Archive for the ‘Bugfuck’ Category

By Roads

March 16, 2013

hooksett new hampshire field

Came out of the brush somewhere on Route 103 East, couple miles from where it hooks up to 89. Sun about 5 degrees up from straight dawn, chilly as shit. Wearing nothing but some generic hunter green work overalls, sturdy enough but the name tag torn off and the legs all ripped to hell like I’d been wrestling a particularly vengeful badger. Maybe a fisher cat, I don’t really know. Things are hazy. I know there’s a night at a remote fishing lodge in the mix, little old thing, rustic, one story, up on pylons near the local pond. Bare bones, just for the hardcore angler/naturist type. I know there’s a heavily tattooed Inuit guy named “Crystal” involved, a duffel bag full of truly low grade homegrown, a couple machetes and a box of M-80’s that just kept singing out my name all night long.

I know the cabin’s a smoldering ruin right now and the smart folks have decided to scatter but that’s really about it.

Goddamnit but my ribs are sore and these fucking workboots are a size too small.

Check my pockets. About a dollar and 39 cents. Card from a real estate agent in Wyoming. A comb. Small canvas sack full of nickels. Half a pepperoni sandwich that’s not all bad considering the number of pine needles stuck in the bread. Breast pocket has a hand written note. “Come you bounty hunter. Come you county killer”. Big, crazy letters. Not my handwriting, I don’t think.

I whip the nickels at a passing Saab with two snowboards attached to the roof, shatter the passenger side rear window with a sound like spider monkeys being tortured with a cattle prod. Couple young, well dressed “winter sport enthusiasts” hop out to give me the eye but think better of it when I show them my teeth. Fuck you, roll on. These are my god-cursed woods.

Flag down a passing school bus (apparently it’s Tuesday, who knew?) and luckily the driver is a girl who enjoys a whiff of danger in her life and we spend a a quality quarter of an hour teaching the kids a particularly vulgar sea shanty. Got a good melody and after the driver passes me the flask she’s got hidden in the dash I start feeling weepy. Pop the doors and ditch out near Hopkinton, tuck and roll into the long grass. Some old snow breaks most of the fall but I’m not sure I’ll ever throw a frisbee again with quite the same accuracy as I used to.

Which is sure as shit a good reason to spend 90 minutes by the side of a New Hampshire dirt road screaming incoherently up at the drab morning sky. Voice all raspy and hoarse by the time I get to the barking part of the performance and now I’m just tired. Nap a bit beside and old rock wall where some kid threw a skateboard with three wheels and a torn up dog collar. I hug the thing while I sleep. Gives me a measure of comfort which you wouldn’t expect but that’s me, I guess.

By the time sun sets I’m home. A well meaning member of the local constabulary has brought me here. Whole ride in silence but with the haunted feeling we’d done it before only I have no idea of his name. Seems like a nice kid and so I just keep my mouth shut. Grateful he never mentions the smell. Drives off without a word never thinking to see if I have a key to the place. Which I don’t.

No matter. The wood shed is unlocked and there’s a bottle or two squirreled in the eaves. Short while I’ve got a proper back woods bonfire roaring. Sparks rise up to the neverending stretch of stars and dark, slowly turning above me. Vast. Uncaring. Without judgement or expectation.

A man with a bottle. Rocking and swaying.

Staring into the fire.

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Count No Mortal

September 21, 2012

I’ve never been the sunniest of characters.

Entering into a discussion about the quest for personal human happiness, I felt the need to unknowingly quote Oedipus Rex.

“Count no mortal happy till he has passed the final limit of his life secure from pain.”

Of course, as a youth, I used to read Greek tragedies for fun. Willaim Faulkner, as well. I was that sort of kid. I still am. I find beauty in what others would consider excessively gloomy music, films of a decidedly twisted bent, art with a darkened perspective. Hell, I even enjoy my comedy black. It all appeals to me, at my very core, exploration and expression of those murky, even unpleasant, elements we find without and within in what I can only describe as an insane world.

There are reasons for it, most likely, as I explained further in the conversation.

“I’m probably the wrong person to even discuss this with, given a lifelong predisposition toward pessimism. Unfortunately, I learned at a young age some harsh lessons about the darker aspects of human nature, the different forms of human suffering, great and small. I think real happiness is very rare. I can’t think of anyone in my immediate life I can describe as having found it. Show me a truly happy person and I’ll show you 10,000 born into horrific, hopeless misery. We are, in so many ways, an ugly, ugly species.

