded in light and angels began congregating around the mound. No one saw him for over a week, so you can’t say for sure, but within a few days of the shroud of light’s descent the entire eastern half of Jerusalem was packed with pilgrims awaiting the rapture.

It was widely reported that the concept of “rapture” was conceived and popularized by John Nelson Darby in the 19^th century, as part of the Dispensationalist movement, but that didn’t dissuade the pilgrims. If anything, any rationalization of the ongoing events just strengthened their belief… poor bastards.

By the 13^th day all of the world’s religious leaders had congregated around the base of the mountain the western slope – facing Jerusalem. The military had tried to dissipate the crowds, but were quickly overwhelmed. By this time it was a solid sea of bodies for 5 miles in every direction.

On the thirteenth day Jesus appeared from beneath the shroud, on the western slope, toward Jerusalem.

Personally, I think that he was freaked-out by all of the crosses that littered the landscape. Hell, if martin Luther King or JFK came back to life, I’m sure that the last thing that they’d want to see is a fucking hunting rifle, but that’s just me.

Anyway, he took off running through the crowd – He didn’t get far. All at once the crowd of faithful surged forward, crushing the religious leaders and the man-god in one unstoppable throng of humanity. He didn’t stand a chance.

Within 5 minutes of the second coming of Christ, pilgrims in search of the ultimate relic were ripping him to pieces. I watched it all live on CNN – a bird’s-eye view of the evisceration of the messiah. I could see it unfolding before me – it was truly horrible.

That’s when things got decidedly Old Testament. Time went sideways. Everything slowed down, or sped up, or whatever. My fancy-ass monkey brain can’t describe it well enough, or even begin to comprehend it for that matter. If you want a technical explanation, ask an angel – those fuckers seem to be everywhere.

All I know is that all of a sudden it was like we were living in breathable water. Then a few seconds/minutes/hours/days (who knows) later the rapture happened. Well, I call it the rapture, but that’s just gallows’s humor; there definitely was no ascension involved. Everyone just sorted melted in agony and were consumed by the earth. Poof, gone.

Then everything went back to normal.

---

I assumed that everyone else had been consumed by God’s wrath. I went outside; no one else was around. I was alone.

As I drove to the Home Depot to grab some generators, there was no one else around. As I filled up barrel after barrel of gasoline at the gas station, no one was to be seen. I even backed my Jeep right up to the front door of Atlantic Guns, and filled it to the brim with rifles, handguns, and mostly ammo… (All of the ammo), and there weren’t any signs of life.

On the way back I headed downtown to grab some top shelf bourbon and tequila. That’s when I realized that I wasn’t alone. A small group of bums were building a huge bonfire out of furniture in the middle of 7th street. They saw me coming and started charging. I whipped across to the oncoming lane and got out of there as quick as I could. When I got back I parked in my backyard and unloaded everything down into the basement.

I spent the next week holed up in the basement in the dark surrounded by what liquor I had left, a mattress, and a motherload of guns. I was too afraid to hook up the generators. I figure if there were other survivors out there that the telltale whir of a diesel engine or the glow of electric light would create attention that I wasn’t ready for. I stayed huddled in a dark corner with my finger on the trigger of an AK-47 for 9 days straight. It’ll fucking eat at you.

Lack of bottled water and toilet paper was my downfall. I found that it was easy to shit in a hole in the yard, but a real trick to clean up with notebook paper and water that had accumulated in the neighbor’s birdbath. I had all the guns in the world (for all intents and purposes), but you just can’t wipe off shit with a shotgun or drink a revolver. Without basic provisions or a fresh water supply, I was doomed. Plus, I was almost out of cigarettes, and had started into the bottle of Vermouth as a last resort. It was time to go.

I used my second-to-last bottle of water to give myself a good lathering of soap, and changed into some fresh clothes. It felt good. I threw a few clothes in a knapsack; grabbed a rifle, a shotgun, and 2 pistols; filled a couple of dry-boxes with ammo; threw a generator and two cans of gas in the back of the Jeep; locked up everything in the back room; and walked out into the warm sunlight.

I headed straight south down 13^th toward downtown. The entire way was punctuated by the frantic barking of dogs from behind closed doors. They could hear the hum of the engine and seemed to be hoping against hope that their masters had returned to let them out, give them food, and not beat them too hard for the piles of shit all over the living room carpet. It was a futile effort, but that was all they had.

