kanji

04 August, 2004
detox mansion

"up here in Detox Mansion,

way down on Last Breath Farm,

i've been raking leaves with Liza,

Me and Liz clean up the yard."

yep... shitty things happen, the mind retaliates with the soundtrack.

actually, i'd just gone through my archives some few minutes ago... and thought that striking an upbeat tempo wold be a nice jarring exception to my usual rule.

life just has other priorities. hence the continuation of the Noir-ish phenomenon.

not that this has been a particularly unpleasant passing of the sun. the hurricane went somewhere else, the day was toasty and agreeable for early August, the guy retiling the bath was jovial, and theDiva was more conversational than usual.

quite nice, this... until she got to the drunken co-workers' phone call part.

clarification is necessary. Akebono, i have referred to previously: overeducated, retro in musical and comedic tastes... a bit too influenced by SOpranos dialogue. Smokey: British-born, but so long in this country that his accent is undistinguishable from any other Virginian... cynical to the point of being snide, though amusing at times. a frequent companion to the Bus Stop to Nowhere (the approved smoking area), i've talked at length with him about all kinds of nonsense... and not-quite nonsense: like trying to steer him away from the DarkSide. Hell, both of them, actually, have a disturbing propensity to veer into chemical dependency. considering my history of enjoying substances (though not into depravity), and living and being raised among those for whom it is (and was) a lifestyle, i "get" their predicament(s).

what is more problematic are the weeks trashed from work, the slovenly calls to beg off, weepy calls to others... from people who have experienced relatively little in the way of difficult lives. damned little... not having grasped the "survival of the fittest" part of existence. no doubt kids, it doesn't end well... so let history be historic. with your m4d skillz, you can do a 180 in the freeway of fucked-up-ed-ness.

unless, of course, you prefer to call the carryout for bottle-after-bottle of rot-gut and shit all over yourself with self-pity.

as if anyone else really cares. or, if they do, repeat offenses nullify the sympathy.

and nullify your gainful employment, even when your boss covers your ass.

and how often does that happen?

"Well, it's tough to be somebody

and it's hard to keep from falling apart,

up here on Rehab Mountain

we gonna learn these things by heart"

RIP WarrenZevon. you knew 'bout that, dint ya?

.


hit me with your rhythm stick




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