So I got back from Ithaca, New York on Tuesday of last week, after having a blast and meeting lots of cool, interesting people. I can see why my lady misses it out there. She spent her college years there and has many awesome stories. Her friends were all very nice to me and I felt as if I were around people I already knew, even though I'd only just met them.
The scenery was beautiful and the air was clean, something I never thought I'd say about ANY part of New York. Nonetheless, Ithaca, to quote Jessie, is "its own entity altogether". I went to wineries and tasted some of the best nectars I ever had, which was a first. I've been to dozens of beer-tastings at breweries, but never got around to seeing a vineyard. We visited some of the local haunts and bars Jessie used to frequent, went to some of the best vegetarian restaurants I have been to, we saw an awesome old cemetery and a beautiful waterfall, and stayed in a nice, schmoozy hotel. We didn't waste any time and took in all we could in our brief stay. We hung out with alot of people who had similar interests to mine and had lots of great conversation. Thank you, generous hosts, I will definitely be visiting again. It is indeed a good thing I came home rested...
When we got back, we crashed at Jessie's. In the morning, I called the vet's office, where my two Siamese were boarding for our trip, and I was informed that Hugo, my cat presumed to be a boy, was actually a girl. How I managed not to figure this out in two years of ownership is beyond me, save to say my powers of observation ain't all they're cracked up to be. Totally stunned and taken aback by this news, I immediately began reviewing a list of possible 'girl' names for my cat. I settled on "Koyomi", another name from the same Manga I ripped Hugo and Alita's handles from (anyone a fan of Yukito Kishiro?), but Hugo seemed so familiar with her 'boy' name that we kind of stuck with it. After all, 'Koyomi' is kind of a mouthful compared to 'Hugo'.
Well, Hugo, as it was, happened to be on a serious regimen of harsh prescriptions for a month or so before we boarded her. She had developed a severe case of renal failure and was very lethargic, with white crud in the corners of her eyes when we first took her in. The vet had me injecting this little grey cat twice a day with a sodium chloride I.V. solution plus a battery of oral meds, eye meds and supplements. I was very much on top of the routine, being sure not to miss a single dosage, while my poor little kitty put up with it all, and she was actually doing much better before we left for vacation.
Two days after we got Hugo back, she began relapsing. BAD. Once again, she was lethargic, immobile and very limp. She was throwing up and pooping outside her box, and it didn't take a vet to tell me this cat was pretty much dying. Jessie and I took Hugo into bed with us, rested her head on the pillow between us, and she stayed with us all night, something she would never do, were she able to move. I woke up throughout the night to see Hugo looking right at me, and I braced myself for what I already knew was coming soon.
The next day was as awful as you can imagine. I put my frail, motionless little sickly cat in her carrier and walked over to the vet. I tried to assure myself this was only a setback, and whatever I had to spend, however much I had to do, I was keeping this cat alive.
Of course, the vet did not give me any assurances. She looked like she was already dead when I took her out of the carrier. I left her with them, thinking maybe they could do something for the time being. They, of course told me they'd do all they could, which, I am sure they did. I went home expecting the worst and, well, such expectations are rarely let down.
They called some hours later to tell me they were closing at two and that my cat would be left alone all night to die, essentially, were I to leave her there in the kennel. I needed to run her to emergency care for treatment if I wanted to see any results. Either that, or I could take her home to die peacefully in a familiar place. I walked back to the vets' and they took me to the area in the back and showed me Hugo. She looked awful. Her tongue was sticking out, her fur was matted, and she was mewing in pain.
I talked with the vet, and he told me specifically not to spend thousands of dollars on surgery that goes nowhere. E.R. techs are not thinking about how much a rescue will cost you, or how little time it will buy you before a relapse, they are only concerned with saving lives, regardless of cost. He assured me there were slim chances of resuscitating my Hugo, and I believe he was right.
All the same, I called Jessie to tell her the status and mooch a ride from the Vet to the E.R., which I can vouch was one of the longest rides of our lives. When Jessie arrived, we carried her, wrapped in a towel, to the car, and I held Hugo as Jessie drove. Hugo tried to do her usual thing and hug my arm as I cradled her, but was too frail and weak to do so. Her entire body was limp, and I could feel her heart racing and her breath fading. I kissed her and spoke to her in a soothing tone, but we all knew what was soon to happen.
