The very existence of flamethrowers prove that sometime, somewhere, someone said, to themselves, “You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I’m just not close enough to get the job done.” - George Carlin
Yesterday I read Kurt Vonnegut recount the firebombing of the German city of Dresden in 1945. As an American POW he and his captors sought refuge against the allied bombing campaign in a slaughterhouse. As part of a POW cleanup team, he was also forced to incinerate the thousands of bodies killed during the attack. Go team!
Vonnegut is dead now. Between Dresden’s colossal destruction and his death in 2007 he wrote. He was termed a dark satirist. I like Vonnegut the same way I like George Carlin, Lenny Bruce, and Frank Zappa and Paris Hilton. Although Carlin and the like could often nail a thought in a few words, a true skill - Vonnegut enjoyed the luxury of taking his sweet time with words before delivering a quick jab to the kidney. I’ve been reading an anthology of George Carlin entitled An Orgy of George. It’s comprised of three Carlin novels - Brain Droppings, Napalm and Silly Putty, and When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops. It’s rare that an author can make me laugh out loud. Carlin can, and does. I laugh out loud and frighten the dogs. Vonnegut doesn’t make me laugh out loud. He pisses me off for being able to write the things I’ve been thinking - and not only write them, but with a slight-of-hand that makes me want to quit writing and take up knife throwing or fire gargling.
Carlin I can read anywhere any time - bus, plane, train, those big red fundraising bicycles, while walking or shooting dice. Carlin’s an easy guest. Low maintenance. Vonnegut is a little more tricky and requires some planning and a certain commitment.
Yesterday I read Kurt Vonnegut recount the firebombing of the German city of Dresden in 1945. As an American POW he and his captors sought refuge against the allied bombing campaign in a slaughterhouse. As part of a POW cleanup team, he was also forced to incinerate the thousands of bodies killed during the attack. Go team!
Vonnegut is dead now. Between Dresden’s colossal destruction and his death in 2007 he wrote. He was termed a dark satirist. I like Vonnegut the same way I like George Carlin, Lenny Bruce, and Frank Zappa and Paris Hilton. Although Carlin and the like could often nail a thought in a few words, a true skill - Vonnegut enjoyed the luxury of taking his sweet time with words before delivering a quick jab to the kidney. I’ve been reading an anthology of George Carlin entitled An Orgy of George. It’s comprised of three Carlin novels - Brain Droppings, Napalm and Silly Putty, and When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops. It’s rare that an author can make me laugh out loud. Carlin can, and does. I laugh out loud and frighten the dogs. Vonnegut doesn’t make me laugh out loud. He pisses me off for being able to write the things I’ve been thinking - and not only write them, but with a slight-of-hand that makes me want to quit writing and take up knife throwing or fire gargling.
Carlin I can read anywhere any time - bus, plane, train, those big red fundraising bicycles, while walking or shooting dice. Carlin’s an easy guest. Low maintenance. Vonnegut is a little more tricky and requires some planning and a certain commitment.
At the moment, I’m toggling four Vonnegut books - Fates Worse than Death (An Autobiographical Collage), Blue Bird, Armageddon Revisited, and A Man without a Country.
When I sit down with Vonnegut, there can be no television and absolutely be no light whatsoever. There can be no sounds or stimulation in any way shape or form. Nothing. The outside world is intrusive and quite distracting. Ideal reading conditions are actually similar to Vonnegut’s refuge in a slaughterhouse - minus the cows, pigs, German captors and POWs. A bunker type affair in a blackout, which begs the question: how the hell can I read in the dark? Yeah, that’s a valid question. So, uh, anyway, Vonnegut’s writings read deceptively easy which, for me is the mark of genius.
Sometimes I do throw on some music as there should be no absolutes in life. There is music that complements reading Vonnegut. I find jazz music works nicely - mostly the fifties and sixties era hipsters. Not jazz fusion - Herbie Hancock and Al DiMeola? -Too severe - too many weird key changes that jangle me. I like Nina Simone, Mose Allison, Django Reinhardt, and on and on. Beatnik jazz makes me happy. Reading Vonnegut makes me happy. Just knowing that he was such a psychological wreck gives me hope - and the fact that he enjoyed his greatest his success as he aged. He was no wunderkind. I bought a great first edition of Slapstick while in New Orleans and read it under a statue of General Lee while Monique haggled with local artists. I can still feel the breeze and smell the Mississippi every time I pick up that book.
Back to jazz and enough of Vonnegut. My wife does not like jazz. Had I known she did not like jazz before we were married I would have certainly gone through with the wedding, grateful to find anyone who could tolerate my idiosyncrasies and myriad of mental hiccups. She confided to me once while driving back from a wedding that jazz made her nervous. I was playing some Buddy Rich and air drumming through Iron Bridge. Monique was on the verge of death - precariously hanging on to this world by nothing but the grace of God and Gunga Din, hung over from rotten homemade wine that was presented to all guests at the wedding. There but for the grace of God and Gunga Din do not go I. Why? Hell, I don’t drink. It’s a central nervous system depressant, and for anyone who has read more than one of these columns, I’m not the most optimistic happy-go-luck schmuck on the planet - so I don’t drink. I write. Usually I write about wanting to write something spectacular without having to write anything spectacular. If I had my druthers, I would go on such a massive plagiarising spree that Oprah would have me hanged and quartered during a live prime-time special. It’s hard to contemplate writing something as awe inspiring as Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, so what I’ve done with my edition is cross out Vonnegut’s name with a black Sharpie and replaced it with mine. I carry it around with me in my book bag. If you tell yourself a lie long enough you begin to actually believe it, until someone calls you a delusional hack.
