It's time to initiate VMS08. We've been going strong for 13 years now and sounding better and better. Tomorrow Brian McMahan is bringing in a van load of recording gear from Chicago so all my time will be spent in this low-ceiling basement setting up VMS08 as well as trying to keep up with Dead Child commitments. I'm already behind on three interviews/articles. I ain't complaining-- I haven't had a day job since I was married and on food stamps in '93. In my mind, I'm on Planet Awesome.
Tore the shiners off the morning and licked the decals from their sticky film. A bit of twine to wrap your illness and parcel it off to Costco to be developed. Let's restore our foolishness back to acceptable levels.
Ran into some car trouble so I've been hanging out with pugilists and tow truck operators. One tow truck fella told me about the women that he's fooled around with when he's working. He also told waxed nostalgic about when he first started getting in fights. Some awesome barfight stories. "I'm 6'5" and 240 lbs, you don't wanna mess with me."
In the turmoil of last night everything was up for scrutiny and I began to wonder what became of me. Only after a few hours sleep did it surface that the public eye is no measuring stick for achievement. Though my enemies endlessly wag their tounges behind stages, I am reticent until fully armed.
I spent the evening writing a 2000 word essay on the new Dead Child record for a Louisville weekly. Today we don rain gear to slosh through mud. There were so many jagged limbs deeply impaled in the soggy ground. I collected them all in a burn pile for future altars.
This is what I've been anticipating-- a day where we can't open the front door from the drifts of snow. Relentless like the falling snow, I spent the hours unburying, sliding, revving, and scraping for some yoghurt. Listened to Dissection's 'Storm of the Light's Bane' and suddenly it made perfect sense-- a perfect soundtrack for a blizzard. And an evening for cuddling up to scary movies.
The car went straight into the side of the resevoir. My face bounced off the steering wheel. The accelerator pedal was jammed down so we hit the concrete again. Instictively I wedged my toes under the pedal and pulled it free. "Fuck... Fuck... Fuck..." I muttered. "What'd you say? Of all the luck?" My passenger was into rhyming everything. "Shut up!" I replied. Neither of us were wearing seatbelts so I turned to him and said, "Are you alright?" "Yeah but you're kinda fucked up." I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and my face was bloody and puffed up. "I can't open my door," I said "I'll have to get out on your side."
The terrifying thing about stalkers is that they are irrational. Their heroes inevitably fall short of the ideal and this, alongside their lack of common sense, makes them dangerous. Privacy, if you can afford it, is the illusion of safety.