Yesterday, I got called an "asshole", a "prick", a "dick", that I "have no soul", that I'm "insulting", that I'm a "fucking idiot", that if I don't "get Prince", then I "don't understand anything about music." Seriously? I have no soul because I don't find this self-righteous little weasel, this arrogant man-child who strutted around with an accessory cane, who, I'm sorry, simply had nothing interesting to say whatso-fucking-ever in his entire fucking life, not a single line of any song that tapped into anything that ever came close to even resembling the ethereal or could even reflect the mere pedestrian level of beauty this world has to offer, as inspiring and as fascinating as you do? A message-less messiah, sticking his tight little ass out like a cat in heat and then having the audacity to preach to others the platitudes of God. I mean, I really wouldn't give a shit, and the man certainly deserves some sort of place in music, but then the little lollipop sucking motherfucker accidentally kills himself and all I see are posts and rants by friends claiming him to be the most important, most creative ARTIST of our time, a visionary, a genius etc,...? Jesus Christ, it makes me fucking sick! How the hell am I supposed to refrain from responding? Once again, you people were bamboozled by a substance-less talent, drugged by a desperate, fame driven concoction of ingredients distilled from the lowest hanging fruit. Why not just go to Giggles and buy a big, fat, veiny dildo and marvel at that? Seriously, what the hell's the difference? His storytelling was some of the most juvenile I've ever heard in song. And if you don't believe me, go read the godawful fucking lyrics yourself. Yes, Colin Cheyne, lyrics aren't everything. The composition of the sound of the instruments is equally important (and I think you're a masterful, highly creative, musician). But if you put 'em in, then you've put 'em in, and you've now put your ass on the line. You're showing what you're made of, what you believe in, what consumes your rotten mind, and just what you've gathered up along this muddy, twisted, beaten up old road called "life". So go ahead, put a goddamn raspberry beret on your fucking head and hop in your little asshole red Corvette and drive that fucking thing like its 19fucking99 in the goddamn purple fucking rain while the doves cry and that psychopath, diseased ridden cunt, Nikki, who probably gave Prince AIDS, masturbates beside you to a goddamn magazine. I'll be listening to John Prine.

THE KITTENS We could barely make ‘em out. But they were there alright. Five little blobs at the bottom of a murky pool. That’s all they were. A big C-5 roared overhead, and a blast of hot wind came along and made us fight for our footing. The ripples finally disappeared, and Scott said with a scared, frail voice, “Why would they do that?” “I don’t know,” I said. And we knew exactly who did it. Everyone did. But you wouldn’t dare say a fucking word. No one in their right mind would. You’d be fucked for good. Not even my brother would’ve been able to save me. A few hours later, I was sitting at the dinner table. My mother was back from the hospital. She looked like hell. A big blue network of veins throbbed across her temple. “So what’d you do today, Philby?” she asked as her trembling hand reached for the salad bowl. She still had her hospital band on. “Philby?” she said again. I was staring at our two dogs, breathing against the window, fogging the glass. It was only then that I was able to piece together exactly what had happened to those poor little kittens, what had to have taken place for them to wind up at the bottom of that pool. They were probably laughing while they did it. Someone had to have gone and gotten the duck tape. These were star athletes, giants of football and wrestling, the envy of us all, the prime focus of desire for all the girls. What were the sounds like of those kittens? Did that not even bother them? “PHILBY!” yelled my father. “Huh?” “Your mother asked you a question!” I turned and looked at her. She had a strange look on her face. It was her smile. Her lips looked like they were about to crack apart. And her entire head seemed to bobble to her pulse. “How was your day? What did you do?” “Nothing,” I said. “Oh, you must’ve done something?” “Not really. I just hung out with Scott.”

DAILY CONFESSIONS (And please feel free to join in on the fun, folks!) I once got caught by a roommate somewhere while I was walking around the apartment, saying, "Pussy! Pussy!... Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!" Over and over again. We nearly bumped into each other in the hallway. I thought I was all alone but he had been in the bathroom. "What are you DOING?" he asked. "I don't know," I said. And I didn't. I STILL don't know why I do that whenever I do it, whenever that sort of madness takes over me. Wait, that's right! It was Miami. I was in Miami.

