Sick as all Hell.
But the best cure for congestion isca stiff drink.
So there’s that.
We’re callin’ it early.
Have a bitchin’ weekend and get ’em in where you can.
A Perfect World
Another Day In Paradise
Fat Wreck Chords | 1994
YES IT’S FRIDAY AGAIN.
WHY DO YOU ASK?
WHY MUST YOU ALWAYS ASK?
So we’re back at it here.
The first week of 2017 is so far going better than I could ever hope to expect – no deaths, disasters, or deleterious diseases worthy of note; chest cold for myself, but I’ve suffered worse I suppose. Back to the city, this terrible city, but the new year brings with it some measure of optimism that I just can’t shake despite myself. I know better. I know that I know better. And yet, here I sit, feeling a slight glimmer of something that tastes just a bit too sweet in a saccharin way, an afterbite that is positively positive and hits you from somewhere past the right-field fence.
I will, however, take it over the start of any new year since the onset of the interminable century.
Anyway, I’m going to keep this mercifully brief, as my gift to you, but know that we’re well on our way to somewhere, and you’ve only got 51 of these more to endure until another trick of the Gregorian calendar seduces us into an arbitrary change of the seasons.
Have a bitchin’ weekend and get ‘em the Hell in.
I certainly plan to.
Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap
Albert Productions | 1976
There are few things quite like a near-debilitating illness striking in the waning hours of a frankly psychotic, schizophrenic year to make you ponder the true extent of God’s humor. I can’t believe it’s time to do this again. I swear I just did this about three months ago, and everything else is the playing out of some grand Gregorian conspiracy involving chants, Knights Templar quests, and European Swallows gripping coconuts by the husks. The weather here has been miserable today, with a pack of thunderstorms rumbling through from dawn till just about an hour ago. It’s still raining out there, but the storms have moved on to Carson City and points east. Since the older niece and the nephew are now well into their teen years, they’ve decided they want to stay in the city with their friends for Christmas break, and I can’t blame them much. The wife needs to be close by her mother for a couple of days, so she headed back yesterday to beat the storms. So here I sit, in near-perfect solitude, ill but oddly well. The second college football playoff game is silently proceeding in the background while I man my post on the back deck, a healthy cup of 1792 to warm my belly and chase away this bastard infection, and I don’t know if it’s the cloud cover or the fever but it feels positively balmy out here right now.
There are worse ways to pass the time, friends.
What a year.
I still can’t quite wrap my head around it.
The Year of Our Lord 2016 will be known for the election of Donald J. Trump for President of the United States of America, and to a lesser extent, for the referendum by the British people to exit the European Union. Despite the fact that both of these events sprung into play years earlier, their twin conclusions in 2016 — just a handful of months apart — ensure that few if any of the other events that took place will be remembered as anything beyond footnotes, and almost exclusively framed in the context of these two events. While in a sense that speaks to the gravity of each electoral outcome, I don’t entirely buy it. One of the pitfalls that comes with an election year that lasts almost three years is that both sides have plenty of time to brand their enemies. The problem is, reeling from a stinging defeat that also speaks to their own dwindling influence, the media are using the last few ounces of juice in their megaphones to propagate a signal declaring in no uncertain terms that the electoral outcome is illegitimate for a litany of reasons, oscillating between arguments molesting the Popular Vote to insisting Vladimir Putin personally hacked into THE ELECTION with his Evil-A-Tron 9000 Vote-Chagin’ Machine, manually flipping votes that surely must have been cast for Hillary Clinton over to Donald Trump. I mean, c’mon. It’s obvious. So expect four to eight years of their shrill din ringing atop the amber waves of grain.
Despite the unexpected Trump victory, I am hopeful but not certain anything will improve. The time for against-the-grain, bucking-the-system outsider elections was decades ago; It’s like bringing on a pilot after the plane’s wings have already fallen off. There is the grim and all-too-probable prospect that there is nothing much to be done through the political system. The future, as I have said many times before, will look so much like the past you won’t hardly believe your eyes.
I have no idea whether Trump will be a good president, a great president, a poor president, or presidential disaster.
Nor do I much care anymore.
What I do know is that Hillary Clinton and her band of rent-seeking, influence-peddling brigands spent the past 16 years trading favors and access for any wad of cash that came looking, the more thuggish and globalist the better, to the point of peddling those favors and access on the promise of her becoming President of the United States of America. Barring the catastrophic playing out of some twisted Kabuki between now and Inauguration Day, we have avoided that horrible outcome. The brigands and the globalists (but I repeat myself) know their jig is up, and want only to crush the few enemies left to the them, while holding off Armageddon just long enough to make their getaway out the side entrance. Now, they get to scrap and scrape along the bottom of the churnstile with the rest of us mooks.
That more than just about anything else is reason enough to smile.
All this is to say that the rhythm of the political spheres, sputtering as they may, are nearly inconsequential to your life now. Despite the struggles that may exist over the horizon, there has never been a better time in living memory to take advantage of them, and to take the fight to them. Whatever 2017 brings, I have faith in a just God that it will play out as it is meant to. With a focus on family, community, and fellowship, the greater part of it will be well-attended.
