Blast of Silence

Irvin got the hero’s welcome he deserved.  Buying me dinner! 

Last week I performed in 8 shows and here I am, shat out on the other end of the 3-day weekend with an empty wallet, swollen liver, cement arteries, and neural fluid dancing with THC.  There was nothing to do but shake the dew out of my matted beard, roll off the roof of the VA hall (Wolfsblood Bryant wuz here), and come to work.

  Don’t do drugz kidz.  Which remindz me…

Jimmy Motherfucking Buffet played at Wrigley Field this weekend (twice!) with coconut-brassiered hoard in tow.  Wrigleyville became a beer garden from hell.  Clark street was something Hieronymus Bosch would paint after a  Dos Equis power hour and a mild stroke.  Sitting in a cafe, reading the Missed Connections with tears in my eyes and a lily clutched to my breast, I was jarred out of my wicked sensitive reverie by a gentleman, referred to by his crew as "Fancy," whose voice and wit revealed the aplomb of an air-raid siren.  I turned to look out the window and beheld a sea of vomit-spattered Hawaiian shirts, sweat-pasted to the sunburned flesh of thousands of drunken revelers.  Amid the throng of loutish men and besotted women there were pockets weeping, fighting, and amorous reconciling.  I paid my bill (checking balance: $0) and the waitress nodded me away turning to the cluster of punk kids that has just wandered in, "you guys are pretty brave coming out here."

Bless you, you workmen of centuries past "who from rude nature have delved and carved all the granduer we behold."

Straight the fuck up.  I H8 him god. 

And now he’s back.  Friend power is on.  Pisschrist. 

Last night I did chores.  It’s great having a schedule like mine so that when you finally get around to cleaning the bathroom, you do it at, like,

11:50pm.  Then, exhausted, you fall asleep in the fetal position on the bleachy tiles and permanently disfigure your face.  Consumed with shame and unrequited love, you don a mask and withdraw into the linen closet, furtively peeping out at your roommates and remembering….remembering

I finished My Century and have moved back into time with The Satyricon by Petronius.  I’m currently reading the famous Cena, or  Dinner With Tramalchio sequence, one of the least fragmented portions of the work.  These Romans, they’re all cutting open hollow roast-pigs and sausages and blood puddings fall out, and washing their hands with wine and kissing naked little boys who sing to them when they serve zodiac-themed entrees.  It’s what I imagine being Sam Walton is like.

I just copied a 89-page Mexican patent.  Page by page.  In the 600s, 50 monks would have my job.  So there. 

At 6:30 on Saturday Team USA squares off against their old rivals Mexico in Columbus, Ohio for the world cup qualifier.  I so wish I could see this match!  But I’ll be doing stupid shows with people I luv.  Maybe I can watch highlights over a hearty (read: heart-attacky) Irish breakfast on Sunday morning.  Bring on the bangers! 

USA! USA!  Oi! Oi!

Maybe that fucker Irvin will join me.

And I treat her right.

Looking over the past week’s writings, I don’t want anyone getting the impression that I’m some sort of gadabout, or party monster.  I devour fun and pursue interest true, but a few days ago it struck me that I’m sort of a reverse hikikomori (see below).  I am Agoramori.

Rather than letting my rather severe social retardation drive me into my room for rounds of marathon wall-staring, I strike out on the streets to be walled-in by the nullifying throng.

I also wear mourning veils and sleep in a coffin.

I really miss Irvin.