Archive for February, 2013
I am reading J.G Ballard’s stories and though he wrote them in the 1960s and 1970s, he was disturbingly prescient. His stories warned that social networking was going to lead to massive dehumanization and the violent downfall of man, a thing which many writers say these days. However, he wrote about it in 1964. As a result, Facebook has taken on a whole new meaning as I look for my potential murderer in the People You May Know section.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Hell recently. Maybe because it’s been snraining for four straight days (snow + rain = snrain), or because the upstairs flat is getting drilled and hammered into by fourteen morons at 8 a.m. On top of this I have been looking into my summer holiday destination and therefore found myself on Hell’s Wikipedia page. Looking into my final destination, as it were.
But frankly, if you grew up Catholic then Hell probably crosses your mind on occasion. Take a debilitating sense of guilt and parlay it with the ability to obsess on pain and suffering, and you get a lifelong fascination with eternal damnation.
No matter what your religious background – if any – there is some present concept of Hell. In Naraka (Buddhist Hell) a hedgehog lives in the sinner’s skull and eats his brain. In Jahannam (Islamic Hell) shameless women forever burn in fire for exposing their hair to strangers.
For the same reason, my bathtub is filled with dirty water and a dryer sheet is sitting in a pot filled with water and the crusted remains of last night’s dinner.
I am now a domestic MoFo.
Because I don’t live with my mommy anymore.
It all started when I was somehow tricked into visiting Former Girlfriend’s family in West Bohemia last year. I remember answering ‘yeah sure’ to the suggestion as one might a rectal exam at the hands of a new cellmate. Visiting a new partner’s family for the first time is stressful enough, let alone a family who speaks a language you are not close to fluent in. And my anxiety was based solely on the promise of 48 hours of the Czech language and FG’s family.
Nevertheless, at 9 a.m. on Friday morning, when I should have been in a warm bed, I was on a cramped bus in a snowstorm.
“No, no, I’ve got it,” I say, and I mean it. She frowns. I pay and she puts the purse under her seat. Well, it’s the least I can do for a 2.78 hour seminar on everything Doctor Who. I can write fan fiction now. As we collect our bags and she continues the Doctor Who-athon, I look for a blunt weapon of some sort with which to end my life.
On our way to the metro, as people wearing very long, striped scarves pass us, she asks why I paid.
“I was happy to do it,” I say. She puts up a brief argument and I realize that I would kill for an actual Tardis. I’ve been mentally enjoying the glass of bourbon that I’ll pour upon my arrival home. But now, in true heroic form, I wonder how my suffering might aid humanity in some way.
I need some music today, so I am standing in my pajamas holding a book of CDs in front of the stereo; how rustic and old school. My Mp3 player is meant only for running, walking or ignoring people I know on the tram.
I choose Tom Waits, slip it in, sit back down at the desk and type a few words. I am struggling with my 1,000 words today and am being fitful as a result. It’s 10 a.m., Sunday, I have written 6 words: Get to work you fat fucker.
Stephen King listens to heavy metal when he writes, which surely helps explain the deeply disturbing nature of his writing. Nothing says ‘let’s have a demonic clown dismember a child’ like Motorhead.
Every day when I check my blog stats, I am greeted with the world of phrases that people have searched which has sent them to my blog. This world is dark and disturbing. Not my blog, the phrases. Well, both I guess.
In any case, here are the nine most disturbing phrases entered by unsuspecting deviants, who then found themselves on my blog. This has made me think extensively of moving to Brazil or hiring a body-guard named Guido. Or Katja.
9. Morbid Deaths
I know there are 3.2 billion people on the internet at any given moment, so the chances of saying exactly who entered this into a search engine are seemingly impossible. But I will tell you this: It was a member of my family. We have a special ability to bring death and destruction into any situation you can mention. Go ahead, try.
It’s Sunday morning and I am doing my morning routine. Relaxing, listening to jazz – Horace Silver’s Song for my Father, and my kitchen is one huge cardiovascular health nightmare. There are strips of bacon sizzling, home fries in the oven, bread being turned to toast and a pot of strong coffee brewing on the rocket launcher. My flat surely smells like that combination of deliciousness and congestive heart failure which I miss so much.
If my cat were in an apron and beanie shouting diner lingo at the end of a rip line full of order slips, this would be the perfect diner. And maybe a gravelly-voiced waitress with a facial deformity.
Today, however, I am more hell-bent on creating a breakfast as diner authentic as possible. In the world of Eidam, I have found the closest relative to processed American cheese, the only cheese with which to make a true omelet ala greasy spoon. I’ve enlisted the help of Rachel Ray – the chubby man’s Scarlett Johansson – to make home fries and have taken her heart safe advice by adding three cubes of butter to my egg mix.