Times are hard. Words are hard. No, this is not some politic. These are words while sipping green tea in the air conditioning of a wi-fied Panera. So… not all that hard. It is also Father’s Day, but I am not a father and not paying it any mind. Though I paid my dad a call and we chatted a bit before going into town for lunch, groceries, and a place to sit. Unfortunately, we don’t know the area well enough yet and could not find a coffee shop open with wi-fi, so we headed back south, and here we are, close to home and at each other’s throats with the irritability but not so bad that any blood is on the table.

I have decided that beer drinking is not for me. Makes me all bloated and coughing. There’s that, then the fact that beer is fucking nasty and has no redeemable qualities – outside of the mind altering state the alcohol creates. I must note that I quite enjoy the stumbling and slurred speech; it’s an interesting feeling. In my thirty-second year I finally douse my brain in the suds… Now onto various other starter drugs, like lsd and crack.

Next, Atlantic City, Las Vegas, the brothels!

Save money.

. . .

Bukowski died in 1994. I read some of his last poems, the ones he kicked out in ’93 and it was some sad, intense stuff. It all conveyed that he just didn’t really give a shit any more what people thought of him and he was entirely comfortable with what he was doing as a writer. And though he often felt like a little boy, the ravages of old age and disease swept through and knocked him out of the game. He admitted humiliation. Someone could say, “I liked his earlier stuff better. He sort of lost it in the end.”

But damn, this is someone’s life here.

It all has relevance and flow and style.

All the stuff I wrote in the beginning I think will go down as my worst. I’d like to think everything in the end will be my best. Maybe it just doesn’t work out that way, that the writing is a product of the environment and you just hope for “good timing.” It’s probably that the best stuff comes out when a writer isn’t trying so hard, but is rather more interested, more in love with the process itself.

But yeah, reading Bukowski poems on a lonesome night does the trick. Go and read 30-40 poems straight through.

. . .

Here is where I talk more about TV and junk. The second season of Deadwood is over. I hesitate to say this is my favorite show of all time, since I hold Millennium way up there, and other greats such as Sopranos, Six Feet Under, The Wire, Buffy, Angel, etc., having all kicked out phenomenal episodes and story arcs, but damn… Deadwood is fucking incredible. And at times, way over my head. I still do not understand all the little politics and business dealings of the camp, but find it all so fascinating.

Anyway, now that some of these shows have gone off the air, the summer line-up begins. Of note, The 4400 and The Inside. The 4400 seems kind of a X-Files knock-off and is decent enough, just not overwhelmingly so. The Inside, however, has a better shot. Maybe this is because it’s a project of Angel/Firefly writer, Tim Minear. LA FBI investigators run about solving crimes in a very CSI or 1996 season one Millennium kind of way. Tell me if I’m wrong, but I swore I even caught some Millennium sound bites. And so this sort of pisses me off when the show is compared to something else and credit is not given. This show will probably be shot down by Fox halfway through the season anyway, bastards that they are.

Floating around on the internet is the pilot of Warren Ellis’ Global Frequency, originally a comic about an secret international group working around the clock to counteract major disasters. Well, this is a damn good comic, so I was psyched to get my hands on a copy of this one hour episode. Torrent enthusiasts will find it easily. From what I hear, sounds like the show will not be picked up.

Yes, I am snagging episodes of Big Brother UK. Mindless self-indulgence? You got it! Relax yourself a bit, peer into the lives of 13 strangers, fall asleep. How do I get sucked into this show every year? I swear, I’m not becoming an enormous asshole. I swear, I’m not taking it all very seriously. On that note, bye for now.

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