So what do you do? I used to think creative fulfillment was the key to happiness, but the road is littered with successful artists and writers for whom that was no answer, either. Basically, my philosophy is to try and enjoy whatever happy moments you can engineer, however brief or otherwise. Because they seem to always be balanced by a measure of difficulty, stress and sadness. Savor the good things as best you can because it’s always possible the next nightmare is right around the corner.

Oh, look. Here it comes now.”

It really is the way I feel. I don’t see a lot of genuine human happiness or even the possibility of it in the average lifespan. There’s too much burden, too much suffering, to much horrific muck we have to shovel day in and day out. A state of true enlightened happiness seems the stuff of pure fantasy to me. I’m serious in my contention you need to take the time to savor those moments of peace or joy when you can create or stumble upon them. They can be all too rare.

So, is this morbid self-determinism? Have I created the darkness inside and around me simply because I believe it exists? My own pessimism making itself all too real? Perhaps.

Or perhaps is it just an unpleasant form of realism. A sickening inability to completely turn a blind eye to the daily cavalcade of disturbing news stories we’re inundated with, the problems and stresses breaking the minds and backs of the majority of people around us in everyday life, the slow march to nowhere we all seem to be on, spinning about on a planet we’ve all but ruined with our very presence. Our. Stupid. Pointless. Existence.

Then again, maybe I’m just having a bad day. It happens. Either way, I’ve got to go. Honey Boo-Boo is on and I can’t bear to miss it.

Told you I like it dark.

Swamp Thing

May 19, 2012

swamp thing

Hiking the Blue Hills today and an obviously insane, mutant alien hybrid swamp creature came flailing out of the underbrush at us. Just a complete muck horror, all wild limbs, tentacles and arms, two heads and an undebatable desire to consume human flesh.

I fended the slimy fucker off with little more than a blackthorn shillelagh , an issue of Locke & Key and an adopted greyhound named Soup. Sent the dirty thing back to whatever dark, fornicating den of fetid extraterrestrial filth it originated from. Scary moment, for sure, but what do I live for if not the occasional encounter with the yawning maw of certain, screaming death.

Had a coconut ice cream at Crescent Ridge Dairy afterwards that was the shit-you-not best I ever tasted. And I’ve tried coconut flavors from everywhere from Venice, Italy to Mexico, Maine.

The. Best.

Then I remembered. Alec Holland is dead. And I never was Alec Holland. Just a tangle of mossy swamp weeds that thought it was Alec Holland. I’m saying I’m a monster who dreamed he was a man but now the dream is over and the monster is awake.

Everything’s Gone Green.

Rage of the Screaming Fire Demon

May 14, 2012

fire demon

I may have mentioned this before but the lands just Northwest of the Compound’s borders are rumored to contain an ancient Native American burial ground. It just so happens that that is the same area of my land best suited to what we sometimes call the Bad Craziness Bonfire.

If you hike out northwards from the Compound and slowly head west before you reach the edges of Bear Brook State Park, you can climb a small ridge that, when you crest it, reveals what looks like a crater in the side of the hills where, some tell me, a meteorite smacked into the rocky New Hampshire soil one All Hallows Eve in the early twenties. Killed about 17 nudists and left one hell of a snazzy impression in the rolling landscape that I, for one, am happy to take advantage of. The upper eastern rim is a great spot to chill out and look out over the ponds and the river to the sun setting over the distant hills of Dunbarton and Weare. Nice spot to relax and burn shit.

With that in mind, while I’m landscaping a proper woodland hangout up there, I like to pile up all the old brush and deadwood I can into a big mound and, when it’s big enough, invite a handful of the local ne’er do wells and light the fucker. It’s a BYOB event and, if you know the right people, you can get past security and guarantee yourself one hell of a night. Put it this way, you’ll see the sunset and the following dawn and, in between, the sort of blazing party that would terrorize the fuck out of anyone present during the fall of Saigon.

