LOW CRAWLS AND HIGH TIMES

Bush coaches a potential GOP 2008 frontrunner...

I just realized something today: this site is not viewable in Internet Explorer. I tried it on a whim, and the whole site looked ridiculous. All the text was at the bottom of the page, and my paragraph breaks had HTML code in them. The fonts were HUGE.

This is stupid. Really, people...WHY DON'T YOU HAVE MOZILLA FIREFOX?!?!

Come on, now. It's been long enough. Life's too short to use a shitty browser.

Get with the program. Wankers.

My life is strange and arduous enough without the worry of such things.

And speaking of things, and such...

"Larry Lovetooth" wrote today; he's making bite-marks on his arms. His latest manifesto made me laugh a nervous laugh. It borrowed dialogue from The Lion King, and actually contained the phrase, "Bite the belly of love." It also referenced his obsessive interest in eating human flesh, his bitter hatred of religion, and his concerns that he is being electronically poisoned by Illumnati Men In Black. And he meant every single fucking word of it, no less

. "Barry Buggered" sent me an e-mail out of the clear blue, and clearly with the blues. Someone from my former workplace--someone that I barely know--bumped into him, in a place I rarely ever go. She talked with him, despite her hurry, and dispensed to him my e-mail like a prescription from a shrink. I remain forever at a loss as how she remembered my address, or why I came to mind when he said he needed help. Nonetheless, I took the job. He seems lonely; he seems to also have alot of time on his hands--a little too much, if you know what I mean. He obsesses over "God" and "Satan," "good" and "evil," etc. I keep trying to convince him that Absolutism and the extremities of such polarized views and concepts will only drag him down. But then again, he's only 19. I believed the exact same shit when I was his age. When I was his age, I was still a troubled youth minister, leading teens in prayer, while struggling in private with my own view of "the Lord." In retrospect, I was really just too young.

It was 1996 when I first mistepped from grace. I fell flat on my face; but then, I realized I'd fallen forward, even still. In fact, I routinely stumble forthright; I alone manage to fall up flights of stairs, to the flighty stares of all who just fall down. In 1997, I renounced my faith. I still believe in God, though I won't place bets on Heaven; and I dated Hell in 1998. Her name was Angie, by the way; and every minion of the netherrealm slithered through her poison frame like crabs across the callouses of her heavy-traffic snatch. Thank God that I'm not bitter anymore...

Drugs and whores, and dates with death, heresy and blasphemy, hard work and empty pockets, low crawls and high times--these were the things that followed me, like punctuation follows every sentence--or better yet, makes up a part of it. Bitter, sweet, and bittersweet dreams sniffed my ass like a friendly dog--a hellhound bent on following me home. Every hound of hell has cute puppy-dog eyes; and they lick their balls like any mutt, because every force in nature has a vice.

In all my furtive pervert journies, I've sought to be a thousand and one things: a disc jockey, a novelist, a poet, a famous journalist, a womanizing junkie, a music store and bookstore wage-slave, and an armchair/toilet philosopher ranting at other burn-outs in the Labor-Ready line. I never would have thought that something called a "Wash-Up" would smell so bad, or that, contrary to label-name, it would in fact be on a dirt road down. Nevertheless, the furthest thing from mind--apart from sobriety, marriage, and children--was becoming counselor or confidant to anyone; my pastor days are done. I also never pictured these words cropping up like so much Kansas corn: "role-model," or "idol," "mentor," and "best friend"--or worst of all, "big brother." The monkeys on my back have kept my shoulders free from being cried on, for nearly ten long years. But something--perhaps a "funny" angel, or a vindictive God aglow with holy smirks and snickers--SOMETHING strives to keep me in the "pastorship."

Philip K. Dick once said (in VALIS, I believe) that his worst vices were dope, and his attempts to help his friends. For this reason and others, Philip is an idol of mine, a tweaker hero, beatified as a bizarre beat-era saint in my private pantheon. And were he still alive, he would be horrified or mystified, or both. I guess things never change. It's yet another similarity between myself and Dick; we both reject the praise of those who strangely worship us, yet we scramble to their aid at every chance a new day brings us. Maybe it's the dope; but then...it's as I said earlier on: Every force in nature has a vice.

I received a Bizarro-world blast from my past this week. I don't know what to add, apart from that. Perhaps I'll discuss it later on, when time and energy permits. Let's just say the skeletons in my closet have begun to beat the walls with brooms. Voices unheard for ten long years have tracked me down, not one, but quite a few. Synchronicity is proof to me that God knows HTML, and the universe, the world wide web of the divine.

And like my website, it is best viewed in Mozilla Firefox.

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