Before I begin, can I just say:
I fucking love Jen Psaki! Do you have any idea how comforting I find it to see an organic woman giving me my daily White House briefings? I was so fucking sick and tired of tuning in day after day to keep up with the plot of that particular day's Trump show to get my highly cosmeticized information from a highly cosmeticized floosy. Kayleigh McEnany represents everything that I hate in a woman. She is a projection of the most generic white American idealism. From that ridiculously basic artificial hair color to those palm frond-sized fake eyelashes, or her quasi-Trumpian Panama Beach tan, she is almost as if a caricature of base Caucasoid desire. Ugh, and that name, Kayleigh (what the fuck is a Kayleigh?) McEnany (as in a stupid ninny!).
Kayleigh?! First of all, I fucking hate Kale, both the foodstuff and the word. For a vegan to voice such extreme displeasure for a leafy green means that Kale has to be some nasty fucking shit. To add the 'Y' sound at the end of a word such as Kale to denote familiarity or tenderness makes it no less abhorrent. Really, she is less like Kale and more like pre-rancid Filet Mignon... the kind they serve at the all-you-can-eat buffet in Vegas. Fuck you, McEnany, you bitch! Jen Psaki can kick your ass! Plus, I'll bet a testicle (take your pick) that her GPA was 5.0, yours wasn't even higher than my blood alcohol level right now.
I loved Jen Psaki back when she was just another one of my talking-head friends that I would check in with every afternoon in order to find out if the Earth was still in one piece. I always found her very articulate and informed on government and its processes, which I would expect no less from the ladies of CNN. Also, (because it's television, so it matters)- Jen Psaki is a pretty, natural lady -you can barely detect makeup on her. She is very fair-skinned with natural red hair and just projects pleasantness, like an elementary school art teacher, or somebody with an air-shift on NPR. After four years of a glorified Kelly Bundy fighting with reporters and lying and sleeveless tops, ugh, its just nice that once again my government is interested in lulling me into a false sense of security. Ignorance is bliss! Thank you, Jen!
I also wanted to give myself a shout-out this week for my totally dope DIY T-shirt that I wore when I went to go and skate, at Little Havana no less. I made it a point to skate past Versailles Cafeteria just to sport my culturally abrasive couture. Ooh, I'm so adversarial! How Satanic! I received some very, very dirty looks. It may have been indigestion. After all, Versailles is a shithole! The La Carreta Restaurant across the street has them beat with cudgels. No one stepped up to my plate for a little "bovver" though. I would have welcomed it. The way I felt that day, a beatdown, on either end of it, would have been just what the doctor ordered. This T-shirt is now my albatross. I try and wear it as much as possible so that people can see it.
"What's with the shirt?"
Once that question is posed, well, then begins the "rime of the contemporary sailor". Then, I can tell my tale at the wedding feast, and tell the fascinated bride about my death, a victim at the hands of a murder/suicide on November 29, 2020. The last words that I heard before the first dagger in my back and then the one in my heart were:
"Tu lo que eres, es un Maricon y un Socialista"
(All you are is a faggot and a socialist)
As the day progressed, I went from Little Havana to North Trail Skate Park (where I always have the worst luck). After one fight there with some big manganzon and another incident involving a white Honda Civic which I smashed all six windows to and slashed all four tires, you would think that this sweet and tender hooligan would just avoid that dump altogether. Being that today was my first real skate 'sesh' since early January, I didn't want to end the party too quick, though my metatarsal joints felt strained. So upon leaving the Lil' H, I went for a skate over at 'Trail and sure enough, I found the 'bovver' I was looking for.
I skated up to the spot, looking so rad. There were mostly young kids there, no one older than 15. They all stopped when I entered the Zen garden that is the skate spot, as if not knowing what to make of me. Then I started skating, the dance with the Dryad, and I can see them all wishing that I was their dad. Perhaps that's why Lazzy always used to run up to the kids at the spot when we used to go skating together at West Wind, bursting with pride in his chubby belly when I'd hear him say to them:
"You see that guy... that's my dad!"
