I don’t know what the hell a Moon Moon is, but I just got home and found this confused animal wandering around my apartment…
Alone and besieged by emotion
I slide gently into a temple of darkness
They know me here
Five minutes in I am beset by a holy figure
a brunette of pierced steel and wrought ink
she slinks across the stage towards me smiling,
a g-string pulled aside to show pink skin shaven
As I slip the dollar inside
we both grin wolfishly
Neither one knowing
who is the worshiper
or the worshiped
A bald man, sinister
asks me what I am writing
and explains that some guys
from other clubs
come in to write up the girls
cherry picking the fruitful talent
but I demure
“It’s just bad poetry”
and waves me onward
to a redhead
I have to tip her
even if I hate her music
because redheads are magic
dirty hot sexy magic
take my dollar
it’s all I have
I’m sorry you are alone
in the lights
I smoke cloves and watch the women
as they prostrate themselves like dutiful priestesses
before an alter so profane
that men cannot admit its worship
the blondes drift by me, hesitant
they nod and smile
but don’t ask for a dance
I lay my scant offerings
at their feet
and then I’m driving home
with the last echos from the speakers
washing through my head
and I think of another
a beauty of my acquaintance
so profound she makes men
I want to call her up
and speak hot words of love, shards
so bright they tear asunder
the black roof of heaven
so she will know
she is not alone
like these priestesses
in the smokey darkness
of a lonely temple
Situation in Boston has settled for now. Police have locked down and cordoned off several blocks, investigation is ongoing, all information is being filtered through official channels, and the news media has fixed into their cycle of recycling everything, consulting “experts,” and generally making shit up to fill the wall to wall 24 hour cycle.
My mechanism for handling my own sort of PTSD is to immerse myself in information and analysis, so by now, I’m wore out.
We probably won’t know anything new for a while, barring sudden breaking stories. Please remember that there will be a lot of bad information on the internet, and a lot of people will take this terrible occurrence and try to use it for their own means. Check your sources, keep an eye on Snopes.com, and think twice before posting angry stuff about anybody. We’ll get through this again.
And hey, tell someone you love that you love them. Hug somebody you like. It’s okay to be scared or sad or angry. There are still good people in the world.
As for me, I’m going to the bar.
“I Don’t Give Out Much Advice,” he said in capitalized font, “But Here Is A Lesson I Will Share With You, My Friends, Or Whomever You Are; when suffering from the effects of anxiety or depression or the alcoholic infusion that follows the aforementioned, procrastination is your friend.”
“Repeat: Procrastination Is Your Friend.”
“Because sometimes you will find yourself standing there thinking things like, ‘Fuck this job, I quit’ or, ‘Yeah, I should marry this prostitute I just met’ or, ‘Adult circumcision can’t hurt that much, can it?’ or, ‘Screw everything, I’m driving to Florida to live with Stanfield MacCue’ or even, ‘I give up on it all.’”
“This is when you can rely on ol’ buddy Procrastination to kick in and tell you, ‘That is an awesome idea. Let’s do that tomorrow.’”
“Then, when you wake up from the chemical-induced supernova that was your brain at the time you can see the sense of things, and not make those life-altering decisions that seemed like such a good idea just a few short hours and shots of Jagermeister ago.”
And then he pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes, and passed blissfully into unconsciousness.
“I wouldn’t recommend junk food, video games, or rampant masturbation for everyone dealing with depression, but they’ve always worked for me.” ~ Lorthos
Not, of course, to disparage other more active or intelligent methods of dealing with depression such as exercise, meditation, positive affirmation, or therapy. All of those are good things. It’s just that when I get depressed I absolutely have not the energy or tolerance for any of those.
Around here it’s much more like, “I got an 8-pack of fried chicken, a laptop full of World of Warcraft, and a TV remote so I can pause Law and Order any time Mariska Hargitay bends over. Let’s get through this.”
I am going to invent the next big obscure nerd-thing trend that the other nerd-trends can talk trash about but secretly engage in and then I’m going to make a nerd-load of money (rule of three with hyphens - check). Because first it was Wargamers looking down on RPGers looking down on Magic players looking down on Vampire Masquerade LARPers looking down on all other LARPers looking down on Furries looking down on Bronies. I have come up with an idea to fill the new lowest slot on the Nerdy Totem Pole:
LASF - Live Action Slash Fiction
Think about it! Costuming, bad acting, unnecessary sexual content, copyright infringement, it has all the dramatic tropes needed to be a hit at your next convention. We can copy some old Vampire LARP rules and badly smudge out about half of them and then make up house rules on the spot for people to argue about when they aren’t trying frantically to hump each other.
