Wednesday, December 26, 2012

0oooh, What the Fuck, it's Weird





Henry 62 years old, living in hotel,  a room out back with a separate entrance, avoiding guest, tired of talking shit.

A drinker, drinking too much at times, getting sick, blacking out, throwing up, all the things associated with alcoholism. Henry decided he would drink, drinking was OK as long as you left people alone and minded your own business. He would drink in his room alone, fool proof, safe drinking.

Henry at the end of the line, he was getting older, a loser, Laugh My Fucking Ass Off. Finally getting what he deserved in life, the axe.

He flipped real estate in Asia, middle class, not caring really, never getting rich, knowing being rich wouldn't help him, maladjusted, open to pervasiveness, know for sure that violence was lunacy, the  blue flame on the battlefield, Sherman charging, Sherman getting wiped out, fun for some, terrifying to others, liberating too some, tragedy to many.

Mortality, everybody's  reality,  always in your face, staring in your eyes, all eyes, the rich and the holy nonexempt, the grim-reaper. Religion a invented coping mechanism helping people face death, Heaven, reincarnation, Tibetan Buddhist teaching you to embrace death.

Henry had  friends, men mostly, older searching the Internet for   pills to off themselves, very, very sick, sick of the grind, in pain without any release, no hobbies, locked in a box, living hell on earth, terrible, terrible stuff.

Henry could hardly get a hard-on anymore, surly a good thing, a relief, sex if it lasted 15 minutes a phenomenal, a bandage masking emptiness, a quick fix, over-rated. Henry thought drinking and ganja did the job better, it lasted longer, it was cheaper . Sex wasn't healing for Henry, holding and caressing a lover forever was better than sex, it lasted little longer, minutes longer.  Booze and dope doing the job better than anything, the secret is in the distilling and brewing. 

Henry never coming close to being a jet pilot, tycoon, surgeon or hero, the right-stuff guys who got laid allot, made big money, got respect, golden trophies, pig heads boiled in their honor. It is a grand world ins't it? grand. Who knows?  Maybe people you don't know, Martians from other universes, look through powerful telescopes at us and see a colony of frogs with bloated chest in designer clothes, tycoons, fat mayors, princesses in line, weird to their eyes.

A world full of great art, literature, paintings, sculptures, film, music, dance, priceless. Henry listening to a Chopin piano concerto, pensive, magic moments that make it  matter, like all the shit in the world is worth it for a second.

Henry had a friend, Lumpy, a rich guy, Henry and Lumpy, Asian expatriates from America, pals hanging out some. Lumpy got drunk one night and almost killed a cop in LA who pulled him over for DUI. Henry suspected Lumpy was on the run, he didn't want to bring it up. Lumpy found peace, a constant battle. He had rules: No coffee, booze, dope, hiding ostentation's, never watching the news or reading a paper, following routine, never changing nothing.

Henry figured he would stop watching CNN, the war in the Middle East, a tragedy, killing innocents, collateral damage, random shootings at schools and in public places, things that should never happen. Even the president cried, TV the scary truth, National Geographic, Discovery Channel, the preppers, people getting busted for dope, the end of the world, Mexicans hung and decapated from over passes, apocalyptic documentaries, tsunamis, bombs, economic collapse.

Henry  laid in bed watching TV on downers, smoking ganja, fantasying about living in chaos, he was gonna run away from it,  live with the Thai-Yii  in the hills of  Thailand,  fried scorpions good as falafel , caterpillars, month larva, leaves for seasoning, growing rice, shooting wild hogs, eating monkeys. And most important of all,  brewing your own whiskey in the hills, the old fashioned way.

"There is an acre of corn in a bottle of whiskey" William Faulkner

"There is a  a barrel of hash oil in an acre of marijuana" Figaro Lucowski

" I never trust a fighting man that doesn't drink whiskey" Admiral William "Bull" Halsey

"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol or insanity but hey, they have always  worked for me." Hunter S. Thompson

Drinking, the most copious, superabundant kick in the universe, for my money the best way to cope. Using was Henry's way,  accepting Jesus finding peace too boring, yoga hurts too much, AA gestalt overtime, working out too-much work, bowling too stupid, fucking temporary, going outside ugly.

Drinking the most exhilarating joy in the universe, fun, relaxing, effortless, tasty, unlocking inhibitions, getting a pensive feeling. Enjoying the privacy of your own house, or going to happy-land.

Henry, unsure what writing was,  thinking he needed to write, with no time to read, just writien, a hobby that kept him going, kept depression at bay, reason enough to write.

Not know how to write about the usual stuff, horror, mystery, international intrigue, romance, horse racing, pedigree dogs, crystal suckers, cooking, zen flower arrangement, editorial replies to papers. Staying within a five block radius of his small guest house, locked in the office hiding form people, guilty of everything, knowing nothing, not caring but realizing the only thing to do was accept what-ever happened.

Take your typical romance novel written by say a Mary Wilder. Written masterfully, edited, proofread, perfect diction, sharp like a knife, conflicting characters, lonely people driven by off the wall emotions, jealous of everybody, sabotaging strong type A lovers.

Written for someone in a gray space, thousands of them out there, selling well, writing that shut downs their minds, Henry wanted to write about quick life, loveless fucks, being, drunkenness, transcendence, serendipity.

Henry, dosed, happy, a big slob, feeling like the fat Buddha, hardly caring,  willing to accept good or bad down the line, trying to hunker down and prepare for the worst, knowing for sure you can't contol much of it.


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