ape hair & gorilla spit

As I sat alone at the bar guzzling bleakly through my second special, a shot of stagnant whiskey and a miller high life, a thought occurred to me. Granted dear reader this is not a grand or even original observation but adequately amusing I hope.

I had been compelled to leave the Thunderdome, my so aptly named domicile, due to the beckoning of a pretty girl. Normally my pessimism gets the best of me and I retire without remorse but on that night I was feeling optimistic. Optimism is foreign to me. Where I come from Optimism is gagged and beaten bloody until it stops promising and beaming and can only wimper and hobble. I arrived under notice that I was to save the aforementioned damsel from the most deadly of perils. Peril defined as the drunken idiot who clung to even the air she exhaled. Customary handshakes and insincere dialogue exchanged with one Peril T. Snidely-Mustache and it was rapidly becoming clear that my night was careening into hell’s gaping asshole. The pretty girl kept me waiting. Talking to the devourer of air.

Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. At least slayer was on the juke box. Like a little lost little lamb I followed her to the next watering hole under the guise that more would join us. Was the scumbag to join us? You fucking bet.

The dame informed me to that she’d have to have a word with her friend. Upon returning from outside some twenty minutes later I bought her a drink. She promptly went into the bathroom with the villain. Who the fuck behaves like this? Etiquette aside I’d have felt better if they’d offer’d me a bump. Not really. I spent the night mostly alone while the damsel snorted coke of Bowser’s reptilian genitalia drinking the champagne of beers.

Shit. You only drink champagne to celebrate something right? It’s not everyone that can say their existence is the pinnacle of our modern lives. I must be leading a fucking high life. There’s nothing like being reminded. Nudged in just the subtlest of ways.

“Hey you, ya fuckin’ poor bastard, where’s your friend? The pretty girl’s in the toilet with that dude doin’ blow? At least you can say you’re drinking the champagne of beer!”

Thanks High Life.

To my dear and trusted friends,

If this document finds you I have become incapacitated by the destruction of body or the irreversible sundering of my mind. It has become clear to me that entities beyond our mortal comprehension not only exist, but exist in direct opposition to the human race via direct action or as a consequence of holding a ghastly vast intellect which excludes the very notion of a morality as we understand it. These various entities abide not the realms of science or reason and thus must be combated at all costs using that which exists outside science or reason. It is fortunate then, that my life’s ambition has been the accumulation of rare books and tomes. Increasingly I’ve found that through my cataloging of the rare and bizarre a lust for “forbidden” knowledge has sprung up in me which I have not only failed to resist but greedily fueled. Although I fear it has been my undoing I plead you take the few remaining books on the occult I have managed to procure and use them to better protect yourselves and to a greater extent the human race. I am not vain enough to hope that we can exert any lasting change but perhaps you can use what little we know to protect those who remain ignorant of what lurks on the edge of our reality. At the very least it might quench your earthly desire for vengeance or retribution and in doing so provide your fragile psyches some respite. I urge your caution when examining these tomes however, as the secrets they contain come with an immense price.

I have arranged that my shop assistant Clancy be ready to meet at your convenience. He holds the only copy to a key that opens a hidden safe in my office which contains all the genuine occult material I have ever gathered. It is not my wish that Clancy be drawn into the same world of horror that you now must contend with and so he has no knowledge of what is in the safe or the strange occupation we’ve found ourselves sworn to pursue. I have tried to instill in him the importance of secrecy and discretion with the matter and as such have not provided him any clues as to what is afoot. If you fail to meet with him in six months time I have requested he burn all that remains in the safe for his safety and that of mankind as a whole.

It is my sincere hope you retire as swiftly as time will allow,

Thomas Browning

The front being my transplanted existence in New York City. Firstly I must elaborate on the nature of the cognitive dissonance I experience whenever I attempt to update this blog.

• I would like to use this blog as a venue for my exploits and creations.
• I do not want to use this blog as the equivalent of livejournal.

I am left with no content to provide so I don’t ever update. I tell myself this is because I’m lazy. Untrue! I love writing. I just have nothing to write about. Thematically this space should be devoted to projects I’m working on or the occasional essay formatted post on something I find compelling instead of my feelings. Unless I happen to find my feelings at the time significantly entertaining. Could happen.