I’d drive through the occasional pile of charred debris in the road, and occasionally I’d see a body or two (or three) in the road, but nothing alive. From the looks of the corpses it seemed like the gang bangers that remained tried for a king of the mountain/lord of the flies end times winner-take-all turf war. By my estimation, everybody lost. I didn’t see any remaining signs of human live all the way down to U Street, but the rats were out in force.

I parked in the alcove of the bus lot between S and T. There were plenty of other cars around, and if nobody saw me pull in, then the car should blend in undetected. I tucked the 1911 pistol into my waistband, and grabbed the AK to go do some shopping. I filled my backpack with spare ammo, and covered everything else in the back up with a blanket. I figured that I’d hit one of my old haunts, The Black Cat, first and see what I could salvage from there first. It was familiar, should have a lot of what I needed, and the less stops the better.

The door was boarded up but open, and I scurried in – rifle first. I turned the corner and was met with an unexpected sight. I came face to face with the barrel of a Mossberg street sweeper. Nobody shot (but just barely). I think I saved myself by saying “I’ve got some shells for that, if you need ‘em”. The words came out all hoarse and squeaky. It was at that point when I realized that I hadn’t said anything (aside from the random cursing streak) for over a week.

Once I looked past the barrel of the 12 gauge, I realized that I knew that I recognized the holder, and I could see that she recognized me. It was Molly, one of the Black Cat bartenders. I looked further around; there were two more people I knew there, along with a few other people I didn’t know, and oddest of all… a fucking angel passed out and bound to the bar. Even during the apocalypse, The Black Cat seemed the place to be.

Word from the crowd was that after the non-rapture people just started coming out of the woodwork. Most of them were not the type of people you’d want surviving the end of the world. Apparently, I’d made a sound decision to hole-up for a few days. It was an all-out throw down between the dregs of society. Junkies, bums, gang members, thugs, and the disaffected all jockeyed for position at the top of this new world without society, law, or God. A couple of the girls in the place had been raped, a couple of the Black Cat refugees had died fending off attackers, and everybody there (aside from me) had witnessed death up close and personal. The world was a mess.

The angel was still lying out-cold on the bar, but everyone had something to say about it. All agreed that:

A) The fucking thing spoke like Dr. Seuss.

B) It wasn’t happy that people were still on the Earth.

C) It definitely couldn’t hold its liquor

D) Most of what it said was dead wrong… Angels lie.

The angels had descended to take dominion over the world, and were very surprised to find survivors. They had tried to talk God into cleaning up the rest, but he was either gone, or not listening.

This angel clamed to be Uriel, who (according to the Goth chick with the pink hair) used to be a huge big-shot in heaven. Who knows how he ended up here; the one thing that is for sure is that once he got here and realized his boss was on vacation he hit the bar – Hard.

Molly told me that it had said that we were “remained” because we didn’t have the common sense to repent. Our stubbornness or ignorance had spared us.

I hadn’t even thought about it, but she was right. I was too engrossed in the television coverage from day-one to think about praying. I had been an Agnostic since I was 15, but was too perplexed by the happenings to even think about the implications. I was saved by my stupidity. I saw the proof of the divine, and was too awe-struck to accept it. I kept waiting for what followed next… Like an idiot.

Somehow we all ducked the omnipotent rage of God. We were too awe-struck, willful, stupid, or fucked-up to accept the obvious. We looked straight into the eye of god and went “pfft”.

Everyone in the place had a story about religion, and not one of those stories had a happy ending. That small crowd was filled with boys who had been fucked up the ass by their childhood priest, girls who were molested by pious family members, kids who were disowned by their religious parents for their decisions, or those who had suffered a great loss that defied reason. Everyone there had rejected God, and he didn’t seem to think enough of us to bother.

We are the damaged remnants of humanity, and all that remained were strippers, thugs, drug addicts, whores, homos, the hate-filled, a couple of Goth kids, and me. We are the soul-less scorned ex-girlfriends of God.

We are the dejected meek, and we have inherited the earth. We’re just not sure that we want it.

I'm Dreaming of a Drunk Christmas

It's official. The 3rd annual D-Town Christmas bash will be THIS Friday at the Flamingo.

I'll be representin'; will you?

Original Wisconsin

I'm on my way up to Prairie Du Chein, Wisconsin. We're going up to look at a piece of property that my parents just bought along the Mississippi Reagan.

I'm going along on the conditions that we stop at Cabella's, the Mount Horeb Mustard Museum, and the New Glarus Brewery.
Uff Da, bitches!