I'm sure that is what first annoyed that asshole with an American flag T-shirt on. He probably paid his ugly son no mind on the weekend, too busy daydreaming about his mistresses, his fleeting Cialis scrip, and filling the diesel tank on his F-450, and now some "Soy-boy" made his kid's eyes twinkle. Patton over there took one look at my fashion statement and was triggered. "Nice shirt" he said.
"Wish I could say the same" was my response.
Then I kept skating, with SUCH style. My Thoth, have I really been injured for virtually three months? I was magnificent today (well, because there weren't any REAL skaters there). At one point, John Coltrane's "Tunji" came in on my earbuds, compliments of the Sun Ra Pandora station. When "Tunji" came on, I began to annihilate that park. As I skated around the area where Captain America and his ugly kids were, I executed a "Nollie Shove It" on the high end of the bank, and as I rolled "Fakie" on my way down I said out loud "I'll knock your daddy the fuck out, and not only that, but he isn't shit, because your punk-ass daddy can't skate like I do!"
I admit, I was just a tad out of line, but I can explain. I was medication free for about three days leading up, but had been drinking daily for one week -my brain chemistry was a bit tilted. Also, when I enter my "sweet spot", this weird zone that I go into after a couple of tricks that I liken to an altered state (I even get weird giggles during, and I mildly hyperventilate... its creepy) I can get a little... nutty! I start thinking out loud, exclaiming my "dopeness", and yes, even improvisational rhyming out loud. His punk-ass daddy didn't do a goddamn thing but keep his bitch-ass mouth shut. He did, however, call the police on me...
I was winded within an hour of skating. The way that I had skated was like a Gung-Ho cardio workout, often exerting myself near the point of vomiting. I devoured the spot that afternoon. "Alright, I think I've made my point for today", I said out loud. I began skating my way to my car, and sure enough there was the porcine patrol -two jakes, fat fucks, the pair of them waiting by the park exit. I'm a 5'4", 134 pound vegan, were they sure they brought enough guys? The cop started asking me all kinds of questions, "what are you going to tell me today tough guy?" (reference.) "We had a call that someone was causing a disturbance, something about yelling at kids and odd behavior". Son of a bitch! Meanwhile, don't forget the shirt I was wearing, which they definitely took a viddy at. I stated my case to the pigs, that I was just blowing off some steam and that I tend to get weird when undermedicated.
"Are you sure I can trust you will go home and not hurt yourself?"
I scoffed at him.
"You can be sure that I am going to go home and not cause any 'physical harm' to myself. I just want to go home now, drink some Bombay and cry till I get sleepy."
The pigs cleared the path, "spoken like a true basket case" they probably thought. My little ass was more than fortunate that I didn't get initiated into a long standing family tradition by the pigs
-the Baker Act!
Yet!
That is when a lucky, eligible Floridian gets placed on a 72-hour psychiatric standby for observation and safekeeping. I even told the Pork Rind in charge: "Officer dude, don't fucking Baker Act me! If I had the balls to hurt myself I'd be dead. If I had the killer instinct to hurt someone else, I wouldn't be holding a skateboard right now."
I need to make it a serious point to stop skating at North Trail. I hate the fucking locals there, the park is in horrible conditions (cracked concrete everywhere) and just as a cherry over that shit sundae of a skate park, something about my vibration just doesn't mesh with that pinpoint of latitude and longitude.
Now down to brass tacks... Since the decided and ultimate purpose of this blog is to serve as a promotional apparatus for Misanthropaganda Publications, now is as good a time as any to apply that function. Diazepam Dreams is now in the hands of Minute Man Press for reproduction. Possibly by April Fool's day I may have a box with one hundred copies of my first novel. I am not liking that potential delivery date, it seems to imply some kind of symbolism and/or foreshadowing that does not sit quite right with me (as in the joke is on me regarding this dumb fuck novel.) This week I had to give one final proofread before signing the work order and I was gripped with uncertainty over my feelings regarding the book. I was feeling confident for a while, but now after this last read it just felt like self-indulgent, melodramatic garbage. Art imitates life.