The main concern is, of course, accelerant. 5 gallons of gasoline, all the used motor oil we can get our hands on form the local farms, that half-can of gunpowder from the 4th and a backpack full of defective fireworks bought cheap. Propane torches, lighter fluid, 4 months worth of the Times and Globe and an issue or two of Barely Legal. Seven finely dried Christmas trees, a seven foot stack of old pallets and that case of Duraflame logs that fell off that truck in Londonderry two weeks ago.

To start.

Pile it high. Light the damn thing. Back. The. Fuck. Up.

It’s a good time, I think. Never heard anyone really complain. Even Dabney Chigger, a Pharmacist fired from over seventeen CVS and Walgreens’ in four states, who was almost wrestled into the coals by Chad Greenlough’s epileptic Russian bride that night in ’09 when we had that pipe bomb making contest. Bernie Dillinger once burned all the hair off his own genitals with a hairspray flamethrower and he was still laughing about it three days later in the infirmary.

Not much holds a candle to what happened Saturday night however. Maybe it was Sketch Lowrie’s moonshine or maybe it was the presence of Pete Nickelsson, last living descendant of a supposedly cursed Maine logging family, on the grounds. Maybe it was the fresh blood we spilled when Cal Deeter said “fuck it” and had his brother Ernesto do an impromptu wisdom tooth extraction on scene with nothing more than a six inch multi-tool and a butter knife. I don’t know for sure. All I know is things got weird fast.

The fire went up with the kind of whooshing roar you’d more expect at a Shuttle launch and the damned flame was forty feet high before the glass from the molotov cocktail even settled in the kindling. Six or eight of us lost eyebrows right off the bat and Linda Deuterrie went spinning down the embankment slapping at her North Face like it was riddled with bees. Glen Johnson was screaming but it’s possible he’d been doing that for hours, I don’t know. Never really got over the lukewarm reception to Ovations, I don’t think.

Then we saw it. Stig Marmoset’s face was scarlet and stretched out in horror as his arms flailed and waived and I looked up above the fire and saw it, a raging, screaming demon of pure flame come to burn us all in terrible judgement. A wave of air pressure like a giant slamming you backwards and the sound of a thousand screaming guitars on feedback and we all fell to the ground, dead eyes raised to the towering flames like the mortal doomed that we truly are.

And then it was gone.

After a good twenty minutes of wordless quiet and only the steadily softening crackle of the fire as it died down to less apocalyptic levels, I suggested we maybe move up the start of the after party and drinks were on me down at Pasties. Most folks agreed, nodding their still smoldering heads slowly. We’d just got Last Call From The Seventh Circle and we knew it.

Anyway. Checked back in at the spot this morning and it was no worse for wear. Spotted a couple aging, dried out pines that need to be put to rest. Think I know just where to drop them. Start building a new brush pile.

I’ll let you know when it’s ready.

MacReady

May 5, 2012

macready thing

I am the Thing.

Covered in orange rocks and as strong as the Hulk? Nyet.

I dunno. Everything has gone green and I’ve gone Mac. iPad, iPhone, iMac. Sometimes all going at the same damned time, each displaying differnt apps/programs/windows. iBooks, iTunes, iPsychotic Break.

Someone needs to take me out into the snowstorm and set me on fire.

Inbox: Warren Ellis

April 20, 2012

warren ellis

If you’re like me, you enjoy a daily dose of Warren Ellis. Beyond the prolific writings that you will find in various comic books and, now, novels, he maintains a pretty intense presence on the more ethereal methods of communication, be it his site, his tumblr notebook, twitter. Even does a podcast, Spektermodule. He’s on instagram and This Is My Jam. It’s fucking endless. Where he finds the time and energy for it all, along with regular visits from Doctor Whiskey, is beyond me.

Well, now, to make it easier for those of us of a slightly lazier bent, Warren will come right to your inbox with his new newsletter, entitled, as you can see, Machine Vision. Think of it. Weekly deliveries of the delicious dark sickness oozing forth from the WE mind, found contaminating your own private devices. Insidiously wonderful, I know.

I highly recommend you sign up for it right here.

Bigfoot Is Blurry

April 6, 2012

The genius of Mitch Hedberg was not just that he was funny as shit. His slanted observations of life that can, at times, seem so surreal always have a nugget of truth in them that we recognize. Thus, the reason we laugh so hard at/with him.

