Goddamn. I had something mentally prepared for today’s blog but then I took too many Tylenol PMs and then I forgot all of it. So it’s no wonder RFK is trying to ban that shit. And speaking of autism, it’s cool to claim to be autistic. Drank too many Natty Lights and cruised through a school zone 45 miles over the speed limit? “Sorry officer. I can’t read social cues. I’m autistic.”
Is it stealing autism valor? You be the judge.
I can’t believe it’s been two years since the Great One died. Time flies when you’re a miserable sack of shit. And there’s been a lot that has come out about McCarthy’s personal life in the time since. Honestly, there’s nothing too surprising about these revelations. He was a voracious reader, which stands to reason. A book hoarder. AND he carried out a “relationship” with an underaged girl back in the 70s while he himself was in his 40s. So in other words, Cormac McCarthy was a dirtbag. There’s no skating around it.
But I give little shit about his personal life. The only thing I mourn is the that there will be no more McCarthy novels. Because my fundamental assertion stands: he was the greatest American writer of all time. And I might go a step further. It’s possible that he’s the greatest writer of English literature. Initially what annoyed me with his obituaries was the constant citing of No Country for Old Men and The Road as his most known books when obviously his greatest work is Blood Meridian. And I stand by that. But that’s my assertion from a critical and historical perspective. It’s not my personal favorite of his.
Blood Meridian, his fifth book, was a turning point in McCarthy’s career when he shifted from the “southern gothic” genre into the western. And I’m gonna be honest with you: I prefer the earlier work. Not to say that I don’t appreciate the westerns. Every work from McCarthy is a treasure. Blood Meridian is obviously a masterpiece. Some of his finest prose can be found in the Border Trilogy starting with All The Pretty Horses. In fact, many McCarthy heads will call the second in the trilogy, The Crossing, his best work. And I say that the conclusion to Cities on the Plain is the most moving. But as a personal preference, my two favorite of McCarthy’s are his third and fourth books: Child of God and Suttree respectively.
Next to his first book, The Orchard Keeper, Child of God might be his least appreciated work. I don’t know if it’s due to it being centered on the heinous acts of a serial killer or what. Next to Blood Meridian and No Country for Old Men, it might be McCarthy’s most nihilistic novel. But I think it’s McCarthy at his most stripped down and it sets up many of the themes that we’d find in his later work, notably No Country for Old Men. After Child of God, he followed it up with his most personal novel, Suttree, which along with his last books The Passenger/Stella Maris, might be the biggest outlier.
In the two years since McCarthy’s passing, Blood Meridian has been recognized as one of the great American novels. In fact, his Reddit board is now mostly artistic renderings of the novel’s antagonist, Judge Holden. So in short, Blood Meridian has entered the zeitgeist. But I want to make it clear, although Child of God and Suttree are my personal favorites, it could be argued that any one of McCarthy’s books is the greatest American novel.
Anadeia has been changed to VANITAS. I simply prefer the sound of Latin over Greek. There’s no other reason for it. I’m trudging through the second and third drafts of the book but it will be ready to go come November regardless of my satisfaction with it. Perfection doesn’t exist. At some point an artist must let go.
Onto more sadder news, it will be released on Amazon. I’m not happy with the decision either but it was the only option. You can choose to support it or not. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t write the book for you.
But if you do read it, please leave a review 🙏 good or bad, I don’t care. Just make it funny. Because if you give me a dead serious bad review, I will roast the FUCK out of you on this blog and all social media using your real name if available. Just try me. I’m BEGGING you.
Before CIA and JSOC operators come busting through my door, I just want to say that I’ve been blowing through the Blowback podcast. If you’re a dork for the history of US foreign policy since the end of World War II, it’s a must listen. The United States is an empire. Let’s not kid ourselves on that. But it’s one that differs from empires of the past. The United States of America is more than just a geographical territory. It’s also a cultural and ideological one. It doesn’t need to unleash a legion of troops and rain down bombs from the heavens. Instead its weapon of choice is a far more sinister one: it’s Pepsi, it’s Apple, it’s Hollywood, it’s the movement of capital into the hands of the few. Armies and navies and cults of personalities don’t make a nation. It’s the hearts and minds of the people that do. And nothing eradicates the soul greater than a nice sugary drink from Coca-Cola to bring us to the precipice of diabetes. That is the true might of America.