I wish you and yours the very best in this coming new year, and that whatever it brings, that you are better off a year from now than you are today.
And just think, there are only 52 Good Music Fridays between now and that day.
Happy New Year, everyone.
Holy Hell this week whizzed right on by.
It’s been warm, even out here in the hollow nothingness of the Mojave, though the nights have still been cold. 18 degrees two nights ago, lit up to 81 degrees by the following noon. That kind of climatic whiplash fucks with your system, and it’s fucking with mine a little.
I’ll have my New Year’s Eve post written and up tomorrow hopefully, again, barring the catastrophic.
In the mean time, I’m going to get back to it.
Get ’em in for the final time in 2016.
Y’all have earned it and then some.
Auld Lang Syne
S/R | 2014
The only time when Friday just doesn’t seem all that eager to hit me like an unexpected runaway semi truck full of cow dung and lighter fluid is when that Friday is the last hurdle standing between myself and 13 much-needed days off from work, life, and just about everything else.
In that case, Friday has to be dragged into the joint, kicking and screaming and throwing punches and doing that thing where it grips the threshold with both hands at its dragged through it, to the point where you have to beat Friday with sticks and socks filled with nickels just to get it to settle the fuck down and cooperate.
So, mercifully, the week is coming to a close.
Hopefully today will be light, we have the company Christmas party around noon, then I’m out early to put back a few and enjoy the fact I ain’t making the Christmas meal for once. Football tomorrow, Christmas on Christmas, then up to the desert compound for 11 days of shooting shit, burning shit, reading shit, writing shit (hopefully), hiking, and a fuck-ton of stargazing and drinking warming alcohol in the chill, empty nights.
In my mind, I’m already there.
I’ll try to put up a post or two next week, but I will have my New Year’s Eve post unless there is some catastrophic failure of something, somewhere, that prevents it.
Merry Christmas to you and yours.
Stiff Little Fingers
Chrysalis Records | 1980
Christmas is coming out of the night like a Tomahawk missile fired off the USS Providence hundreds of miles off-shore – out of sight, out of mind until it hits you out of nowhere. Perhaps, if you’re truly unfortunate, you’ll have a handful of seconds to discover it incoming, clench up like the world’s about to dissolve all around you, with just enough breathing room to realize that this was no accident; it was gunning for you the entire breadth of its life.
Christmas, comin’ in hot.
I am looking forward to it, though. And not just because I have 13 days off from Christmas Eve on through to the nascent 2017; I’m happy for Christmas because for once I feel like I’m ahead of the game here. All the presents are begotten; all the decorations are up; the wife got the Christmas cards out on time for once, and she made her batch of egg nog a week early instead of the day before, so I’m actually relishing it for once.
You know, until Our Simple Affirmative Action President lobs missiles at Vladivostok BECAUSE HACKS, kicking off DUBYA DUBYA TREE. Someone wants y’all to know just three things only: the election was HACKED (nevermind how) by the RUSSIANS (nevermind how) and Hillary WOULD’VE WON (nevermind how). Someone in the CIA has leaked this idea to the press, who with a dearth of any meaningful details insists the this is a matter of gravest concern, and something needs to be done about it RIGHT FUCKING NOW because in the face of this, the fact that Donald Trump even continues to breath is an insult to the FOUNDING FATHERS YOU GUYS.
Nevermind that it’s all sourced anonymously from just the CIA, backed with coordinated concern trolling from Our Simple Affirmative Action President and the remnants of the Clinton campaign.
Nevermind that those anonymous sources can’t say what explicitly was hacked, how it was hacked, and/or how that hacking decisively threw the race to Trump at the expense of Clinton.
Nevermind that other intelligence officials – willing to go on record – insist that there is no corroborating evidence of anything being hacked beyond the DNC (which we knew in June), Podesta’s Gmail account (which we knew in August) and (probably) Hillary’s homebrew bathtub server system (which we knew years ago).
Nevermind that the CIA refuses to give any committee of Congress a briefing on these “findings” despite repeated requests in the past week.
Because none of this was about that.
It’s all about fomenting doubt and discord while delegitimizing the incoming President all the while providing a pretense to start the shit with Russia they all thought they’d have four years to accomplish, as well as giving themselves an explanation for their losses beyond the obvious recognition that they, collectively and individually, suck ass through a Dixie straw.
So on Monday we’ll see if a block of Faithless Electors emerge to swing the race to Clinton, to someone else, or to the House of Representatives, thereby kicking off Civil War 2.1.0. We’ll see if the soft coup that the media and the psychotics (but I repeat myself) clamor for takes place at “Republican Capitals” around the country; we’ll also see how deep Soros money runs if and when pressed to fund the gayer half of the next Civil War.
I’m guessing not deep enough.
Anyway, that’s about all I got.
Have a great weekend y’all.
Get ‘em in.
Run, Run Rudolph
We Wish you a Metal Xmas and a Headbangin’ New Year
Lemmy Kilmister, Billy Gibbons, Dave Grohl
Armoury Records | 2008
Week’s end is rollin’ up slow, like in one of those early 90s gangster movies or music videos or Arsenio Hall Show appearances, while everyone who’s woke-as-fuck puckers up and prepares for the slow-roll gat blasts. Fun fact: point a pistol normally and it’s a gun; point it sideways in an arching-down motion like you’re having a catastrophic failure of your trapezius muscles, it’s a gat.