A good example:

“I bought a doughnut and they gave me a receipt for the doughtnut… I don’t need a receipt for the doughnut. I give you money and you give me the doughnut, end of transaction. We don’t need to bring ink and paper into this. I can’t imagine a scenario that I would have to prove that I bought a doughnut. To some skeptical friend, ‘Don’t even act like I didn’t get that doughnut, I’ve got the documentation right here… It’s in my file at home. …Under “D”.’”

And the proof.

mitch hedberg

Seriously? The thing’s about a mile long. There have been Supreme Court rulings that didn’t contain as must text and information as this.

    Please note that, on April Fourth Two Thousand and Twelve at Seven Forty One in the Morning, Order Number twenty Nine was, in fact, placed. Billy R., in the course of transaction Sequence NUmber 1932029 on Register 5 in Dunkin Donuts Store Number 332998 has recorded that one Hot Coffee Large Original Blend Regular Cream and Sugar was order through the drive through station and…

It’s insane.

Why are most of the funniest, most essential people comedy has given us dead? Bill Hicks, Hedberg. Andy Kaufman, George Carlin. Dave Attell is still alive but, jesus, he doesn’t look so good, does he?

Joanna Marlowe?

September 18, 2011

joanna marlowe

“Um. Who wants to know?”

John Bolton, Epic Illustrated Number Eighteen.

Black Mold Madness

May 31, 2011

So I spent the entire Memorial Day weekend helping someone with a remodel of an old home. Three straight days of hard work in 90 degree heat and 90 per cent humidity was enough to taint my mood but then, on the Holiday itself, there came the task of ripping up 40 year-old orange and brown shag carpet from a “finished basement”. Well, if the smell alone down there hadn’t already convinced me there was something unpleasantly wrong with the situation the sight of giant swaths of black fungus underneath the carpet and all through the foam cushion was the fucking alarm bell ringing confirmation.

Mold. Black Mold. Shitloads.

I was horrified, of course, that we had been breathing the corrupted air in there for three days. I knew full well the possible damage that stuff can do to a person. From the short term effects like headaches, congestion and rash to the long term effects like permanent neurological damage.

Then I realized an even more horrifying truth.

This is how zombies are created.

I know it. This is how it starts. The fungus gets inside you and the next thing you know you’re searching recipe sites for “how to cook human brains”.

I just have a bad feeling about this. I’m worried that later tonight I’m going to be crawling through my neighbors windows, a viscous black ooze leaking out of my nostrils and ears and mouth, face ravaged by rot and a rancid black mold actively growing out of every bodily orifice. I’m coming to eat your babies, people, but it’s not my fault I swear. I’m probably going to crack open your skulls with a table leg to gnaw on your gray matter. I’m might even chew off your grandmother’s tits. I don’t know! I might!

This is horrible. I never wanted to be a zombie at all, I swear. Let alone a baby eating, grandmother defiling Black Mold Zombie From Hell.

This is what I get for helping people. From now on I’m staying in my Zombie Proof Bunker. I have soup. I have grain alcohol. I have porn.

Who needs brains anyway?

Space Is Gonna Do Me Good

May 3, 2011

frank black pixies

This man is a hero of mine.

What does that say about me? Well, I don’t count too many people in that category. I don’t like the term “idol” very much and the notion of any sort of worship whatsoever makes me cringe.

However, there are certain folks I just admire. I like what they do and, more so, I like the way they do it. Amongst that fairly short list of writers and artists of various sorts is a type of person with a rare glint in their eye. Something teetering right on the edge of a particular type of madness; particular meaning their very own brand. Impossible to ape, sometimes impossible to even understand. These are folks who not only don’t run with the herd, they can’t even see the dust from the herd on the hazy horizon. They walk alone on a distant world and we are mere observers of theirs with occasional interaction and appreciation of their arts.

Frank Black is one of those folks. So was Andy Kaufman. Hunter Thompson. Alan Moore. Michael Allen. Graham Chapman.

There are others I could name but they belong on a different list, I think. For whatever reason, they possess varying degrees of humanity and a vision more easily understood. Douglas Adams and Bill Hicks, both geniuses I adore, were trying to get us to see our own world more clearly rather than open a window into an entire other one. Same for many others, in a myriad of different ways, of course.

But it’s the crazy ones I love the most. Stark personalities so unlike anyone or anything you’ve experienced. Fiery beacons of intelligence and individuality who walk amongst us without a care as to what anyone might think of them.

Brackish boys.