- Sent From Blackberry Handheld -

MOTO Rockin'

Last night the crew headed down to the Hideout for the MOTO show. MOTO was awesome (as usual) and the opener Das Kapital (Marc Ruvolo's new band) was pretty fucking good. Saw a bunch of people I haven't seen in a while and got my mandatory fill of the rock.
After the show, we headed out to Exit for psychobilly night. All I remember is wandering out of there at 4am and heading to the liquor store up on Belmont.
Somehow, I managed to drown yesterday's hang-over in Old Styles and Jager shots, and this morning I'm good as new. Tonight is Quatre Tete at Empty Bottle, and I'm already rarin' to go.

Everything's coming up Millhouse.

Christ(on-a-crutch)mas Party

I'm dying here. Last night was Miss Elise's annual holiday blow-out. I think I blew-out my frontal-lobe.

It was a night of liquor, tracksuits, liquor, turducken, liquor, malicious biting, liquor, and liquor. I learned that Croatian moonshine doesn't mix well with champagne. I learned that Algerians find endless amusement in ladies lighting farts. I learned that if you get your cervix cut out, you get a Prada bag. I learned that Gavin is flammable, but Albert is not. It was a night of learning. Okay, I learned nothing, but had one hell of a time.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to vomit (again).

Suparna and Elise rock the Hip-hopera velour tracksuits.

Chicago-a-go-go

I'm out representin' in the city of wind. If any of y'all want to join in the fun, I'll be out at the MOTO show at the Hideout tomorrow and out at the Quatre Tete show at Empty Bottle on Friday.

I thought that I'd have some time to type out a couple of stories while I was out here, but I've been inundated with the drink. Look for something early next week (hopefully).

Seacrest out.

Here I Came

Back on homefield turf.
11 Hours - 15 minutes
Done

Will have more details later, but now - Beer.

- Sent From Blackberry Handheld -

Ready or Not...

I'm packed and ready to head out sometime between 4AM and 5AM tomorrow morning - look for updates from the road.

Late-Night Weekday Stream of Consciousness Prose Entry

There’s something about a woman - Some fiery determination that leaves me helpless to resist. Men are men, women are gods. Old pagan gods filled with irrational wrath and fury. Crazy gods. The fun gods.

I can’t hold any sentimentality for other men. Fuck, I provoked a fistfight with the old drunken doctor that brought me into this world. It was nearly 2 decades after his shaky hand cut the umbilical cord, when happenstance brought my drug-addled ass to his ER. That night started in the company of women – one too many, to be precise. I didn’t care, and still don’t - Sentimentality is for women – That’s what makes them special.

I actually prefer the company of men. There’s no pressure to be spectacular, no expectation of brilliance. It’s comforting. It’s safe. It’s boring. It’s nice. Nice is boring. Nice doesn’t get you laid.

Women are whiskey, men are water. There’s an intoxication in being around that certain girl – More like a shot of epinephrine dragging you out of a weekday morphine overdose. An excitement, a fear - A sharp knife slashing through the haze – Amplifying the high by tingeing it with frantic shock. Paralysis, poison, oxygen deprivation – Love, lust, desire. Semantics.

I sit drinking vodka and sour cherry juice. Drinking a girl drink, and that’s not bad. Pouring it out, drinking it down – slightly drunk and mostly damaged. Punching at a keyboard like drunks before me waved fists at the sky - Wishing that that special girl was still awake, or that any other one was knocking at the door.

Stick and Carrot

I spent the day today cramming 2,000 pounds of runny horseshit into a 1 pound sack full of holes. That's right folks, I wrote out a new resume. If any of you academic, business, or pseudo-literate types out there want to give it a good paint job with some red ink, I'd be in your debt. Just shoot an e-mail out to my Gmail account, and I'll forward it out to you.

I feel cheap using up a post begging, so I'm letting you in on a piss-poor secret. At the urging of Ed, I've decided to write one piece of random prose (almost) every day and post it up here on L&E. Blame him for that horseshit. Any prose I write couldn't hope to be so full of fanciful whim as my resume, but should give you all a good daily derisive chortle with your co-workers.
Eat it, bitches.

