Bitch! Heal My Pokemon!
Sunday, December 20

The otherwise surgical, quiet, bitter-cold night and all its stoic cynicism is interrupted with the crunch and drag of a stranger's haggard lurch through the unmarred snow that suffocates the landscape. Breathing, labored and ragged, chokes in and out of him while the last bit gold and blue smoke up the somewhere far off reach of the dying day. The sun's fingertips disappearing over the cliff of bitter nightfall, having exhausted all efforts to sublimate these dead blanketed hills. Finally letting go. He curses himself, each swollen footstep crashing through the seal of rime on the knee-deep snowfall. Sometimes using the bandaged hand, that would otherwise be resting over the seeping void left in his ribcage, to brace himself and balance as he treks. There are lights on, in this place, the blur won't let him tell for certain, but it's definitely the skeleton and skin of a house being built. Decent enough refuge, if you're someone who intends to bleed to death. Noticing a couple of double French doors around the closest side to him, his hubris shines, he clumsily stumbles himself closer and closer. My God, tonight is too cold.

"I wonder if he followed me here" he thinks. The idea is grim enough to put a spring in his step, he fumbles down a light embankment that was surely meant for steps, never installed. The doors snap open and creak angrily, like an old man consciousness breaching the walls of a good sleep. "Oh, fuck." No carpet, no flooring, just concrete unswept and patiently admiring this object that now speeds at them in collapse. His favorite breath explodes from his throat, he shakes and curls after the fall. You're going to die here, boy. Finish what you came to do.

WHUMP. Somewhere, far off in the house, a door slams shut.

Amazing. "Of course he did."

 

You're Not Such A Dog As You Think You Are.
Saturday, December 12

This is my first day home alone and off of work in a long time. I have no idea if I'm liking this. What were yesterday's visions of script-fixing and productivity have turned into today's bundled-up laziness and movie watching. In fact, as I write this, the Montage icon sits patiently down in the dock waiting for me to click on it and busily peck out the clumsy, selfish words that bottleneck in my brain. However, I have absolutely no desire to actually write and I can't figure out why. I mean, here I am, writing this thing. I'm writing now.

I am Jack's nagging sense of entitlement.

So right now, they're backed to being trapped in the lobby and someone's already died. There's blood everywhere. In the original, they just hurried up to the office and tried to fax something out to another theater. Something about that feels cheap this time around, I need to focus on the characters and their plight. I need to show the details and visceral danger, the realization that all hope is lost and make sure that I step these characters through the stages. Denial, bargaining, anger, despair and acceptance. They all need to reach the acceptance. In this realm are we able to identify with the tragedy. The reason, is that all four other stages are things we all experience in the face of even minute dire circumstances, however acceptance is the only thing we see in the wake of real tragedy. Sudden death of a family member, loss of something dear, impending doom. These characters are being churned in the rabid blades of an event that they cannot stop, let alone understand. And they feel lost, alone, confused and helpless. They need to show it. They need to try and fail, fall and resurrect like a triumphant cinder rising to flame. This is how you identify heroes, and that's what they all are. Tragic heroes.

WITH ZOMBIES.

GGGRRAAAAAAAAWWWGGGHHHHHHHHRRR!!!

 

An Evil Spell Was Cast Upon You.
Monday, December 06

So to explain why getting kicked in the nuts with a Nike soccer cleat would've been the perfect ice cream topping for the birthday cake made of broken glass and AIDS on the worst birthday ever, you must understand the series of events that led up to my nut plus soccer cleat marriage decision. So here it goes:

I woke up early after going to bed late so I could take Emily to work, because her car was getting repaired later on in the day and while I was in town I was going to pick up the parts necessary to get the repair done. Well after much confusion and deliberation we were finally in motion and we arrived in town roughly an hour after we left, because I live an hour away AND THAT'S JUST HOW SHIT IS. I get a phone call, almost immediately after I drop Emily off in front of Best Buy, from my mom screaming at me to hurry up. Well, fuck you too mom. I jet out of there and head down to route one, that's about twenty minutes away and I land in front of Advance Auto Parts where there is SUPPOSEDLY a part waiting for me that merely requires my father's name to pick up. Oh well, there's a line. So I wait in it, and wait in it, and wait in it. This guy has no idea what he's doing, he really doesn't. He reminds me of Cliff Calvin, just taller and not in a good mood whatsoever. "Yes, sir." he says, I had been daydreaming of chainsaws and rolling heads for the last five minutes I wasn't even paying attention.

"I have a pickup for Mike or Billy, it's an oil pan for a '95 Buick Regal."

"All right, do you have your claim check?" he asked with an outstretched, and very responsible looking, palm.