We’re a fully armed and operational repository of knowledge here, folks.
It’s been a bit slower lately ‘round here, allowing me to catch up on some stuff, polish off the ol’ resume, and spiff up the ol’ LinkedIn page. And also slapdick together a bunch of shit so haphazardly even I am almost ashamed of it.
Out in the world, despite pushing for three recounts, the Big Green Monster has only managed one, with Michigan and Pennsylvania so far blocked by the courts. And in Wisconsin, nearly 90% of the recount is complete, and Hilary Clinton has made a startling comeback, closing the gap on Donald Trump, with an extra 61 votes added to her count. That’s 61 votes statewide. Just 22,078 or so to go.
So that was money well spent.
Out of the Trump transition team, my favorite moment so far has to be Trump gladhanding Leonardo DiCaprio with a “talk” about green jobs, one of the First Daughters summoning Al Gore to a “discussion” about Global Climate Change(trademark pending) and in less than 24 hours following, he appoints EPA Enemy Number 1 has the new Director of the EPA.
Christmas is coming in hot, just a little less than three weeks away. The lights and decorations are all up around the grounds of Casa De Huckleberry, and despite the mild weather, it feels like the holidays for once. The past few years Christmas has seemed to have come and gone so quick I barely had time to get my pants on.
It feels better this year.
Anyway, a couple more hours of work, actual work, then to the beers, then to the bourbons, because when it comes to drinkin’ anymore, I’ve got a long way to go and a short time to get there.
Onward, friends, to oblivion.
Have a great weekend.
Get ‘em in.
At Rope’s End
New Bomb Turks
Epitaph Records | 1996
Weeks are dropping like flies.
It’s like living in the last 45 minutes of Memphis Belle stuck on a loop – weeks dropping out of the sky like so many B-17s over the German countryside.
But fuck it, we’re now officially in December and the holidays are in full motherfucking swing. Usually during Thanksgiving weekend I put up all of the outside Christmas lights, then the inside decorations go up. It rained all last weekend so the lights go up tomorrow.
Shit is still all sideways here, and the deleterious situation with that motherfucking project has claimed its first victims – we let go of all of the Java developers just before EOD yesterday. So, yeah, it’s probably just a matter of time. Job Search 2017 is kicking off a month early.
In the news, nothing new. Under the proviso that the only good Millennial is a dead Millennial, a Muslim refugee fanatic ran over and stabbed some folk at OSU; in response, the fine Millennial minds of the next generation insist that it’s all White People’s fault, and the only solution is more gun control.
And I wish I were exaggerating for comedic effect.
Trump made some cabinet picks, strong-armed a near-Rust-Belt manufacturer into staying American for at least a little while longer, and the left side of the world continues to lose their shit over all of it.
As for me, I’m hitting the ripcord a little early, and God as my witness if I don’t have a proper drunk on by dusk, well, we’re probably done here.
At least until next week.
Have a great weekend and get ‘em in double time.
Darling, Stand By Me
Germany | October 1975
So it’s Thanksgiving, or the day after, and while most of the American world has the day off today, I do not, because of this motherfucking project that was supposed to be wrapped up last Spring, but here we are, truckin’ on like a motherfucking diamond in the sun, or something.
But enough of my bitchin’.
Thanksgiving dinner went off well; used the smoker I made for its first Official Holiday Run and the thing worked phenomenally well. Stick burners just turn out better product than charcoal burners, there’s no two ways around that. It kept temp reasonably well, though I did have to tend to it every few hours. The ugly drum has spoiled me in that I can just load it up, light it up and it just does it’s business for however long I need it to.
So in the news I see that the liberal communist, on behalf of the liberal criminal, wants a recount in three states that the liberal cryptocrat won BECAUSE HACKED, so now the liberal communist is $3M richer, and maybe they find evidence of HACKING or ~112,000 ballots marked CLINTON strategically placed throughout the states in question, flipping everything over to HERR CUNTON.
THAT will be a sight to see. If the former, then you get marital law, recriminations, media handwringing, and lawsuits that head all the way up to a divided 4-4 Supreme Court decision. If the latter, well, I expect many bullets to be fired just as strategically by sundown.
I’m fine with either result.
Either Trump will be the next President of the United States of America, or no one will.
Beyond that, it’s been a slow week. Despite my education and pedigree existing in the semi-hard science of journeyman physics and the gelatinously soft science of human philosophy, I’m spending my entire week in the Asperger’s Friendly realm of computer programming, figuring out how to design a test-automation framework that is ridiculously overcomplex and must somehow be complete by the end of the year.
Or maybe I could just look for a new job.
On that note, I’ll leave you to your holiday. I hope you all had a great one, with family, great food, generous libations and some measure of time necessary to appreciate all of it. That last part seems in far too short supply anymore.
Get ‘em in.
Don’t Talk To Strangers
Vertigo Records | 1983