Post-Destination

Bear with me, I just need to cough up some e-bile:

Right now I'm trying to decide where I want to live, which has brought up a whole host of reflections that I (somehow) feel the need to parse through. The old saying goes: "You can never go home again". I'd assert that you were never there in the first place.
I'm getting ready to head back there for a few weeks - Hell, I could viably stay until March and few people out here in DC would notice (or care). The thing that kills me is that when I'm back home I still feel on edge. There are wide array of good reasons why I left Illinois all those years ago, and doing so has worked out for the best. Now I truly enjoy going back to IL; as soon as I get back I feel back in my element (unfortunately, my element seems to be #84), yet I still feel out of sorts back in my old stomping grounds.
I think my problem is that I crave anonymity, but find myself in places where I'm well known - That's my own damned fault. I just wish I could go into any bar without random strangers coming up to me to parse politics, or attempt to avenge some half-remembered past indiscretion. Fuck 'em - they always lose, but still, it's getting real fucking old. If I had half of a working brain I'd just go to a new city and lie my ass off like everyone else does. Create a completely new identity and back-story. Problem is, I've lived a life that's more interesting than any plausible story that I could ever fabricate, and I'm not the type to downplay anything.
Back in the day, I'd always say that the worst thing that could ever happen to a person was to become a caricature of themselves. Sometimes I worry that I've crossed that line, and sometimes I think that I should just go further. If everyone seems to think they know who I am, I should give 'em the whole grit your teeth - shit your pants - pray to Christ experience. I'm in the driver's seat and Bourbon is my co-pilot, so any motherfuckers around should just strap down, shut up, and get bulletproof real quick. That's one way to do it.
I may end up coming back to IL for the long-haul sometime this Spring. I fucking hate DC like poor kids hate ketchup-soup and hungry rats. It's always seemed like the expansion-trailer classroom in the schoolyard of America - shoddy, filthy, uncomfortable, and one stiff wind away from going ass-over-tits. I want out of this shithole like unwanted kittens want outta wet burlap, but where to go; Home, or another city that I'll grow to loathe? For once, I don't have the answer.
Well, (in summation) either I'm fucked regardless, or just typing drunk again. Your call is as good as mine.

WOOT OFF!!!

That's right, Woot-Off, motherfuckers!
Check it out HERE.

Homecoming In Your Eye

I'm planning on leaving for Illinois on Friday (probability = 25%), or Monday (probability = 70%), or sometime in between (probability = 5%). Regardless, I'll be back for the Monday night Bears game, so if anyone wants to get together and rip on Matt Bulger's fat fucking whore of a wife over a load of beers...
I'm packed up and ready to rock. I've just got a few last hoops to jump through, then I'm free to go. I've even got the kick-ass Rogue’s Gallery CDs cued up in the Jeep for the drive out (thanx auftn & jeanz), hopefully they'll serve me better than they did during the Virginia dirge.

Now it's time for you blog monkeys to make with the fun - I should be back until the 28th or so. Let me know of any events of interest transpiring within that time frame.
Here I come - Rock me like a hurricane.

Change for a Quarterback?

Woo-Hoo - The Bears clinched the NFC North last Sunday, and are pretty much a lock for home-field throughout the playoffs. I should be happy, but I can't get over the fact that they're playing with a heap of cursed frogurt behind center. When Rex is "on", the Bears are invincible; when he's "off", they have to rely on their defense and special-teams to put up the winning scores. The Bears are a great team despite the QB situation, and historically have been. Fuck, last year we won 9 straight with Orton at the helm, but our luck is running out. The few peeks at how dominate the team was when Rex was "on" had all of us licking our chops, but if he can't keep it up we need to find someone who can. When Grossman is suffering he does the team much more harm than good - At times, we'd be better off pulling the QB entirely and throwing in another run-blocker. That's not good.
Bottom line: The Bears are gonna have one hell of a time making it out of the playoffs if Grossman isn't playing at the top of his game.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think that switching from Grossman to Greaseman is the solution to all of the Bears' woes. Griese is only marginally more reliable, and I don't see him being a viable option 5 years down the road. Stick with Rex until he throws 18 consecutive interceptions in the NFC title game, then ride him out on the nearest rail. What they need to do is dust off the team AmEx card and secure some real QB talent in the off-season. I'm thinking that Jake Plummer is what Drew Brees was last off-season - a greatly underrated quarterback that we could easily secure in a bloodless bidding war. Oh, and while the card is out, bring back the goddamn Honeybears - we haven't won shit without 'em.
...

Oh, and to answer Ed's query: I remember Husker Du, but I probably wouldn't if they had John Talley (Trotsky Icepick) behind the microphone. Get my drift?
Yeah, I know that's not what you were implying, but still...

Go Skins!

I'm rockin' out at FedEx Field (not related to KFed). We're hoping like hell that Campbell steps up and that Romo and E Manning get career-ending injuries.

Also, Bears can clinch today with a win and a Packer loss. Text me when that happens.

Damn, these lines for the port-o-lets are fucking long.

- Sent From Blackberry Handheld -

Gotta Love Global Warming

It's December, and it's 74 freaking degrees outside right now here in
DC. Nice.

- Sent From Blackberry Handheld -