She was very dehydrated and panting like a dog. Jessie and I pulled over on our way so I could grab a bottled water and pour some in her mouth. I ran into a tiny convenience store, grabbed a bottle of water and tried pouring it in her mouth and tilting her head forward, so she could swallow it. For a minute there, it almost seemed to be working, but it was a false sense of assurance. I realized it was too little too late, and began bawling in the car like I have never creid in my entire life. I could feel her heart slow down and her breathing cease, while fighting the fact there was no chance in my mind.
We parallel-parked at the uber-expensive Friendship Amimal hospital. I was already sure she was dead when we stepped out of the car. I hate it when I'm right. I was too much of a mess to speak, so I let Jessie do most of the talking. They ran me back to the Emergency Room, where a team of determined-looking surgeons hovered over her with various esoteric devices in hand. The head surgeon was asking me if I wanted her to perform C.P.R., telling me I was looking at five hundred's worth of expenses, and I echoed what my vet had told me about pointlessly trying to prevent the inevitable. I said this cat was already clearly dead, which they agreed on. I asked what the percent chance of survival was, they said almost nil. I thanked them for their honesty, told them I had all the money to spend on saving this cat, were it at all possible, but asked them, were they to pull it off, would it buy her much time. They said 'No' . I said 'Fuck it'.
We were directed to a little office where they stretched little Hugo out on an operating table, still wrapped in her towel and in warm as if she were still alive. Jessie held me as I cried for my little Huggy, and we kissed her goodbye as we walked out to hear a bunch of "I'm sorry's" and fill out the needed paperwork. And we drove back to Maryland feeling like shit.
In the six days time since that fucking episode, my mourning has gone its' usual route from sadness to homicidal fury as it becomes painfully clear to me just how dysfunctional and incompetent my vet's office really is. While all this shit was going down with Hugo, costing me THOUSANDS of dollars in vet bills and putting me up Shit Creek without a paddle EVERY month, I decided it might be a good idea to try to get insurance for Alita. Good fucking idea, right? WRONG.
I put in my application with the ASPCA on the ninth. I got a call on the fifteenth, letting me know I had been APPROVED, and all I had to do was have my fucking vet fax the fucking records for Alita to them. SIMPLE shit, right? Even a sister-fucking RETARD can operate a cocksucking FAX MACHINE, right? WRONG, obviously. I called the vet's office, told them to perform just this simple little procedure that takes all of two minutes and costs all of fifty fucking cents, and WHAT do I GET? Let me tell ya...
I took Alita in yesterday, totally freaking out that she has been dry-heaving for a month with no hairball puking out whatsoever. I assumed, unwisely, that she was covered already, and that the vet's office and the ASPCA had done their part. Everything works out when you follow the rules and do as instructed, right? SUCK A SPHINCTER, TRUE BELIEVER.
Well, the exam cost me almost three hundred. I was prescribed more meds, and I was sure, hey, whatev, the ASPCA has my BACK, 80%, right? Well... no.
Apparently, although I never received the mailing, or the CALL, my application was fucking well DECLINED. I took that bill up the ass, while griping to the ASS-PACKA customer service rep, and got FUCK ALL for compensation. I resubmitted the application in the lobby of the vet's office right then, and got an email back today, of course, telling me "Sorry, but your cat SUCKS and deserves to DIE because she's already SICK... loser". I want to fly a 747 into the puppy-fucking ASPCA headquarters right now, those useless pieces of shit. Had I known she wasn't approved, I would never have taken her in that day.
Words can't describe how fucking angry I am right now. No curse words are filthy enough. I viciously interrogated the ASPCA customer service reps over the phone, demanding to know what the FUCK went wrong. One trembling voice after the other told me to stay calm while they looked for answers. It became apparent to me the ones who fucked up were the Vet's office, and not the ASPCA, who record EVERY conversation for 'quality control' purposes. Turns out they never recieved the fax, even thought there WAS a post-it note on the file saying to do so while I was at the office paying for all my shit.
I called the vet's office today, and luckily, Alita is okay, but I still have no insurance until all this shit is over. I seriously want to maim somebody over this. My cats are the only living beings I would trade blows over. I wouldn't even defend MYSELF the way I would go to battle for these animals. I told the vet I want answers, results, and compensation, WHOEVER fucked up. I better fucking well hear from him soon, or his balls are in my goddamn pocket, guaranteed.