In fact, I was a hair from deleting the entire document from my laptop in the throes of one of my hissy fits. This was a particularly bad week for your droog and narrator. In place of crying now, my anxiety levels have been off the charts for some reason. Oddly, this anxiety is coupled with drowsiness and fatigue instead of the usual symptomatic jitteriness. I think I'm fucking anemic again. Eh, who gives a fuck! Anyways, it got dark in here this week and I wanted to take self-flagellation to cruel new heights. I was very close to trashing Diazepam. I don't think it had that much to do with how bad I think it may be, yet everything to do with destroying an accomplishment to hurt myself in the most sadistic way possible. See, the thing about self-destruction is that it is a war to be fought on all fronts -physical, mental and spiritual. To have shit-canned Diazepam just to prove to myself that "I don't give a fuck" would have annihilated me on the spiritual level. The mind, well, that is devouring itself without my assistance; and as for the body...
Wednesday, I punched out for a two hour lunch and made the 14 mile drive to the printer to sign the work order and drop an envelope in the guy's hand with my deposit in it before I did anything drastic. In the end, reason prevailed and I convinced myself that having authored a bad first novel is better than not having a first novel at all. I suppose they can't all be the Mahabharata. Somebody has to write the books that they sell at Dollar General!
Ultimately, there is only one final opinion that matters to me, but even the prospect of that person's lotus eyes catching conjunctivitis from viewing the shit that I've paid handsomely to print on paper makes me a nervous wreck. I might as well get loaded, everyday, until I get my ONE meaningful (hopefully honest) critique from one very meaningful person. Why not?! I've been getting loaded just about everyday for about three weeks now... WINNING!
So, in the event that I still have readers following this blog and the saga of this publishing house, here's a little teaser to tickle your asses with a feather a bit. This is an outtake from the novel that did not make it to the final print, but still held some weight in my heart, so I wanted to give it a little bit of love rather than toss it out unceremoniously. I've mentioned before how it becomes increasingly difficult to dispense of poems that one has sat by for hours. They become a small part of you and you feel obliged to do all that you can to either save them and nurse them into swans out of their ugly duckling phase or at least give them a dignified death. This is a piece inspired by a character in Diazepam Dreams named Yajaira.
Yajaira
That way which I recall
your slightly raised brow
-imperious-
as if what I was saying was serious,
your tinted burgundy hair,
your laissez faire
I've created dreams for you
out of Diazepam and desperation.
Pill by brick I've built you an empire
inside padded walls of desolation - a self-induced isolation
that I've undergone to have you haunt me and I alone.
Polished-till-blurry memories gave me a new purpose,
this futility gave me a means to an end
as I am sure you will never again resurface.
Then, there was that day...
analyzed and contemplated Ad Nauseum...
A small bursting giggle barely cleared the fullness of your vermillion lips as you looked at me a certain way.
"Your face has changed", you said, "your face has changed so much!"
Hindsight made nothing clearer.
Opaque doubts forever occult my mirror.
If what I thought could have been, how would I have known had you have shown?
My impetuous words drowned in my blood, the potential for passion neutralized in a crimson flood.
The sequel would have been beautiful had I gotten the chance to write it.
Inspiration I would have drawn from you silently screaming me into sedation in these valium visions.
Ask of me your every wish that I may serve up on a platinum dish,
whether miniscule or beyond my means.
I can do all things in Diazepam Dreams, where still I'm incomplete but at least pleasantly incapacitated.
Fuck It!
How long has it been that I have waited for a fantasy to overshadow a little tragedy.
How long have I anticipated for my chocolate willow to entangle me by the ankles, from the safe distance of oblivion where her stem wont leave me strangled.
IG:@misanthropaganda_publications
