Blog rhymes with flog. As in flog the dolphin. I hope that everyone cuts up the plastic soda can six-pack holders in the Year of our Lord 2014 so dolphins do not die. Every article I read, every podcast I hear, every televised image that I watch, and every motherfucking feeling that I feel in my heart muscle tells me we are so fucking fucked. That depresses the shit out of me because I have a son and a daughter. Turn the volume up to 11. That last sentence conforms to the A.P. style manual so that would mean you may kiss my asshole. In the modern parlance I am on my stream of conscience tripped out hippy bullshit, but I digress.
Every once in a while I make up words and that should make you happy. Too many conform. Too many worry about the gatekeepers. Bring that beat back. Gladiatorial pursuits do not mesh with my modus operandi. I am not certain that my Latin was correct in that last sentence. If it was I must protest the squiggly red line indicating a spelling error. I am just a man. A man has to work. DJ scratches illuminate my inner childishness. Fun, fun, fun till my Daddy took my trust fund away. Stand on your own two. Get out the den. Jane’s Addiction was greater than Nirvana. I can sympathize with 99 percent of men in a box. My wife needs to shut up. I realize that it is past my bed time. Raised voices hurt my heart muscle. I am scared I am not a good parent. Catholic Guilt. I capitalized “Guilt” on purpose. I recently started praying again and resuming the practice has been trans formative. DJ Premier smokes too many cigarettes. Talking to a God or Creator brings me solace. I realize that we are nothing but mammals, but my yearning for a spiritual connection is too great to ignore. I was raised Catholic. The gift of guilt stays with me to this day. Tomorrow is Friday. I must sleep. Love, peace, and chicken grease.