GM - Okay, everybody take off your pants. Scene is “Only One Pair of Pants in the Universe Can Save Us,” and… GO!
LASFer #1 as 9th Doctor - “Those pants are clearly sized for a Doctor!” *sprints across room*
LASFer #2 as Captain Jack Harkness - “I’ll wrestle you for ‘em!” *runs after Doctor*
LASFer #3 as James T Kirk - “Gentlemen, you got room for a Federation Captain in there?” *waves penis*
(Two hour argument ensues about whether or not Captain Kirk is canon to this timeline and whether or not Captain Jack can use his “Fishook” card to gain an advantage over the Doctor because it was taken out of the third edition of the rules.)
I’m not positive but I am pretty sure this idea will make me rich. Who’s with me?
As a forty-something-year-old young man, I do occasionally find myself fortunate enough to have to still purchase prophylactics from your chain of stores. This act has been the source of much strange embarrassment for men since the very establishment of the pharmacy model in Baghdad in 754AD, when a young man blushingly sidled up to a marble counter, asked for a packet of sheep’s bladders, and was promptly beheaded.
Now, I do appreciate the fact that you have moved your colorful condom display case from the clinic section of the store (where everyone looks like my mother and is judging me) to the health and beauty section (where everyone looks like a hot college girl and is judging me), but the inclusion of a “push button for service” button, which lights up and loudly announces to the store that a “customer” needs “service” in the “health section” and then summons a giggling sixteen year old to unlock the plastic Fort Knox bank vault that insures I won’t steal a six-dollar pack of Trojans, is well… a bit much.
I know condoms are among the most shoplifted items in any store, but seriously? What’s next? You push the button and a spotlight goes off and a clown unicycles up to you honking his horn and yelling, “Looky looky here folks! This old guy thinks he’s getting laid! Don’t throw out a hip, pops! You want I should make a balloon animal outta that for ya?” And then he throws confetti and there are disco lights and rave music.
Bring that up at the next board meeting, I’m sure you can manage to get it within the budget limits after all the money you save on preventing rubber theft.
Your loyal customer,
“I’m not going to worry about the Future, I don’t care what it says to me through time traveling robots or false precognitions delivered in late night television programming or small computer chips implanted in my brain during the war no one remembers. I have the Words and the Music and the Beer, and that is enough to keep me safe. I think.”
“Paranoid?” you ask.
“Paradeez,” I reply.
“PARADEEZ NUTS!” I yell and then dive out the window, tuck and roll across the ground, and spring to my feet to disappear cackling into the morning fog.
A slow day at the Palomino, somewhere deep inside of Texas, on a hot afternoon.
The girls halfheartedly spiraled listless around the poles. The bikers from Cablallo de hierro, a local “club,” lounged in ruthless lazy fashion about the place, drinking their cerveza and fondling the putas. Even the flies could barely be bothered to stir.
At the bar, Destiny slapped down cards.
Watson surveyed the grisly scene as Holmes lit his pipe and puffed at it thoughtfully.
“A terrible thing here, Holmes. What do you make of this?” Watson asked.
“Seems simple enough, my man. He was attacked by a wolf, you see. Look at the marks here and here.” Holmes gestured to invisible spots in the carnage. “A wolf about six feet at the shoulder, weighing in excess of twenty-five stone, I’d say.”
“That’s amazing! How can you be so sure of that?”
“Because, of course, I’m the wolf who did it.”
~ from “The Case Files of Sherwolf Holmes, Consulting Werewolf Detective”
Now, I don’t know who you are, mysterious Tumblr person, but I can tell you this, if you get drunk in the South someone at some point will tell you that you are “Drunk as Cooter Brown.” And you will wonder, much like myself who was born here, who the hell Cooter Brown was and why is he such a legend and old country folks’ saying?
The truth, such as it may be, is possibly better than I ever imagined:
HAPPPY MARDI GRAS MOTHERBARFBARFBARF UGHBARF GRARF BARF OH GOD PLEASE DON’T LET ME BARFBARFBARFGODBARF AGAIN, SPIT.
I LOVE YOU ALL, TUMBLR PEOPLE.