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 Cousin Chazz (@cousinchazz)Accepted being called Bro by dude who is not my bro, but just a dude. 2012, most worthy! If you missed any, click the titles.
Limtucky New Year.
Watching The Road at 10.4pm. Viggo.
Curry Chicken.
Green Beer.
Menthol Cigarettes.
Not Viggo, Me.
Viggo straight-actin, homey.
New year. Same season.
Winter s'posed to tame man, woman, beast.
Winter unseasonably tame itself.
And here Cormac not so cold-blooded.
Poor Viggo. This king not returning. Oh well.
Time to tap a watch, kiss a girl, post this to January,
And watch Planet of the Apes.
Retaliate with Karate against the interlopers who have come to Limtucky from New York and plan on turning the beloved Limmy sand pit into a Target in the movie in my head.
1Up there I'd watch the sun set and the grid of Rockland revive below. A rebellion is what electricity is. A pukey little rebellion.
2Davey's married three times. He's thirty-one, selling dope out of his work truck, rips off tourists with fake pills. He had a younger brother get himself killed shooting a pistol at clouds. The kid was in the Dairy Queen parking lot while a town cop sat at a picnic table with his family. Davey's mother sued the town, settled, and bought pills with her windfall. They got her a year later for trafficking. Just another nana in prison. 3My cell phone rings. Not a good number. Clam-diggers. Clam-diggers who don't dig for clams much anymore, what with dope. These are mud-folk from South Thomaston, come up South Main with a notebook of drug debt. They always look for you on payday.
No, no. THE BEDROOM. Purple and gold. Tigers everywhere. Interior design for a 3rd World boy king. He likes pictures of tigers underscored by pictures of pistols.
These two princesses on the bed aren't feeling the pea under the mattress. These two princesses aren't feeling much. They asleep. Or stoned. Or both.
Danny Fisher rises out of bed.
He walks past the tigers.
Wit the tigers. They call him the Tiger Man.
2.27 ROAD JOURNAL: Pregnant Hippy in Happyland
All the religious discipline to healthy living, the crunchiness from on high, there's a demon inside that rips your identity, and renders it to gloop. That baby needs to get his blood up. It's a funny bit, this girl, hiking around like the living embodiment of Mother Earth, sitting in a corner booth at Sammy's Roast Beef, her tears rolling into the jus.
Best thing about a rainy day is showering.
Relaxed fit pants? I have a relaxed fit body! Right, girlfriends! #ladycomedians
3.05 JOURNAL: I Was A Union Autoworker
I had two interviews; the second interview was with the big boss, and that interview came about because, if the under-management thought one had the erudition to work out front of store, they sent them to the top office; if you told the big boss you were a young writer, or why you loved the Strand, and if you fit the hipster profile, you might get the cush spots in-store, discussing Johnny Lethem with noontime rich people.
I told her I wasn't much of a reader.
The estimate of European dead in WWI is between 9% and 12% of the population. That's close to 25% of the male population. What a horrible stat. Inconceivable. While countless historians, including Wikipedia, explain the apocalyptic social impact the Great War had on Europe and Asia, none, (not even Wikipedia), have looked at the bright side. UNTIL NOW.
25% of all dudes DEAD? Surviving veterans suffering neurasthenia, (something like STSD)? It seems Eurasia was low on working dicks.
You make me miss the days of Michael Cimino's barely repressed homosexuality between Russian-Orthodox steel-mill workers. Didi Mao!*
(*It's called Deerhunter. Queue it up, you Infidels. I'm not saying something was rotten in Denmark, but Michael Cimino is now a woman, when once he was not)
"Bro, Dude, Bro, do you see that most CALLIPYGOUS honey over there? Her booty is AQUAFRESH! I'd love to touch it, but I'd be scared, if I did lay down with her in the soft COPPICE behind the barn, in the REFRACTORY PERIOD I'd suffer the OBLIVESCENCE of all lady-love-memories from before today! Scared, Dawg. Of booty. Of CALLIPYGOUS booty."
But Shakspere's genius was, there is no truth, there's asses in seats; he booked an evil Jew the way Vince McMahon booked the Iron Sheik as an evil Arab, ticket sales. He knew no matter how beautifully he wrote it was something dead in his heart, and what dies inside is grist for the mill. People looking for truth are MARKS, and the only morality is what plays.
1. A bottle of Nyquil at noon keeps the demons away.
2. The pen is mightier than the sword when it comes to locking your kids in a pen.
3. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But scorning two women, each for the other on different nights, produces like furies that rarely turn into a threesome.
4. A poor workman blames his tools, said the kid who was pawning off his uncle's tools.
5. Children should be seen and not heard, and hopefully not seen.
6. Cold hands, shocked loins.
7. Every picture tells a story to a child who can't read.
8. Hindsight is 20-20. Night Vision is 39.95.
Even with her, the Godhede spited them with seasons of spatheless bulbs washed out of the ground. The priests were swollen with conviction as they starved.
Tina Copperzink had honor. She had brains. She had sass in abundance. But let me tell what she had most of all: Big brass balls. You don't grow up in East Dinksborough Maine around all the animals in this hellhole, and not develop a protruded sack of courage. She was a tiger.
A look out at Danny. Transmogrified, a black-clad golem standing watch over the prehistory of the swamp. It's like a triptych of human progress built onto the side of a stairwell: first there was a swamp, then there was a road, now there is a truck stop.
My THACO is -4. U Can't Touch This.
You've told me about Mike the comedian, now tell me about the girl.
I'd rather not.
She's left you.
She's left the house. But still in town.