Drunkard writers have become somewhat of a cliché in the last few decades. I don’t drink. The last time I did drink I stole a large Labatts Blue patio umbrella and chased a family of rabid raccoons with it. I was a menace, but I had no choice. Those raccoons were holding my town captive. This was the night before my wedding. Turned out that the family of rabid raccoons I was chasing with the stolen patio umbrella were really three guys from town watering some hanging plants in front of the Giant Tiger. Geraniums. Jesus!
“Jazz makes me nervous.”
Jazz does not make me nervous. Jazz makes me happy. Nothing really makes me nervous as I am usually in a constant state of apprehension so there is no true beginning or ending to my anxieties. But nothing really instills any definable fear in me, which is bad news for advertisers and the government. Dread? Sure. Fear? Not so much. The human race has to be the most ridiculously manipulative species on the planet. Even more so than lemmings - who don’t really follow one another to their deaths, but do pay too much for life insurance. We are conditioned to fear. We are being shown how not to be afraid at the same time. We are to fear a million things simultaneously, while not giving in to fear. This is the key. We need to feel that we are in control and we are safe. We need to know that other people can make things safe for us. Our government. Our men and women in blue. Our troops. Traffic lights. Full body scanners. Our policy makers. Please do your best to keep us safe. But, we’ll still be afraid - hyper vigilant. Do not grow complacent and start to actually stop fearing. No. “Here’s what you can do to be safe”. It’s a top ten list from Yahoo. Here’s what you can do to feel safe. Be very afraid. Stay afraid. Not scared yet? You should be. No? Shit, there must be something wrong with you. Try Dianetics. Be afraid. What are we supposed to be afraid of? Depends. Advertisers, pharmaceuticals, news agencies, political parties and world governments require us to be afraid. It’s easy to keep people controllable under the blistered thumb of fear. There’s not much squirming room when the thumb pushes down. Mass fear is great for business, and allaying fears is a great business to be in. Cha-ching. The cult of fear is a great breeding ground for arrogant, baffling foreign policies made by arrogant, baffling policy makers. Yeesh and blech!
When I sit down with Vonnegut, there can be no television and absolutely be no light whatsoever. There can be no sounds or stimulation in any way shape or form. Nothing. The outside world is intrusive and quite distracting. Ideal reading conditions are actually similar to Vonnegut’s refuge in a slaughterhouse - minus the cows, pigs, German captors and POWs. A bunker type affair in a blackout, which begs the question: how the hell can I read in the dark? Yeah, that’s a valid question. So, uh, anyway, Vonnegut’s writings read deceptively easy which, for me is the mark of genius.
Sometimes I do throw on some music as there should be no absolutes in life. There is music that complements reading Vonnegut. I find jazz music works nicely - mostly the fifties and sixties era hipsters. Not jazz fusion - Herbie Hancock and Al DiMeola? -Too severe - too many weird key changes that jangle me. I like Nina Simone, Mose Allison, Django Reinhardt, and on and on. Beatnik jazz makes me happy. Reading Vonnegut makes me happy. Just knowing that he was such a psychological wreck gives me hope - and the fact that he enjoyed his greatest his success as he aged. He was no wunderkind. I bought a great first edition of Slapstick while in New Orleans and read it under a statue of General Lee while Monique haggled with local artists. I can still feel the breeze and smell the Mississippi every time I pick up that book.
Back to jazz and enough of Vonnegut. My wife does not like jazz. Had I known she did not like jazz before we were married I would have certainly gone through with the wedding, grateful to find anyone who could tolerate my idiosyncrasies and myriad of mental hiccups. She confided to me once while driving back from a wedding that jazz made her nervous. I was playing some Buddy Rich and air drumming through Iron Bridge. Monique was on the verge of death - precariously hanging on to this world by nothing but the grace of God and Gunga Din, hung over from rotten homemade wine that was presented to all guests at the wedding. There but for the grace of God and Gunga Din do not go I. Why? Hell, I don’t drink. It’s a central nervous system depressant, and for anyone who has read more than one of these columns, I’m not the most optimistic happy-go-luck schmuck on the planet - so I don’t drink. I write. Usually I write about wanting to write something spectacular without having to write anything spectacular. If I had my druthers, I would go on such a massive plagiarising spree that Oprah would have me hanged and quartered during a live prime-time special. It’s hard to contemplate writing something as awe inspiring as Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, so what I’ve done with my edition is cross out Vonnegut’s name with a black Sharpie and replaced it with mine. I carry it around with me in my book bag. If you tell yourself a lie long enough you begin to actually believe it, until someone calls you a delusional hack.