This is the great dying of beloved franchises. And while I can sit back and laugh at Star Wars and LotR fans for their respective enshitifications, I too have witnessed the sad decline of the much loved series Star Trek, which had as much of an impact on me as James Bond. Luckily for me, I had Redlettermedia guide me through the mourning process and now I hardly think about Star Trek at all. In fact, in my head canon, Star Trek effectively ended with Enterprise in 2002. Fans can gloat on about how under appreciated Discovery was, or how good Lower Decks and Strange New Worlds is, etc, etc. But it’s over for me.
This is the way it should be. For something to be truly appreciated, its very existence has to be jeopardized. But this also allows us to pave way for the future.
I could have bitched and moaned about Denis Villeneuve and Amazon’s decision to focus the next Bond movie on 007’s early adventures in a 3+hour action romp, but whatever. That’s out of my control. I’m an old Bond head and the next film is not being made with me in mind. I turn 109 next summer. It’s time for some new blood. But unlike with Star Trek, there will be no one to help me through the mourning. James Bond doesn’t have that kind of fan base. I have to sit alone in a garage with a bottle of Taaka and a loaded .38 and weep alone. At least that’s the way James Bond would have wanted.
But in the words of megalomaniac Paul of Tarsus, it’s time to put childish things away and accept that James Bond died by a brutal missile barrage in No Time To Die. That’s the way he would have wanted it.
I think I owe my readers an apology. So far, the only two people inducted into the Real Ass Dude HoF have been a rage-addicted lunatic who became a legendary basketball coach and and ordinary joe who bowled a perfect game on 9/11. They earned their spots I must say. But if there’s one man who exemplifies the spirit of this prestigious hall the best, it is legendary MLB pitcher Dock Phillip Ellis Jr. The mistake I made was putting Robert Montgomery Knight in the hall before him.
That’s on me.
But Dock Ellis won a World Series title with the Pittsburgh Pirates in 1971 and was a fierce advocate for his fellow African American players in the league. After retiring, he overcame drug addiction and assisted others on their road to sobriety. He died in 2008 at age 63. These things alone are enough to put Ellis in rarified air. He overcame social injustices and personal demons to thrive at the highest levels in professional baseball.
And in truth, that should be his real legacy.
But people today probably remember him best for a game on June 12th, 1970. While playing against the Padres in San Diego, Ellis pitched a no hitter. What made this achievement even more remarkable is that he did this while under the influence of LSD. This event is now canonized in baseball lore, and while it has been subject to scrutiny, Ellis’ retelling of it is stuff of legend. There’s nothing I can say here that could top what he and others have said and written about it. My advice to you, if you haven’t already done so, is to go see for yourself.
And it’s for these reasons why Dock Ellis is the third inductee into the Real Ass Dude Hall of Fame.
The only thing that sucks more than writing is rewriting because I exclusively receive satisfaction from the creative process when the product is finished. Unfortunately some people tell me that a story only comes together in editing. But in return, I tell them that they’re fucking cucks. The story comes together by DOING; by putting pen to paper. NOT dilly dallying around with it afterwards. I say this because nearly every story I’ve written gets altered dramatically once rewriting commences and almost every time it becomes a story a didn’t originally envision.
Of course this is bullshit too. It’s a lie I tell myself to justify my laziness. The term “ADHD” gets thrown around a lot but I think it’s accurate in my case here. I have too many ideas running around in my head and I try to rush through projects to get to the next one. You can’t do that. If every writer did that there’d be no good writers. A story needs to be cared for and incubated like a newborn child. And that’s where I find myself now with Anaideia (working title).
Right now my heart is with kingdom of god. It may look like shit currently but once finished it be a fully presentable and coherent story. The problem is I have another child, the aforementioned Anaideia, that desperately needs my attention and I gotta whip her into shape and get her ready for publication before November.
Kingdom of god will be put on hold in consequence. It’s bullshit, I know, but there’s only so many hours in a day.
