Where The Hell Do We Go When We Die?

Nazi Germany? Or St. Petersburg, Russia? Or Syberia? Probably not. We’ll go somewhere where there's no pain. It’s somewhere greater than The Great Beyond. There’ll be truth. Trust me. And real fiction from wonderful worlds of make-believe brings us new characters and imagination.

His name is really Peter Cannonball and he died performing a cannonball onto cement. We regret to inform you that poor Peter missed the pool. Let’s say Peter wasn’t Christian and practiced Atheism with his loving family. Does Peter still go to Heaven or Purgatory or Hell?

Probably Heaven not Purgatory nor Hell and the after-world is a mystery. Jesus Christ kinda freaks me out, because he wanted to die (maybe he believed in suicide). Or Jesus God, I believe in it all.

I don’t want to be experiencing Acid Flashback No. 67 in the end. I don’t want the coroner to report bad make-up causing my creepy inevitable death. I don’t want to be dressed in a clown costume. I don't want my final meal to be a plate of the freshest mushrooms from the grocery store. Suddenly I'm imagining myself choking on the biggest, juiciest mushroom.

Shrooms? Aliens? Spaceships? Is that a fucking UFO? I’m coughing badly, sick from this blog and I can hear strange noises coming from outside. I’m looking away from the computer screen and out the window, and now up into the sky. No, it's the giant fucking Moon. And it’s getting bigger, man. It’s a bright, giant Moon, but there’s also darkness. I’m trapped in self-sorrow, self-pity, tripping out -- and there’s a world of wonder to share. Then I mess up my hair and a nose hair is out of place. Then everything just stops -- and everything just freezes slow and beautiful and crazy ugly.

I don’t want anybody to mistake me to be the second cousin of Rob Ford in the end. There will be no mistake about it, everything goes to the Queen when I perish from this brown, ugly world. I’m giving everything I own to Her Majesty. It’s my choice. I don’t have all the answers, but this is not a friendly, vibrant green world. It’s a confusion of colours closer to brown (and the colour of the ugliest sweater in the ugliness of a white winter stuck in the depths of February somewhere in the Yukon). 

A YUKON POEM

From Canada to Cold-FX.

From America to a giant germ,

Genital herpes, a cold sore of the heart

Beyond Skyping your politics

Of Thanksgiving in October

Or Thanksgiving in November

And feeding your bloated head

Like Alice stuck in Wonderland.

Nevermind Nirvana

Never played in the Yukon

Or for sexy teen robots

Now dead

In HTML.

If this is totally off the wall,

Just imagine cold death

From Jefferson Airplane

To Jefferson Starship

Building cities

Of robots in the Yukon

With Courtney Love

Dancing madly

As a GIF.

Is death like sex with a hot robot? Imagine getting stuck in a wire and screwed forever. But maybe there’s something magical about death, like listening to insanely sick beats infused with thrash metal from Anthrax to Megadeth.

Celebrate life before and after death. Celebrate somebody who just changed their last name to October. Imagining Gary October as the creepiest jazz musician playing hits from his unleashed rare version of Autumn Cravings would be cool. Now imagine Gary October playing your funeral ceremony. A month when we least expect it, everything will come to an end. Who knows when we’ll go, but wouldn’t you want to go out to Gary October playing his jazz in a beautiful garden where the flowers never die? Some might call it heavenly, others might think it’s crazy, but have you planned your end? The Doors have their version of The End. Sometimes a show ends or sometimes a course or career or life ends. Sometimes it happens later and not sooner or vice versa. Right now, I’m imagining the sounds of Gary October and it sounds new like nothing I’ve ever heard before, and that’s how I’m imagining death. Death is something new like you’ve never heard and force yourself to hear. It’s nothing to fear, and it’s something you might find cool and play over and over again, because it’s always new and something magical. Death is stupid, but it might be far, far better. Trust me. I’m writing this for The Great Beyond.

Peace.

Treat Me Like A Joke And I'll Leave You Like It's Funny

Whether joking or not, sometimes shit happens and I can't say shit about it. But now, I'm showing my cards to everyone... (and toning it down for the general public). Recent events transpiring made me want to jump as high as the moon, listening to radio at its highest frequency and singing the most intoxicating, foul version of The Dark Side of the Moon when it was over. But I need to start at the beginning. I tightly grasp Naked Lunch with one hand, struggling with plot development, I'm not loving its flatness, but the fine character revelation is something I'm feeling chemistry with. I let go of the book. The buzz fades and it's twisting into a massive headache, as I stand hunched over my suitcase in our room at Hotel Chelsea in historic New York. The epic night of comedy was awesome and there was no time to read. I finish unpacking everything because there wasn't time when we first got to our hotel room two nights ago. Happier than hell after happy hour, I look at the book and then look at my stolen Gotham shot glass. I smile and reflect.

A stream of talented and untalented comedians took the stage at Gotham Comedy Club. One of the comedians was a comedy writer and sucked. My tip to him would be to write a novel people might enjoy reading. Dive deeper than a mixture of Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland and Jack's On The Road. Concoct four climaxes and create a story more exhilarating than sex with a big-titted, tight-assed French prostitute who just landed in Canada after realizing she wanted to save herself and didn't want to lose her virginity in Amsterdam (there's nothing like a prostitute who just passed the immigration process). But it was a good night. I didn't read the night away, but I did learn the process of downing tequila shots at Gotham:

Lick it (salt)

Slam it (tequila)

Suck it (lemon or lime)

There was a wait before the special guest comedian took to the stage. I wasn't praying to Jesus, but I was listening to Kenny Loggins (close enough) when I started ordering a beer. Then the music faded low and I was listening to a beautiful female voice. Juice Newton's Queen of Hearts played and I was swaying my head back and forth and slamming down another bottle of Sam Adams. I needed to keep quiet and keep a low profile and it was almost like my wife needed to wear a Muslim veil to protect her identity. I realized I didn't want to shout the lyrics to "Queen of Hearts" and embarrass myself and draw attention to my Cougars T-shirt. My face turned bright red, but I was confident I wouldn't draw attention to myself. After all, I was nobody and I was still the same nobody looking for nothing in the nothingness of time.

To make a long story short (because I'm not getting paid shit to write this blog), T.J. Miller performed the final act at Gotham Comedy Club, strung out on Manhattan bottled water, he emphasized morality is relative, while I thought time is relative -- and morality just plays a smaller corner piece in the puzzle. I kept my mouth shut and absorbed true comedy realizing I didn't want to be the next Man on the Moon like Andy Kaufman. I wouldn't have to resort to the depths of depravity, because I wasn't starved for attention, and I'd already had a taste of the best of New York (especially after fine dining at Ristorante Rafele and Giovanni Rana Pastificio & Cucina).