Town? Is that the interregnum, but you mark yourself still in the game? Where in town?
With a man.
What man?
A town man. A fisherman.
Oh, a natural man.
GENESIS 1
(aka Darkness on the Surface of the Deep)
BANG. Heavens. Earth.
GOD: Light it up.
If Ben Jonson and Shakespeare were Disney characters, Ben would be a stubborn aggressive bulldog to Will's beautiful and devious cocker spaniel. Shakespeare is so gorgeous, some of his dirtiest lines have become Jesus-inspirational completely out of context. No one misreads Ben Jonson, he's so consistently hammering it down your throat. But then Shakespeare never killed a dude.
DRUNK DADDY
You think that fake badge means anything to me? Who do you think you are?
DANNY FISHER
A shepherd. For my lord, my country, and the fine state of Tennessee, which includes our law enforcement agencies.
DRUNK DADDY
Jesus said beware false prophets who come to you in sheep's clothing but underneath are ravenous wolves.
DANNY FISHER
John Browning says keep your fingers off those girls.
opinions are desires and she bestrides her cart like she's hard.
makes the others sabine colossi lumbering under final night as birds fall from the sky. the case is pocked from stairway climbs. a heart can ossify from disambiguated word counts, placard phrases, and a pyramid scheme of passcodes: her first pet, her first love, the guise of a marriage she took part in once years of a man who's initials combined with her birthday unlock the debt on her visa card. opinions are desires and she unlocks her case. and wonders what happened to elliptical lives, to not knowing things, and dollar bills for the maids. now every ordinary day polished and every dullard serialized. And no one stays.
What happened to boredom? she thinks.
What happened to a man who looked for you in the same old place.
Nothing about the end of Lord of the Rings begs for later stories: as the book ends so has magic, so has beauty, so has a connection to the old world. Even as heroes win against the darkness, they lose against time. Infamously missing from the Peter Jackson movies is the Hobbits' return to a Shire under the control of evil wizard Saruman. Whatever you think makes an evil wizard, the last worst spell of this wizard is industrializing the rural hobbit culture. The Shire of Return of the King is as filthy and smog-filled as Bleak House.
I know there is a shallow and spiteful conservative streak in me from having no foundation of others' conservatism to question in life; no belief system to work out an opposition to.
I craved order. It showed itself in an immediate and visceral distaste for counter-culture; reasoning that counter-culture is square, that counter-culture can only exist by the obscene success of the culture they counter, and the would-be counterists I knew seemed less like they fought the power, and more like the beneficiaries. I was poor. I rooted for soulless rubes in movies.
Blood Meridian feels more like an artifact than a scripted story by a modern author. It is one of three or four of my favorite books, but I would never recommend it to a friend -- recommending someone read Blood Meridian is like recommending someone join a templar cult, or recommend they bring someone back from the dead by appropriating a pet cemetery; it's revelatory power you're contracting, and will likely end badly.
Let's make this sex happen. It may be some time before I can come out of hiding, so the fire of desire I've lit in you needs must wait; embers, babe, they're angry snowflakes. Don't know what that means? Neither do I. I understand this affair is but a dream that likely can never be; like glass bottle Pepsi Max, you and me is anachronistic. But as Tony Romo once said -- Don't stop.. Believin.
1 the greatest tragedy of the english language is a sick comedy
2 so off the wall and experimental it makes Ionesco read like Neil Simon
3 so propulsive it makes David Mamet read like Neil Simon
4 a ghost story riveted on to a revenge tragedy, a soap opera crammed into a castle waiting on a war to break out
5 at one point the main character forgets about the revenge plot, and spends a half hour of stage time giving unsolicited advice to a pack of actors who must be quite hungry and tired from their travels
6 this same asshole jumps into a grave to show up the grieving brother of a girl he used to fuck around with back in the day, just because
7 stabs an elderly man to death, then jokes about it
8 likes to touch skulls
9 and this character, this spoiled rich sociopath, this prince, is the most cherished character of all english literature; is considered a supreme artistic work to sit alongside Beethoven and Da Vinci.
HOTEL REVIEW: East Hartford Econolodge
GYPSY: 41 Tupelo Gravestone 57
I don't remember now if the fighter was Harry Greb1, but there was a turn of the century boxer, an infamously dirty fighter, a fighter known for ruining younger stronger fighters via outright nastiness; whichever old name in a book I read about once this was, the interesting thing was this fighter's training regimen was opposite the archetypal monastic prize fighter prep with the mountain running and abstinence, this fighter, (Greb or not), would drink straight whiskey, chain smoke, and pick the meanest prostitutes he could find, taking them on two at a time. This routine I have fondly titled, Irish Martial Arts.
THE MEMPHIS FAIR -- '55
The crowd is the same? No. Wailing, yes, but these are teenage girls. The Danny coming offstage is not a ten year old boy. This is a nineteen year old kid with greasy black hair and black clothes.
This Danny is the Danny the world is about to know.
And the man waiting in the wings, a rugged, red-faced man in a blue suit, is THE COLONEL.
Danny is flanked by his young friends, his bandmates -- everyone tee-heeing, and glad-handing.
The Colonel steps out.
THE COLONEL
Boy, I like you.
Danny looks over. He smirks.
DANNY FISHER
I like you, sir.
THE COLONEL
I want to help you.
DANNY FISHER
That's mighty nice.
The Colonel is smiling. Danny is smiling. No two smiles could mean such different things.
THE COLONEL
I'm the Colonel.
DANNY FISHER
You don't say.
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12.12.2012
TWENTY12: Primo Lines
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