I look at this level of ineptitude and can't help but wonder if they may have fucked up on Hugo's meds while we were away. I don't know how to get accountability from these people, but I know they fuck up. I am always having to remind them on my way out the door about what I need before I leave because they forget shit, whether it is the record of the blood work or a refill of my prescription. As it were, the I.V. bags of sodium chloride they were prescribing me were all EXPIRED, which they insisted was FINE, even though the fluid EVAPORATED in the BAG and I had to buy new fluid TWICE because of this.
Having been raised by a half-assed psychiatrist, I know better than most of you what a useless dickwaste the average American doctor is. I don't believe in medicine, or insurance, even though I suck it up and pay every month for the shit. I know doctors are only too human, as fucked-up and flawed as you or me, the only difference being they can cut you open, stitch you up and fill you with chemicals, according to the piece of paper hanging on the wall in their office. When one of these assholes tells me about a tumor in my brain, I may as well bust out the fucking DeWalt and drill the motherfucker out myself. It'd be more dignified than laying down for one of these P.H.D.-thumping butt-freaks to have their way over my dead body.
You know something, this is the first era I have ever seen the DEMOCRATS cleaning up after their patron religious nutjobs. I am so sick of watching prestigious religious leaders make or break the reputations of political leaders with off-the-cuff, inarticulate pronouncements. I believe government should be secularized and self-financed, rather than having to take advice and campaign funds from big-mouthed hypocrites who push a book full of bronze-age myths and a doctrine of ideals none of them even fuckin' follow.
I don't mean to knock the Reverend Jackson too hard, nor Jeremiah Wright... I have stood five feet from Jackson during a protest march and watched him give a speech and I know he cares about people, above and beyond the cross or the kingdom. Jeremiah Wright was a Cardiopulmonary Technician and performed surgery on the president long before he became a preacher. They are self-made men who have seen hard times and taken harsh criticism only to emerge stronger, an example Obama, no doubt, reveres.
SO WHY THE FUCK ARE THEY ALWAYS SAYING SUCH DUMB SHIT?!?!?! I get so pissed at the opportunistic implication of this latest transgression of Jackson's. Obama deserves to be castrated because he's not engaging the black community enough? How is this so? What the FUCK does he need to DO, homeboy, throw on some gold chains? It's not like he should be making a huge show about his race, he's done a very balanced job of avoiding that so far.It was as if the man were spiteful of Obama simply for getting the nomination he wasn't able to during his own presidential bid. Either that, or the guy has a fuckin' brain tumor.
I react to this because I think spiritual advisors of political leaders are given FAR too much relevance and influence, not to mention funding AND airtime. I also don't buy this whole line of shit about white 'priviledge' from ANYONE. Suck it up, assholes... most people in the country are white, sure. And, yes, most RICH people are WHITE. But not all WHITE people are RICH, and the WHITE WORKING CLASS composes more of the population than BLACK working class. You may not have the thirty acres and a fucking mule Abe Lincoln promised, but if you wanna move to fucking Rwanda right now, be my fucking guest. I have been the minority at EVERY job I have worked, and I can back up what I am saying from FIFTEEN YEARS of job experience.
If I didn't know Jeremiah Wright's history before hearing all that "third beat" bullshit he cunted on about for three minutes on teevee, I would've thought he was an "In Living Color" sketch. Were I the lesser man in Obama's shoes, I'd be putting a sock in my beloved pastor's mouth real quick. Men of religion are just loud, bitchy, bad-P.R.-machines, let me tell ya.
Every time some rectum-faced, sphincter-mouthed, shit-talking evangelical sister-fucker with millions of dollars and a midnight infomercial spews bigoted diarrhea on national teevee, there's a right-wing politician to run up and wipe the corners of his lips. I like the fact that Obama will separate church and state enough to distance himself from his personal holy-man-with-tourettes. I don't like much else about him, but it's a step in the right direction, even if it meant stepping on the throat of a priest.
Jesse Jackson has been pardoned by Barack Obama, and rightly should be, as worse things could have been said. None the less, I can't help highlighting the man's flamboyant opportunism when it comes to portraying the black race as a bunch of helpless little fucking victims. If you're the kind of sanctimonious asshole who starts a fucking furor in the streets over a BENIGN term like 'nappy-headed-hoes', then how much room is there for you to 'slip up' on a hot mic with your own dick in your mouth? I'm picturing Don Imus sitting in front of his laptop replaying Jesse's YouTube clip over and over again while chuckling over a mug of stale coffee.