Claim check? WHAT THE FUCK IS A CLAIM CHECK AM I IN A LAUNDROMAT OR AT A FANCY PARTY WHERE THEY TAKE YOUR COAT GODDAMMIT GUY. FUCK!

"Um, sorry, I don't. I was told my by the orderees that I just had to come in with a name and everything was going to be taken care of. So, yeah."

This guy, I want to say his name was Chuck or Dale or Chuck-Dale did not enjoy that answer, he really didn't. "Okay well, I can't do anything for you if you don't have a claim check. I'd have to look through these receipts of pretty much everyone who's put in an order in the last month."

"It was placed yesterday, you don't have a yesterday pile?" That's a fair question, they MUST have these orders piled by date, because that is the only responsible and organized way to pile order receipts, c'mon.

"No, there is no yesterday pile." That's when he sighed the first of many sighs he would sigh throughout our exchange with what will be further referred to as the "Autoshop Clusterfuck of '09.

Some phone calls were made, some cusses were cussed, and the line just grew and grew behind me while I found out piece by piece what the bigger picture of this puzzle was going to be. My family is an utter and complete catastrophe at all times and always will be, forever and eternity. Eventually, I called the guy who ordered it and his wife got everything sorted out and we found out that the order was under the name "Mike Heathe", I don't know who the fuck "Mike Heathe" is and I probably never will. That is definitely not my dad, because I know my dad and I know my own last name and that's not it. The only sideways tangent what-the-fuck scenario I can even come up with to explain how "Mike Heathe" was thrown in the mix was that my dad, in all his broken-English speaking wonder, told the ordering guy that his name was "Mike T." and the pronunciation was thrown out the window and we are now gifted with the order-fucking last name of "Heathe".

When I was finally checking out the checkout guy took forever and a Sunday and had to read me every single thing he was doing twice so I would understand it, I guess, and then the card didn't recognize in the grimy little swiper thing and...

After I get out of there I bullet home at the speed of light, fly into the driveway, take the shit inside and I'm turning to leave the house to go to work (which I'm already late for) when my dad says "All right, let's go to Billy's to get this taken care of."

The conversation ended with, "WELL WHY THE FUCK DID IT TAKE YOU SO LONG TO GET HOME!?"

And that's why I wish my nuts were kicked into my throat with a pair of soccer cleats.

The End.

 

Interested In One Of The Women.
Friday, December 04

There's this image that's been stuck in my head for the last two weeks. I don't know what it's supposed to be or what it's going to be, I just know that it's important that I'm supposed to do something with it. Well, "supposed to" as much as anything else. I'm "SUPPOSED TO" breathe. I'm "SUPPOSED TO" keep my balls out of people's faces. Anyway, the image is a still image from a video, well, it's supposed to be. The video doesn't exist, it's never existed, and it's probably never "supposed to" exist, but I've conjured up this still image from this imaginary non-existent video regardless. The camera is handheld, or even shoulder mounted and the shot is slightly rushed as if the moment was a particularly chaotic one. It looks like the scene is real and it appears to be taking place in the middle of street. In the left foreground is a woman but we can only see three quarters of her face and down to her stomach. She looks like she's screaming and her arms are in somewhat of a mid-wave, as if from sudden shock or panic, and she appears to be fleeing from something. Mind you, this is all just a still. At the top of the frame are a pair of feet, running away. To the right is a motion blurred object, perhaps an arm or a hand from someone rushing past the cameraman. In the center is what might be the cause of all this unnecessary mania, it's a small dog-sized creature with a very cat-like appearance. It has a dark brown, possibly black, sheen to it suggesting that it has an exoskeleton (reminiscent of an insect's) and it's huddled up and frightened. There is a slight semblance of a mouth where the head would be, no eyes can be seen, and the mouth is agape like the creature is screeching or hissing. The entire visage reminds me of some blurry amateur shot of some cryptozoological figure that has been encountered by accident. The story behind it, pure invention, is that this thing appeared from out of thin air (perhaps waltzing through a tear or hole in space-time) and the brittle psyche of the wayfarer that is the typical human being was instantly shattered and the bodies were sent fleeing in a mangled sight of embarrassing immaturity. The creature does not look vicious, potentially dangerous maybe, but it looks more scared and confused than anything. The tininess is strange and haunting to me as well.

Where did this come from? Ever since it's popped into my head, all I can think of is how badly I want to put that image on the front of a Pizzabones album or somehow manufacture the scene for a Polaroid. Maybe this can be that one iconic thing I can contribute. This'll be my "Kubrick Face".

