Zombie Times

Late night, Keith Olbermann talking to me on a different tab, pondering the meaning of wine and ash. Zombie nights after zombie days, a thick and oily fog curling around my brain pipes. It's times like these I feel least human, sucking alcohol like oxygen, a progressive rage stewing in its own angry juices.

Why do planes crash? Why do bankers get blowjobs from Dartmouth alumni while the rest of us get nothing? I received a call from the college fundraising rats tonight -- how they got my cell phone number I don't know, but I suspect facebook is to blame. I am always appalled that my dear alma mater has the sack to ask me for money on the same day that I receive two bills for my student loans, which I'll be paying back into my thirties. Two hundred a month, in case you were wondering. That's like fifteen books, given my dangerous but lovely 40% employee discount.

There's ash on my floor and I don't want to clean it. I've been reading about Nixon and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I can't decide if I should be hopeful or not -- on the one hand, our policemen no longer seek out minorities to fuck over. Or do they? We lost George Wallace, but gained Sarah Palin. The four-year anniversary of Hunter S. Thompson's suicide is upon us, and I hope everyone realizes what we lost. I'm reading Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, and political journalism needs someone like Hunter more than ever. It's amusing reading the editorial plugs of the book -- the "professionals" seem to love the word "sensational" -- irony unintended, I'm sure.

These are tough times, my brothers. My father's company laid off 10% of its work force today -- thankfully he was spared. My heart goes out to the thirty or so workers who weren't, not to mention the millions of newly-unemployed Americans who have just made the career change to welfare queens. Those lazy bastards. I try to write fiction but struggle. The process can be baffling. I can construct brilliant sentences that invoke everything from hope to insanity, but how to prevent the butterfly from crashing into the killing flame, and how to distinguish between the butterfly and the moth. That would be the rub.

I went to my first Celtics game last week -- money that shouldn't have been spent, but I wanted to treat my father to good seats, a belated birthday present. He suffers from psoriasis, but doesn't care. I admire him for that. There are times when he's fully broken out and reptilian, shedding scales that would never be allowed on daytime teevee. I admire my father in general -- he's the consummate Midwesterner, stoic, hardworking, not much given to idle conversation. He likes basketball and football, but doesn't really care who's playing. I'm a stat-freak, and can happily go on about Derrick Rose's assists per game compared to Chris Paul's rookie year for hours. Rajon Rondo was brilliant last night, by the way -- I just wish the kid would take more shots. Anyway, my dad could care less, which is fine. We had a good time at the game and the Cs won, thanks to Paul Pierce, who really has the ugliest shot in the game, but it's impossible not to love him if you live in Boston -- at least if you know what's good for you. I'm a recent convert to Boston sports, and I really do love the civic engagement with Boston teams. If you go to a bar in Allston (the student ghetto where I reside) you better know what Jed Lowrie hit after being called up and you better really really hate Kobe. I grew up during the Bulls' glory days and find it hard to convert to the little Irish men with pipes, but it's nice to cheer a winner. I still love John Paxson for that shot in '93, but he's not exactly competent as a GM -- Rose was a no-brainer, but Joakim Noah? The guy can't hit the basket unless it's less than four feet away. But I digress.

This new tradition of focusing the hi-def cameras on random members of the audience annoys me though. I don't want to be on the jumbotron. Anyway, I had an idea for a short story that involves someone with a skin condition being displayed and getting heckled for it by the gym and suntan booth crowd (who are the ones who can afford tickets, since it's obscene how much they cost now). I can't decide if it's a good "dramatic" moment for a short story or not -- and the dramatic moment is the crux of the MFA mill short story, and they are the gods who must be appeased if one wants the privilege of publication. I do the tone poem thing much better, but publication is the goal, after all.

This was rambling and incoherent, but that's where I am at the moment. I would like to follow Aaron's lead and get an internet-impaired PC, but I do love the Youtubes on occasion. We don't have cable, so I need to get the right-wing media from somewhere. On an off note, few things upset me more than hearing Democrats referred to as "left-wing." America doesn't have a left. The Democrats are center-right, center-center at their best. I'll leave that rant for a different time though.