What I hate about the electoral process in this country is that you need your bible up your ass and your flag pinned to your gonads everywhere you go to win the respect of the idiot public. You can be a total retard gimp on the leash of a sweaty, balding, shotgun-wielding geriatric with a tuppeware heart. As long as that flag is pinned to your balls where the people can see em' and that good book is so far up your ass you vomit scripture at senate hearings, you're an okay guy. Seriously, when I am king, all men of god are getting their TONGUES amputated.
I tend to wonder if we are any more sophisticated in this country than the bearded cavemen we are zapping with our ultra-cool new rayguns n' rockets n' shit. We're just led by religious nuts who kill other religious nuts on the advice of religious figures, just like them.
I don't believe in god. I believe in order. I believe in science. I have no faith, and no trust. I worship doubt, and swear allegiance to self-preservation. All the goddamn flags and religious icons in the world won't save us from war, famine, and, well... reality. Let the preachers shout their asses off as they sink in the quicksand of irrelevance and people evolve to start listening to reason.
...or just let them stick to the job of destroying the careers of boring, washed-up, middle-aged, talk-radio douchebags.
...Relieve this muddy sphere of the psycho-acoustic toxin that is PHIL COLLINS. Wear his sweaty flesh-case as a condom on one of thy mighty tentacles and sodomize all of Heaven with it. This sonic dingleberry from across the pond clings to my eardrums with a parasitic irritation unmatched even by the yodeling piehole of that big ugly blond woman they call DAVID LEE ROTH. His crimes are greater than those of Osama Bin Laden, Hitler, Idi Amin Dada and Barry Manilow.
Before I launch into my sermon with all the fire n' fury of Jeremiah Wright on a crack withdrawal, I have a most humiliating, blasphemous confession to make that could defrock me of my great unholy cloth: I once owned a copy of Genesis' "Invisible Touch".
I know, MOCK me. LAUGH at me. The hypocrisy, yes, the hypocrisy. You see, friends, I was a naive young lad of age nine, I knew not my shame and tastelessness. Of course, anyone who is making too much fun of me for it probably listened to cock rock by cross-dressing coke-casualties and is STILL PROUD OF IT. I, for one, NEVER listened to ANY of that homoerotic dogshit that men with mullets beat their wives to, so wipe Vince Neil's jit off your lips before you sport that shit-eating grin. Everybody's got skeletons, at least I can clean house with honesty. I NEVER listened to music by closet-cases with Aqua-Net in their ass hair.
I have certainly done enough time for my Genesis-owning transgression, anyway. The powers that be have forced me to work in job after job, to shop in outlet after outlet, to sit in dentist's chair after waiting room with Phil Collins' tinny squeal playing on the system. I would say that I have heard at least one Phil Collins song every day of my life for the last twenty years or longer, and I understand it no more than I can accept it. Why aren't we rioting in the streets over this?
Today I sat in Pizza Hut and waited... my food had already been served, and what I was waiting for was not a tasty Italian cheese boat lovingly crafted by Mexicans. It was an auditory hemorrhoid in the shape of a balding, dentally challenged British nebbish with a synthesizer plugged into his crack...
"When ah theenk uv YOOO-OOO, Awll ah hev tew dew, ees take wun loook et YOOOOO, den ah'm not soooo blooo" ... oh, but it so totally blue, Billy. It BLEW like a category five. It blew like cyclone fuckin' NARGIS.
Something like eighty percent of this cumsodden dickrag's songs are LOVE songs. I don't get it. Does this doughy eunuch really have sex? Are you kidding me? His songs appear on hundreds of crappy 'music' collections for 'romantic' evenings by the fire with wrinkly baby-boomer elephants.
I can't think of a bigger killer of hard-ons than that micropenis falsetto of his. If I heard his voice while I was naked, I would probably stick my head between my legs, bite off my own peepee, spit it into a trashcan and never think of sexual activity again. And yet I am sure there have been more than a hundred thousand squealing mongoloids conceived to the tune of "One More Night". Revolting.
Does Phil Collins' style of crooning get you in the mood for some love-making? KILL YOURSELF. DO IT. NOW. 'One more night' of this syphilitic reptile from space and his flying keyboard will breed millions more light-rock reprobates than this planet has any use for.
Everybody loves the bit in "American Psycho" where he hacks that broad up on a plastic-covered couch with "No Jacket Required" playing softly in the background like a fart in the wind. I think of the scene every time I stand in line at a grocery store cringing at the sounds of screaming babies and bar-code-blips mingling with the beat of the song "No Son Of Mine". If I had a baby that looked like Phil Collins (and I've seen quite a few), I would perform a late abortion with battery acid. It is only the kind of public service a civic-minded deadbeat could perform.