I do genuinely want to generate and maintain a substantial array of original content via my creative brain folds. This is not something I have done routinely in a long while. Perhaps this post will be the first in a series of self imposed micro-depressive states that’s just enough to motivate me into action after I realize I’m wasting my life. With that said here are some things to tantalize, to excite, to froth and foam pretty little mouths with.

It’s not naked pictures. I’m sorry.

1. The corpse of two dicks will rise gyrating to it’s feet from and with a great undulation march into your eyeballs.
2. There will be music. It will be a while before I can afford more sophisticated recording equipment but until then I will release rough cuts.
3. Art of no discernable intent may materialize. It is entirely up to the state of my renaissance man-like stamina.
4. Strange design fetishes will appear. The first of which is the demon hub which will encase my blog’s existence. It’s cold exterior covered in black aluminum and whirring blades. I am of course referring to the new desktop which I intend to build.

G’night internet. You’ve exhausted me.

If I were to produce for you a chart of normal sleeping patterns and ask you to find subject Van Landingham you’d have to scramble through the index until you found the section on transient semi-migratory rabbits and then actually locate the volume, which I can assure you is not easy to come by in this modern market. That’s where my fuzzy ass would be found, any way.

1) It’s 6:04 am, I’ve slept about four hours and it’s raining
2) I’m listening to Frank Zappa

Oh sure, there’s nothing wrong with an erratic sleeping schedule. The problem lies with the proclamation, and the feverishly positive assertion, that I fucking love Frank Zappa.

Chunga’s Revenge, Hot Rats, Over-Nite Sensation, Fillmore East – June 1971- these albums are all fucking fantastic.

God damn, it stopped raining.

I came home, drunk, and cued up the first three Planet of the Apes films. Having only seen the first, which is one of my favorite movies, I was excited.

“What magical yarns could be woven using ape hair and gorilla spit?” I thought. “Surely they must employ a cobbled together loom of man-bone and the precise well tuned digits of an ape to produce such artistry.” I was in store for cinematic ecstasy. At least I would have been if I hadn’t passed out shortly after Charlton Heston delivers his famous line, “It’s a mad house, a mad house!” and woken up just in time to watch the last few seconds of the second film, Beneath the Planet of the Apes, tick by.

The climax was just as shocking and downbeat as in the first film, and I got what would have been a thoroughly entertaining experience delivered to me in the span of seconds. I awoke to and had assembled in my mind enough plot to doom myself outright. Dehydrated and defeated I sit here musing,

“A mad house Mr. Heston? How right you are”.

There’s a plumber working in my bathroom and I really have to shit. Fuck.

My dog died recently. Every other night I’ve had dreams in which she is alive. It’s not really upsetting to me, the dreams, it leaves me confused more than anything. What I do find somewhat eerie and depressing is to wake and find her leash in the same spot it has always occupied. It’s probably the only object left in this house that can so eloquently say “remember? dead.”

How long do you keep a leash any way?

I’m not a fan of Hemingway, but I do quite enjoy “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

I felt something today. I’m not sure what it was but I think

I think I can feel it coming in the air tonight, you know?

Oh lord

I’ve been waiting for this moment, pretty much all my life

Oh man

What about you guys? Can you feel it coming in the air tonight?

Oh lord

oh man

I honestly don’t know what Eddie expects me to do with this blog. I mouse over to the design section thinking that soon it will reveal to me from under it’s dark and guarded bosom graphics and templates only available in the most gossamer of realms, and instead I’m accosted by the drudgery that is actual web design. It’s at this point that I give up, wondering what else there is to talk about. Perhaps if Eddie was at all times on the verge of finishing the layout, I’d feel comfortable ruminating on it’s geography ad infinitum.

“Well my blog is coming along fine, but the titles need some work,” I’d say, knowing full well that it’s never ending construction is a carefully designed architecture itself.

It’s Ruby’s birthday party today and so far my preparation has consisted of getting up at 2 pm and sitting around in my skimpiest underwear while scratching my eye and nervously thinking,

“Did I get poop in here or some shit?”

one time. i saw Eddie shit a whole truck.

wheels and everything. it might have even had a trailer on it.