 

It'll Make The Mightiest Melt.
Wednesday, December 02

Here's the scene:

Alone, our disheveled hero steps outside his motel room to have a smoke. Normally he would just take the batteries out of the smoke detector or let the damn thing screech without care, but he's stored up various reasons to go outside this time and dammit, he's going to do it. Besides, he can't remember what this city looks and being it that they try so fucking hard here, with all the shades of taupe and peeling molding, it would be discourteous not to at least look his gracious host in the eye before he has a smoke. There are two things he immediately notices, even before he has time to step through the doorframe; it is muggy as the south in summer and it is way to god damn quiet. The door tries to click shut, but clangs awkwardly ajar on the metal door guard so that it won't lock behind him. No sirens, no yelling, no cars, just humming. Everything is humming. Air conditioners on rooftops, air conditioners in windows, vent fans and telephone wires. The lick and hot breath of the air is going to ruin this cigarette, he knows it. He notices the grime-blue stains on the fluorescent lights that sit recessed in the roof overhang and run the entire length of the second floor balcony where he's standing. One particular set of bulbs flickering lightly above the last door, nothing harsh and barely noticeable, but it makes the air seem blue and filled with static. Perhaps even slightly green.

He, poses hitched against the railing with one hand supporting his weight, the other hand pulls a cigarette out of the busted up soft box he has in his corduroys' pocket. He briefly examines it before putting it to his lips. Below him is the parking lot, mostly empty and really the other two cars that aren't his could very well belong to the employees or one of the maids, because there is not a whole lot of action going on tonight in Whereverthefuck. And the lack of other exteriors makes him notice how scuffed and brown his car really is. Oh well, it gives it character. Character and "rustique" that run the entire length. From the mended chrome grill on the front to the scraped and scuffed bumper on the back, she is a character all right; coked up burlesque dancer with a kid at home and a mayonnaise jar full of tips that she's saving up for a better life. Or maybe this car is just an old man. Hey, the headlights even kinda look like a pair of weathered old eyes barely holding open and waiting for the end, or something else.

Yeah. Just some old man, having a smoke and thinking to himself that every sad book and every choked up fella sitting on his porch is some far more dignified existence. That the end awaits and you might as well get to know yourself, because that's who's dying. That old man.

That's when he notices it, transfixed and somewhat smiling in thought, someone staring back at him. A still, cold and menacing old face in the passenger seat of his car. How did he not notice him this entire time? He's just staring. Staring like a man waiting. Patiently, waiting.

 

You're My Boy.
Tuesday, December 01

He's right. This is your life. And it's ending one minute at a time. The typical response to "Looks like you're dying, pal." is immediate panic, fear and regret. Human beings are lazy. If the plane is not crashing, if the car is not leaking gasoline next to a rapidly approaching stampede of flames, then it can wait. Now we have invented religion. God is the lazy man's excuse for wasting a life. It was all in the plan, I'll be taken care of, someone is looking over me, bedtime stories and niceties designed to placate the dull-eyed drooling stare of the consumer and the bleating sheep. You are the risk your father was willing to take, one of millions of unwanted children sacrificed for the selfish and idealist notion that all may be given for one. This is stupid, this is evil. Your friends will sell you out. Your children will give you up. Your colleagues and coworkers will destroy your name in order to succeed. These are things you must come to terms with, these are truths you must understand. You are the one, you are the only, you must improve yourself as perfection is an invention of the delusional and insecure. The only thing you'll realize on your deathbed is that you didn't have enough time. Wrong. You are going to die, this is something science and even the obtuse conceptualization of religion has taught us. You've always had enough "time", life is an installment. It is what you do with your installment that counts. You are going to die. Get it out of your head, ignore the inevitability just as you do the oxygen and nitrogen mixture you breath in every day of your waking life. Use this impossible opportunity, this astronomically peculiar occurrence within the cosmos as a justification for action. Burn everything for everything burns.

This is your life. And it is ending one minute at a time. What does this mean to you now? How long as it been since you looked at that clock? A couple of minutes? What are minutes but a measurement of time. WHICH IS SOMETHING THAT DOES NOT EXIST. Another mechanism for our minds to cope with the rapidly degrading and undulating matter around us. Did you ever stop to think that a clock, were it alive, would be unable to describe to us why it does what it does? All it knows is that gears inside of it cause these arms to move in a fixed pattern. The why eludes it. You are the clock. The why eludes you, as it does not matter. You merely exist. There is no path, just a fixed notion that being will end and you will cease to exist. Do not succumb to the comfort of fairy tales. Just affect the space around you. Do not bother leaving a mark, it will only become important to other people on this planet and if this planet were to cease to exist, then it would cease to matter. Humanity and consciousness are unfortunate variables. Do not insult yourself by believing in a god, do not humiliate yourself by wishing you had more time.

This is your life. And it is ending one minute at a time. What does that mean to you now? Is it still ending?

If you payed attention then you should understand that nothing can end if it did not begin. You never begun, you are just the degrading and undulating matter around everything that is around you.