How did the guy become famous? I really just don't understand it at all. I know the general populace are unimaginative and prosaic, but are they masochistic, as well? I've heard this pimply little scrotum's voice possibly more times than I have taken a shit in my life. Seriously. There should be a goddamn law.
Anyone who's had the displeasure of letting me ride in their car knows I am a real cunt about having to listen to network radio of any kind. It causes me physical pain to hear mainstream music of almost ANY kind. The fact is that I have simply heard too many of the same songs OVER and OVER in my life and I don't need to anymore. Some music is timeless, most music has a shelf life.
Why should I waste a minute of my life deliberately listening to shit that I can always hear when I go out to buy cat litter and deoderant? Do I look like I spend my time at home slapping myself on the dick with a yardstick? Come on, man, I'm a motherfucker with vision, taste and intelligence. I don't have time to waste hearing Celine Dion ask me where her heart beats. Her bloody heart can stop beating for all I care, and so can those of light rock musicians everywhere.
Life is just too short and miserable to waste listening to middle-aged millionaires sing the blues over preprogrammed beats. That shit is NOT art, it is NOT music, it is NOT worth writing about in history books or penning new versions of. It is CORPORATE HYPNOTISM and I have far too strong a will to sleepwalk to it.
So, last night I recieved a good response showing my work at Dana's new DJ spot, which is in an awesome location with good space. I had two of my best pieces on display, "Sekhmet" and "Feral Steel";
they suited the atmosphere and blended in pretty well with the people lounging and dancing around them. I ran into friends I haven't seen in a while, had a few beers and got all sweaty dancing.
I have my installation at Artomatic coming up and I'm very excited about it, the past two I've participated in have been very successful, and I hope to be better about printing business cards and networking this time around, as I could have established some good connections the last couple times if I was more thorough.
My best friend Mary's fiance, Lauren will be in town on the eleventh. Lauren and Mary are both great singers and songwriters and are both involved in my band The White Chips. Some of our work can be heard here;
I'm hoping to get some music recorded while Lauren is here in town. She'll be accompanied by her friend, Stephanie, who is in town from New York. Stephanie is also a good singer and piano player.
Mary and I met at Pleasure Place when we both worked there in 2004. We began collaborating and have continued with the project by online filesharing since she moved to North Carolina the same year. Mary also began her own project, 'Mary Cross';
which displays her own visionary abilities as a writer, vocalist, and synthesist. has a second project with Lauren called 'Ladybird Disassemble';
Lauren's project, 'Shooting Stars and Satellites';
sounds exactly like its' name, just through her voice and her piano.
I'm lucky to have myself surrounded by creative and musical people who are adventurous, experimental, and innovative. I will post here again this weekend about my industrial metal project with my friend Warlock, and hopefully this month I'll have a whole bio of my solo project, as well as Whitechips and my other collaboration, Enoch 212:
... oftentimes, so are twenty-year-olds. I'm enjoying thirty. I have fewer insecurities and more accomplishments to speak of, and follow my judgement more than my feelings.
I tend to think I was a bit of an asshole from the ages of 18-23. I don't entirely blame myself for being as selfish, arrogant and cold as my surroundings made me, however. Whether it was the death-stained, loveless home in the sterile suburbs of Montgomery County or the succession of hoods and hick towns it spit me out into, I didn't sense much place for ideals.
I don't really look back on youth with much nostalgia. On top of a body and brain addled by hormonal bullshit, I was always in an unstable and vulnerable situation with similar people my own age. Between the ages of fifteen and thirty, I worked nearly one hundred fucking jobs. I would still get a chip on my shoulder I wasn't in school all that time if I weren't in school and doing well now.
At thirty, I'm taking classes, in a happy relationship, I'm self-employed, and I don't really have to answer to anyone. I run and rent an obscenely nice home studio, I have a beautiful house to myself, and two of the cutest, sweetest cats on the planet.
I'm living in the same area I lived ten years ago, now that I think about it. It contains alot of memories for me, good and bad. I feel like I've lived all over the world since '98, but I've only bounced from city to city within Maryland. You'd think I would've gotten the fuck out of here by now, but I guess I'm comfortable enough to post myself in Mount Rainier for another five years. Hopefully I'll start seeing other countries soon enough. I at least need to see other states. Travel good. Stagnation Bad.