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April 05 - April 11, 2004
April 9, 2004
Good Hangover Friday

Why haven't I learned that draught beer is not good for my head? Jesus, help me now.

Think I'll celebrate by wandering over to the south side to look for my car, my lunch, my supper and possibly, my dignity.

If it hasn't fled the country in disgrace.

April 8, 2004
Frances Bean, Where Are You Now?

What can be said about Kobain that hasn't already been hashed out in music rags for the last decade? Ten years ago we wore plaid and long hair and listened to Nirvana records and tore around mosh pits in a drunken rage and tried to turn a skinny blonde guy's suicide into a celebration. I can't remember if it worked. I'm older now than he was when he died.

What would he think of music now? Not much, I assume. He would listen to the White Stripes and Eminem, maybe Radiohead. He would despair at the atrocity that was the Pop Princess revolution and shake his head at the boy bands that have faded into obsolescence. He'd be proud of his buddy Dave Grohl and be embarrassed by his wife. He would wonder at the brief cultural phenom that was grunge, wonder if it made any difference in any sort of concrete fashion.

It seemed to make a difference at the time. It seemed important, though there was no political message attached to it, just a sort of personal freedom and welcome self-destruction. It seemed important the day I was woken up and an old friend of mine told me they found him in an apartment, gun sticking out of what used to be his head. Did it have an influence? Will we continue to see it filter out to other art forms? To novels and films and hiphop albums? I don't know. And neither does he. What a stupid thing to do, Kurt. Should have picked up stakes, and walked away. Turned Muslim and joined Cat Stevens and given up the guitar and the heroin and the baby and tried to be happy, to fall in love, whatever that means.

There was a time when Cobain's death meant something. Seems so long ago, now. Just memories of swirling hair and sweat and yelling and feeling young and indestructible.

And now what, rock and roll. What have you got?

April 7 , 2004
Quagmire Rising

Much thanks to everyone for all the handshakes and cigars yesterday. Again, much appreciated. And thanks to Digidod for making the exciting new icon you see up in your address bar! If you don't have it, you're missing out! It's browserific!

In other, more international news of slightly lesser importance than the publication of some jackass's book of obscenities, it appears that Bush's Vietnam has finally ripped the lid off and started serving up some finely crushed assholes.

Senator Ed Kennedy was quoted Monday as saying:

"This president has now created the largest credibility gap since Richard Nixon. He has broken the basic bond of trust with the American people. He's the problem, not the solution. Iraq is George Bush's Vietnam, and this country needs a new president."

To underline this, a vicious gunbattle has been raging all over Iraq for the past three days, as American troops engage both Shiite and Sunni Muslims across the country. At least a dozen Marines were killed Tuesday, as well as scores of Iraqis insurgents and civilians. Who knows what the fuck is really going on, but it sounds like Baghdad has erupted into a good old fashioned urban combat zone, the kind that was feared before the war. Maybe it'll be a short battle, but quite possibly, it won't be.

I am not quite sure at this time if Iraq will really turn into Vietnam. As I wrote a year ago at, the real humanitarian fear is that Iraq will actually follow the path of former Yugoslavia. Once a dictator (Saddam / Marshall Tito) is removed from a country that has two or more historically antagonistic religious or ethnic groups, there is little to keep the two groups from beginning to wholesale slaughter each other. Except 19 year olds from Kansas armed with M-16s.

In Iraq, the Shiites and the Sunnis have a vitriolic hatred for each other, and the Kurds in the north watch everyone with a suspicious eye. Not unlike the situation with the Serbs, Croatians, and the Muslims in the early '90s. And all it takes is some firebrand like al-Sadr or Milosevic to stir the pot, and the violence is set in motion.

Iraq. A civil war waiting to happen!™

Good times for all.

In other news, Mingus and crew are looking forward to celebrating the death of Jesus by getting stinking blotto and ranging around the south side like a bunch of drunken lords. All are welcome.

