crystal shit

Well, well, well, look who’s back? Just take a few days off and leave us all hanging, eh? No, that’s fine. What do we need with regular updates anyway? After all, we’re only FUCKING DYING out here with nothing to do while you ignore your fucking update window. How does it feel? Posting again, that is? Is it like working out after slacking off for a week? When every single line is just fucking a painful reminder of your sloth and decadence? Is that how it feels right now? Good. Good. I’m glad. We’re all glad, frankly. Don’t be so lazy next time, you fucking Calligula.

Yeah, it’s been a minute. What can I tell you? I’m lazy. I’m a lazy calligulan sloth with no soul. Don’t believe me? Well, yesterday my wife and my houseguest and my kid and I were sitting down to breakfast, a lovely meal I cooked consisting of eggs made with green chiles, a slab of bacon and some mimosas and we were all enjoying our Sunday, when suddenly my wife looks up and says, “hey, what’s the date today?” I said “September 20th.” She said “oh, happy anniversary.” And you know what? She was right. Yesterday was our sixth anniversary. Neither of us remembered and neither of us did anything for each other, and besides that, no one else remembered either. Well, Matt Alison, our recording engineer, remembered but only because our wedding favors were beer cozies with our anniversary date on them and he was sitting around drinking one yesterday. That’s some shit, huh? I mean, I’ve heard of the seven year itch, but not so much the six year ‘eh, whatever’. Well, eh, whatever. It’s all come and gone now. It was our houseguest’s birthday at midnight last night so I took the liberty of getting him a prostitute, and even with a pocket full of twenties, he STILL couldn’t score. Sad state of affairs around here, man. It’s gotta be all these town hall meetings and public displays of anger. It’s taking a toll on the national consciousness, man. You know it is.

So, I’ve got this idea for a book. It’s pretty good, I think. Here’s how it goes. What if, instead of dying and being buried beneath a dumb bust of himself, Jim Morrison (who I’ll refer to from here on out as ‘the poet’) instead faked his death and developed a utopian community on a west Indian Island based on the philosophy behind his * ahem*, rad poetry? Good idea, right? Well, here’s the thing. That’s ALREADY a book. And guess who wrote it? Ready? That’s right. Doors keyboardist and gigantic sycophant douche Ray Manzarek. How about that, huh? First, this guy’s got the misfortune of being the nerdiest looking bassist of all time because, well, instead of playing a bass he plays a fucking keyboard, which is not rocking, man. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. There is NOTHING cool about playing a keyboard. And the more you groove with it and jump around and all that, the more you’re highlighting exactly how lame the keyboard is. We’ve played with some band where dude jumps up on the keyboard and then does some kind of ‘rad kick jump’ off it, and let me tell you something: shit’s gay. It’s mondo, mondo gay. “um, excuse me, sir…That’s a keyboard, not a trampoline, and certainly not a guitar, so uh, relax. You chose the fucking thing. You could have picked up the guitar or the drums or whatever, but you CHOSE the keyboard, so face facts and try not to embarrass yourself any more than you have to, how bout that?” Did he listen? No.
Anyway, back to Ray Manzarek. He was the total gimp arm of the Doors to begin with. Didn’t even have a respectable part in the band. He was essentially filling in for the bassist they never had with one hand and with his other hand turning their self indulgent garbage dirges into some sort of awful white soul/baseball game organ hybrid that should never, ever be. That’s bad enough. But why stop there? Nah, come on Ray. Take the only famous guy from your band and write a novel about him that exalts him to jesus-like status, thereby making you just as pathetic as your legions of dorky fans. I mean, for fucks sake, you knew the Poet, right Ray? You had to have been sick of his shit. The Poet was a total dipshit. I’ve heard his songs. I’ve read his ‘poems’ and I’ve seen his interviews (thank you very much Doors fan Eric Halborg for forcing me to sit through that crapfest). The dude was a complete dildo and I’m pretty sure that any sort of utopian community that he helmed would be full of fat, drunk slobs wondering why Morrison gets all the pussy and they just hang out on the sidelines waiting for him to die so they can get theirs only to eventually realize that once he DOES die, they’re nothing but lackies to a complete turd, and the only way to really get anything of value from the whole experience is to write a book about their time with him. Uh, what would happen on that island, Ray? Well, to paraphrase the great line from the gay guy in Boiler Room: “Guess what, buddy? You’re on it.”
This isn’t even why I hate the doors. Just the tip of the iceberg, folks. Let’s rap soon.
XOXO