Drunkard writers have become somewhat of a cliché in the last few decades. I don’t drink. The last time I did drink I stole a large Labatts Blue patio umbrella and chased a family of rabid raccoons with it. I was a menace, but I had no choice. Those raccoons were holding my town captive. This was the night before my wedding. Turned out that the family of rabid raccoons I was chasing with the stolen patio umbrella were really three guys from town watering some hanging plants in front of the Giant Tiger. Geraniums. Jesus!
“Jazz makes me nervous.”
Jazz does not make me nervous. Jazz makes me happy. Nothing really makes me nervous as I am usually in a constant state of apprehension so there is no true beginning or ending to my anxieties. But nothing really instills any definable fear in me, which is bad news for advertisers and the government. Dread? Sure. Fear? Not so much. The human race has to be the most ridiculously manipulative species on the planet. Even more so than lemmings - who don’t really follow one another to their deaths, but do pay too much for life insurance. We are conditioned to fear. We are being shown how not to be afraid at the same time. We are to fear a million things simultaneously, while not giving in to fear. This is the key. We need to feel that we are in control and we are safe. We need to know that other people can make things safe for us. Our government. Our men and women in blue. Our troops. Traffic lights. Full body scanners. Our policy makers. Please do your best to keep us safe. But, we’ll still be afraid - hyper vigilant. Do not grow complacent and start to actually stop fearing. No. “Here’s what you can do to be safe”. It’s a top ten list from Yahoo. Here’s what you can do to feel safe. Be very afraid. Stay afraid. Not scared yet? You should be. No? Shit, there must be something wrong with you. Try Dianetics. Be afraid. What are we supposed to be afraid of? Depends. Advertisers, pharmaceuticals, news agencies, political parties and world governments require us to be afraid. It’s easy to keep people controllable under the blistered thumb of fear. There’s not much squirming room when the thumb pushes down. Mass fear is great for business, and allaying fears is a great business to be in. Cha-ching. The cult of fear is a great breeding ground for arrogant, baffling foreign policies made by arrogant, baffling policy makers. Yeesh and blech!
Maybe I am just too dumb to be afraid. Like the fat guy who tries to wrestle a bear, or maybe on a bet, runs with the bulls of Pamplona. Too dumb to be afraid. So, anyway, if you have the time, it would be beneficial not only to you as an individual, but also as an upstanding member of your community to fear the following (in no particular order): The homeless, homelessness, Muslims, debt, audits, accountants, high jacking, tooth decay and gum disease, thin ice, meat, germs, climate change, laughter, art, God, living, dying, failure, the passing of time, avalanches, North Korea, carbon monoxide, foreigners, change, fire, over-stimulation, nature’s fury, Armageddon, hitch hikers, promiscuity, bats, promiscuous bats, blindness and bat shit from promiscuous bats, your neighbour, being alone, the sun, solar flares, sex, blood, tap water, that the South with rise again, erections lasting more than four days, tax audits, your kids, Google, false prophets, Stanley, dementia, side effects, the cops, surgical tools behind left behind in your body after surgery, going blind like a promiscuous bat, high blood pressure, low blood sugar, failing an exam, baldness, stroke, lice, body odour, dropped calls, crop failure, drought, catching a draft, rabies, unemployment and incontinence, an unzipped fly, confessionals, nudity, of your own reflection, Steven Segal, surreptitious surveillance, cheese, identity theft, that this is all there is, premature ejaculation, erectile dysfunction, meningitis, a life threatening reaction to bee stings, cancer, nuisance mountain gorillas, having your drink spiked with Rohypnol while ducking in to take a leak in a nightclub, unwanted pregnancy, hostage taking, anthrax and Nickleback, paranormal activity and product tampering, nuclear war, clouds, chickens, pigs and birds, vitamin deficiencies, pain, lawsuits, losing your home or your religion or your bearings while hunting caribou in the backcountry, the economy, storms, memory loss, memory loss, memory loss, being ostracized, bullied, guns, ex-cons, AIDS, head injuries, name calling, dog bites, yellow teeth, sadness, urges in various shapes and forms, suicidal thoughts and pancakes, sudden face swelling, your ex-spouse, independent thinking, sudden cabin pressure loss and catastrophic loss of power, being short-changed, workplace decapitations, self-fulfilling prophecies, anarchy and bedlam, toenail fungus, bad breath, imagination, fallen arches, fallen angels, falling rocks, panty lines, blame, bad acting, scabs, that you’re not strong enough, castles and broad swords, sting rays, psychosis, infidels, flatulence, zombies, a bad diagnosis, bad financial advice, reprisals, repudiation, radiation, retribution or persecution, litigation, slipping, losing your footing, bad dreams, obesity, self-doubt, clowns, fear itself, any country ending in ‘stan’, losing face, losing your mind, losing your shit, having someone steal your shit, not having enough room to keep all your shit, the shit hitting the fan, Leonardo Di Caprio, being attacked by ...
Posts