DAILY CONFESSIONS I know everyone's tired of hearing about my little hernia operation from a while back, but I gotta say, it was truly the single most enjoyable event that has happened to me in my entire life. It was more relaxing than my private suit in that posh hotel in the mountains of Venezuela. I probably ordered $500 worth of room service my day off. I spotted monkeys and colorful birds in the trees while I sipped wine in my hot tub on my private deck. It was better than dining with that sweet family on their ancient little farm in the rocky, rolling hills of Italy. I swear, that little boy looked EXACTLY like Gordy does now. But I guess it did get pretty uncomfortable when the man's buck toothed wife started rubbing my thigh under the big, wooden table. I tell ya, it was better than Paris, better than the Caribbean. I've never topped out on a climb feeling more victorious and alive. I've never painted a painting or made an art piece or written a mass of words that could ever come close to that sort of glorious satisfaction. I think I'll do real good when the time finally arrives that this world decides to take my stupid body back. I always knew I had some sort of calling, some sort of gift.

WHEN

When it's the parked cars that move, and the noisy traffic is like the stillness of a frozen river. Your rotten mind now hollow, a woodwind intstrument to entertain the gods.

DRIVING GORDY TO SLEEP

I was saddened by the sight of an old woman sitting peacefully on her big wrap around porch. A white haired, frail old thing with her hands clasped in front of her, just looking around at it all. It took me by surprise. I had to fight it back. I even let out a little whimper. This is pretty much how I've been lately. I whipped the car around a curve and the bag of groceries fell over on the floor. "GODDAMNIT!" I yelled. "GODDAMNIT!" yelled Gordy. "No, buddy, we don't say that. That's a bad word." "YOU'RE a bad word, Daddy!" He screamed back, kicking his feet against the back of the seat. We passed something dead on the road. A pile of congealed blood like jelly, something somewhat like a face amongst the brown and white fur. Then Gordy started in on his cute little game: "Do you know about fire trucks, Daddy?" "I do!" I told him. "Close your eyes, buddy." "Do you know about cement mixers, Daddy?" "Uh huh." "Do you know about Lightenin' McQueen, Daddy?" "Yeah, I do. Do you?" "N-yes, I do... Do you know about Mater, Daddy?" "Shhhh. Go to sleep, big guy." I watched him take a big long yawn in the mirror. A minute or so later we dropped down and rolled into the parking lot of the park by the river. I cracked a window. A freight train was roaring loud and heavy down the tracks across the water. I kept the engine running and I turned around to look at him. My little guy dressed in all blue was snoring. His head was cocked to the left. His perfect red lips, his ridiculous mop of curly blond hair, his little hands, his everything perfectly still, resting. Outside, the trees were swaying. Clouds were racing in, dark and angry. I thought about my father, my favorite asshole Republican. When would I get to see him again? I need to be near him. Or any of my family? Something was happening, something big. It was certainly happening to me. But I have given up on trying to understand myself. I have given up on a lot of things lately. And it's sad, yes. And humiliating. But while I was sitting here, I hadn't really noticed the birds. They were wild, man, loud as hell. They all seemed to be fucking with each other, darting around after one another in crazy directions like little kids playing tag. A crew was busy renovating a house up on the hill. They were really gettin' after it with their nail guns. The whole world was getting after it. More and more and more and more. What the hell, man? What the fuck are we doing all of this for? How much more more will ever be enough? You know, I had never had surgery before, and I will admit here and now that being "under" was the most perfect time I've ever spent alive on planet Earth. Should I feel guilty about that? I don't know. I don't know much of anything anymore. At this moment as I'm typing these words into my phone, Gordy is starting to toss around a bit. Soon he'll be awake and all hell's probably gonna break loose. Or maybe not? You never know with that guy. A couple just got out of their car with their dog. A big black bear of a thing. A well loved, well cared for, well behaved, pet. And now a big goofy goose goes barreling through the air above us all, literally honking. I laughed out loud: "Haha! Look at that fucker!" "Daddy!" said Gordy. "Hey! Did you have a good sleepy?" "Daddy, do you know about Star Wars, Daddy?" I put the car in reverse as I smiled at him in the mirror. "Yeah, I do," I told him, rolling us back, "Do YOU know about Star Wars, Gordy?" "N-yes. I do.... Do you know about...."

"Invoking posterity is like giving speeches to worms." -Ferdinand Celine, one of the most miserable humans to ever walk the earth, and my hero.