April 6 , 2004
Aberrant Jubilation

Don't often write from the perspective of a man stuffed full with joy, mostly because there are so few true victories. Still, it seems important to celebrate them when they come.

The books came in today, 2000 of them. Picked em up in pa's big old duallie pickup truck. Eight hundred thirty three pounds worth. Drove em back to Victor's pad, cut open the top of the pallette with my trusty boxcutter. Hair on my balls stood up straight, pulled out the first book. Handed one to Victor. And it looked fucking perfect. Flipped through it in suspended silence, the afternoon sun staring over our shoulders. Perfect. Foreword, perfect. Pantone, perfect. Interior photos, perfect. Author photo, perfect. All fonts, perfect. Victor de Guerre, you are the fucking man.

And there it is, first fucking published book in hand. It'll be almost six months before they're released to a ravenous public, but it's here, now, in hand. Bizarre.

Seems sort of like the first time one fucks. One imagines how it will be, and one dreams about it, thinks of the smell and the sound and the feel of it. And how it will look. And then it happens, and it is almost exactly as one thought, and when it is all put away, and one is driving away, one thinks, there. It is done. Just like I thought. No terrible mystery. But still fucking great. Doesn't quite feel real, that first time, but it is. And I'm gonna do it again. And again. And again.

Just a real fucking rush to see those books.

Compounding it was a phone call from old Patterson, who rolled back into town from Mexico. He was pretty excited about some fish he caught that had its ass torn off by a shark, but even more excited about some gun registration course he signed up for. Fucking threw me, cause he never talked about owning guns before. I mean, he's got a pick up, but no guns. And what the fuck's he need a license for? I got four guns and no license and it hasn't bothered anyone so far. I really didn't understand, but he kept pushing the point instead of talking about them fucking iguanas.

"...Gonna get me some guns. Get some guns cheap," he mumbled. "Always wanted a thirty-odd six bolt action".

"And what are you gonna do with guns?", I asked him. "You don't fucking hunt."

"I don't know," he said. " But I don't much like birds. Maybe I'll go out and shoot me some birds."

"That'll go over well on your test. Make sure you mention that," I said.

"Bullshit," he said. " I got to go listen to twelve hours of idiot talk to get this license; don't store your gun near a heat register. Don't shoot it off within city limits. Don't shoot it next to the playground."

"That's an important one, I think."

"Fuck that. All they need to know is that I need me a gun to tame the west. And I'll tame it wherever it shows the fuck up. So shut that shit down."

And so I shut it down. Good to talk with old friends. Good to share these things. Good to forget about the losses for a day, and think about that win, no matter how it ends up later on. Fuck it.

April 5 , 2004
All Hell Breaks Loose in Iraq AND the Oiler's Lost - What a Shitty Time to Be Alive

They tried so hard, and then they just ran out of gas and broke my fucking heart. Even the Golden Mullet was hapless in defeat. Who cares about the Stanley Cup now.

Such is the curse of E-Ville. We had our dynasty, and it was a time of brilliance and godlessness, because we believed in Wayne, and now, we will be forever bereft of that kind of love again, like a man who dreams of his beautiful first wife, killed in a tragic golfing accident. No other touch, no other time will be as magical. There will be others, but Smytty is no Messier and the Oil may never win another fucking cup as long as I live. Like Renton once said, "cheering for some fucking football club that never fucking wins". But you can't stop.

Next year. Really. All the way.

A little bit of hell is breaking loose in Iraq. Not that this is anything new, but it is the first time that charismatic young cleric al-Sadr has flexed his muscles, or rather, that the people flex have flexed them for him. The result is eight dead American soldiers, twenty-five wounded, twenty-some Iraqis dead and the desert fever just heating up. All because the American troops arrested one of his aides, and shut down his paper a couple of weeks ago. Imagine what'll happen after the inevitable retaliation. Gonna be a long hot summer.

In local news, the books are supposed to be in, today. Sort of makes the hair on my balls stand up.

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