Celebrating Misery And The EU

Stairway To Heaven

Are you suffering from Led poisoning? Get the goddamn Led out of your ears and focus on the truth in media. Why do we want to hear about unhappiness? We want to hear Stairway To Hell in a heavy metal jam. You want to learn about my feelings of great distress and discomfort of mind and body. From territorial pissings to when I'm going to climb that stairway to heaven and sing about misery a final time. I can almost hear the organ now.

MISERY’S SONG

You’ve heard a song

     that’s had a struggle before,

     where twinges meet to adore

an admirer or half-

     faced rock star in a cloud

     of smoke. Yodel louder

than that melody

     within her soul -- tormented in

     anguish from lies and sin,

as lovers cross a corner

     of time like rubber-stamps 

     of harlots and tramps

that play a painful piece

     in rump-fed hearts to go

     or follow. Winds will blow

with me as I travel

     to it; a slow under-

     current as they were

   

in waves to throngs of folk

     gone fly-bitten to the ground

     where sounds do pound

like euphoria! What concert

     went astray in sadness

     to bring a heart-filled bliss?

The rolling thunder goes

     gaily, the listeners join free

     to pass in mirth of glee

from a paradox. A fool

     went through just yesterday

     to hear the dreary music play!

Misery brings joy. The Raptors suck, but the Cavaliers rock. I want to go back to Cleveland to see the Indians play at Progressive Field. I want to hear the blues when I think about Cleveland. It's been a long time since the Indians won the World Series. It's been a long time since Indians won anything. Lately, I've been thinking about how to make sports better. Las Vegas needs a hockey team. There needs to be another Indian team to help the Blackhawks. Professional wrestling needs to play a bigger role in Bollywood. Let's face it, wrestling is not on the map like it was years ago. Bollywood needs to embrace old-school wrestling. There needs to be a Bollywood Hogan of wrestling to start a new era in sports entertainment. How can Western Culture better embrace Indians? Start by celebrating Ramadan and misery. Ramadan is a time for reflection, giving, and being truly charitable.

1. Refrain from consuming food until after midnight
2. Refrain from a cold beer until after midnight
3. Refrain from smoking until after midnight
4. Refrain from sex until after midnight
5. No sinful behaviour that may negate the reward of fasting
6. No listening to WOW 87.7 
7. No listening to WRICH 109.9 
8. No listening to AM 2200 
9. Don't wrestle until after Ramadan
10. Don't insult Catholics until after Ramadan
11. No opening Doors or listening to Jim Morrison

Vive la France. Euro 2016 is here and my eyes shift to Britain. For a long time, we had a Game of Thrones in Europe. They couldn’t get along and there were border wars and then we created something called the European Union. And it’s grown to be a huge market in many countries. Europe was starting to compete on a global scale and now Britain is going to decide whether they stay or leave the European Union. Some people might not think it’s a big deal, but it is. Start on the business side, twenty percent of our exports go to the European Union. We want a healthy EU because it’s good for us. Oscar Wilde once said “Britain has 42 religions and two sauces.” Right? It’s not a place of passion. But you cannot believe the passionate divide, and it is too close to call on whether they’ll be division. A lot of people are saying let’s have Britain just be Britain. That's great, but therein lies the debate. It’s important to you because if for some reason the EU falls apart, we are going to have to spend a lot more money, a lot more treasure, time and maybe some of our blood to try to put Europe back together. If the EU holds together, it’s good for us economically. It’s bloody good for us, because if they hold together, armies can mobilize on other parts of the planet. It relates to us and we need to join in celebrating Europe's utter misery.

Long Live Misery

All The World's A Stage Of Consciousness

My consciousness scares me. This is heaven, not hell. This is opening The Doors and finding me listening to a religious experience happening every Sunday in the church of my basement. But there's a beginning and end to everything. He rises again.

Fare Thee Well: Celebrating The Grateful Dead was a series of concerts, but never say goodbye if you still want to try. Reincarnated in my basement, I don't want to try and I'm waiting for the end of The End. I'm listening to blessed Jim, and The Second Coming gives me new life. I turn out the lights in the basement and hear my heartbeat as the music rudely stops. Finally. Skedaddles everywhere. Just the pussycat as a screensaver on the computer and it's on the chair. I throw her off the chair and Iook around, but there's nothing but darkness in a cold, dark basement. Who's really watching Sin City on Netflix?