I think I ate too many pizza rolls yesterday so I was busy shitting out my doo doo ass to write anything. But a dark cloud is hovering over the real world right now. It’s like the feeble dam that separates the eccentricities of the internet has broken down and now all the groypers, paranoia, and post-irony is bleeding out into reality. It’s really hurting my brain. And as a so called “writer”, it sucks. The moment you put pen to paper, it’s too late. Reality has jumped 10 steps ahead of you and you’re left scratching your ass wondering what to do next.
How is it possible to have a reality where everyone is out of touch? There is no center of gravity. Whatever anchored a shared basis of perception for thousands of years has withered away. We’re all raving lunatics in a boundless asylum. But I have to remind myself that the world has always been shit for the vast majority of people. Which doesn’t make me feel better if I’m being honest. But it does remind me that progress and regression are historical constructions.
The truth is humanity is stuck in perpetual purgatory.
Telas tepidly approached the Shepherd’s bedside. With glazed eyes focused muddily towards the heavens, the old man was as motionless as death. The high priest pondered. Whatever was left within this cold vessel was a perpetual hostage suspended in the spaces between the living and the dead.. then monitors and machines beeped and dinged wildly as nurses rushed to his aid. There was a faint gagging. The mush that counted as the old man’s sustenance was lodged in his throat. While alarming to witness, Telas hoped that this was the sweet relief that the comatose man was looking for. But they pried open his mouth. Suction tubes were shoved in. Bill Wilcox stood calmly, almost disinterestedly, as the calamity unfolded. The suctioning screeched a loud scraping sound and the Shepherd jostled lightly as if to cling on to the last vestiges of life. But then the machines resumed their usual sounds. The obstruction was cleared and the old man glossed up at the ceiling as he did before. Then Wilcox continued his briefing.
“If this is a bad time, we can do this another…,” Telas began to say.
“Nonsense,” Wilcox interrupted. “The Shepherd wants you to know that he admired Jonny, and he is very thankful for your support.”
“Thank you. And you can tell the Shepherd that I’m thankful for his hospitality.”
“No need to tell me,” said Wilcox. “The Shepherd is perfectly capable of hearing your gratitude.”
Telas looked awkwardly at the old man and nodded. “Thank you sir,” he greeted.
“Now onto more pressing matters,” Wilcox continued. “The temple at Nisan will need to be dismantled. Once when the city’s population has been relocated to the south, you will be permitted to reestablish it with certain caveats.”
“Such as?”
“The followers of Jonny and others within the Alcain religion must not be granted pilgrimage to the Nain. That region will be off limits.”
The high priest shook his head. “The Nain has been a part of our religion for generations. While pilgrimages can be prohibited by temple decree, it will be impossible to stop them entirely…”
“That may be true,” Wilcox warned, “but by the end of the year, any trespassers in the region will be executed.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
I’m not a monster. I’m not some goddamn alien that’s incapable of human empathy. Like many Americans, I’ve been processing some conflicting emotions. Because it’s weird. It’s surreal seeing a guy who dominated Internet spaces get VIOLENTLY shot down. I don’t think it’s helpful to dismiss that experience. But better people than Charlie Kirk get gunned down daily without hardly a blip on the radar.
What’s ironic to me though is that Kirk was a victim of his own zeitgeist. And I’m not talking about his politics. I’m talking about something more broader. The movement that Kirk championed found its success in the “flood the zone” strategy, or hitting apathetic voters with cheap content made to obfuscate the specter of late stage capitalism. Donald Trump used this media landscape to his advantage with Charlie Kirk acting as his “vanguard”. What we have today is a meltdown of meaning, of shared common reality, of the desire for consistent ideology. Or worse, we’re witnessing the deconstruction of memory and the forward progression of time. Information and life itself is cheapened. Expectations for a better destiny eradicated. As Mark Fisher said, it’s the “slow cancellation of the future.”
And because the future has been canceled, there will be no climax to Charlie Kirk’s death. No retribution. No promise of a coming civil war. The administration will heap on posthumous accolades and bury him with honors but that will be his story. The end. In two weeks, the vanguard will have a new savior and perhaps one that will carry the water better than Kirk ever did. We will forget that yesterday’s events happened.
It will be just another tragedy.
It’s what Kirk would have wanted. Or perhaps he’s a victim of his own success.
The Internet Ruined Everything 