The Basement

I close the door to the basement and exit the house. It's just after eleven at night and I'm heading to the nearby woods. The forest is quiet. My skin is cold. There is darkness everywhere. There is just utter darkness and I'm thinking I'm miles away from the laptop and cat. I look up at the stars. We're going to be landing on Mars in eleven years and we're going to have driverless cars in twenty-two years. Everyone will be reading instead of watching TV. It's going to look a lot different. I sleep under the stars and when the sun comes up, I'm a day older and praying to Jim Morrison from a new religion and a new era of time where there are no doors and everything is wide open to anyone who can read. Who's actually reading books or hearing a story?

Credit Valley Footpath

be·yond

bēˈänd/

preposition & adverb

1. 1.

   at or to the further side of.

   "he pointed to a spot beyond the trees"

   synonyms:

   on the far side of, on the other side of, further away than, behind, past, after

After normally goes before a noun, like after midnight when I stayed up all night and all day writing and revising because of my passion. And there's no replacing feeling good. Sometimes a mean piss just feels so good. 

Do You Know How Much A Gorilla Is Worth?

Too Not Good To Believe

But this is not time for change. I don't want this to fool you, so I’m warning you that this blog would be better if I was fully conscious and if I was writing from the perspective of a gorilla. If I was a gorilla, I would be blogging from the top of the Empire State Building in 3-D. I want to set up a Gorilla Academy as the last new school available to mankind.

Speaking Gorilla

This phrase stemmed from a period when the American legendary wrestler and great commentator, Gorilla Monsoon, spent time working in the city of Bern, Switzerland at a Cuckoo Clock repair shop. The clockmaker would insist on cleaning the face of the clock after the necessary adjustments had been made. On the point of sale with a receipt in the hand of a customer about to exit, Gorilla popped up from the workshop, located at the back of the store, and declared: “He just got his clock cleaned!” It was charming at first, but Gorilla did it every time with every customer after that, and soon it began to tire and he was fired from the job and banned from Switzerland. Whenever I’m asleep, it’s like I’ve been punched out by a gorilla in the middle of a monsoon. The more you learn about the dignity of the gorilla, the more you want to avoid people. For some reason, lately, all of my dark thoughts are with axes.

It’s like I’m drugged out of my mind, but my head feels lighter than a cloud of alcoholic vapor. Turning onto the other side of the pillow, I wake up still drunk. The alarm goes off and it’s the sound of a soothing jungle, but something seems a bit wrong and everything doesn’t quite add up. I’m confused and laughing at my mistakes. Dreading going to work without taking a shower all weekend, I’m feeling the static electricity pulling at my hair, causing it to stand up. Everything seems crazy and it’s even more weird that my dreams are becoming real. Quickly, I grab a pen and paper and write at a time where I’m feeling sheer panic and I’m at the height of paranoia. Popping a few bedside pills, I write more and feel relaxed in the darkness of thoughts.

I put down my writing devices and check my phone. My phone has pictures of trees from The Enchanted Forest. As I check my Facebook profile, there are links to the Hole problem. I check iTunes and my playlist is everything Nirvana and the Hole dark romance. The ape truth.

The Hole Problem In A Nutshell

I’m stuck in the 90s but Home Improvement is real and no longer a show on TV (my wife called to have renovations done to the bedroom bathroom). As I turn on the TV, the enlarged picture of a dead gorilla is staring me in the face. Kurt Cobain’s suicide is not being reported from Seattle. 

(But The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air is still a funky fresh flashback. The morning news is live from a zoo in Ohio. But why do I care about a fucking dead gorilla? And why am I scared I won't be able to afford banana bread when I'm free to write about the jungle of life? The lost banana?)

I’m bad axe throwing every Saturday and convinced I need to take the sharp axe to the talking tree in The Enchanted Forest on the edge of reality. I’m reading The Legend Of The Wicked Path while passing out staring at a can of Coke beside the night table of the bed. My head falls backward onto a pillow. I close my eyes and want to take an axe to the forest and chop down the talking tree from my fucked up flashbacks. Running faster and faster, sweat is running down my forehead. I’m madder than a gorilla with a sharp axe, but without bananas and fearing death from the animal response team. I’m looking behind me and see nobody. I’m alone in my dreams. I look up and see the tree that’s been talking to me. I hear voices, but the animal response team probably think I’m causing a riot on the golf course. Just because Hunter S. Thompson would golf on acid doesn’t mean I enjoy hacking. I fooled the animal response team. My eyes open; now I hear the sound of a ringtone. It’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and With A Little Help From My Friends. I’m listening to a high-pitched radio frequency in my mind with nobody around. I grab my phone, playing fucked up Beatles music, and I throw my phone against the wall. It smashes and the music stops and there's nothing but the legendary silence of darkness.

Unpublished on most planets