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January 8, 2003 "Nothing can stop me now.. nothing." - NIN Lying on my back on the deck just now, suspended above the waters of Rollover Bay, soaking up the morning sun, I thought of that dialogue from Fight Club about fighting celebrities. Brad Pitt's character asks Edward Norton whom he would fight right now if he could fight anyone in the world, alive or dead. Ed says Gandhi the first time. Later he says William Shatner. Although I was on a cell phone at the time rapping with a known underground rabble-rouser friend in Cali and thus the line was almost certainly tapped, I said I'd fight George W. I'm in a fighting mood. I'm not mad or anything. I just feel pent up, tightly wound, stretched stiff as a crossbow and ready to fire straight into the heart of Our Country Tis of Thee. I'm 36 years old, too old to draft, and thankful for that. Maybe I'll just go to Hollywood and get on as a pyrotechnician, blow some shit up. Speaking of hearts, me brother Rocky just had his heart carved open yesterday by a gang of 12 monkeys with very sharp knives. I was worried about him until I got his voice mail this morning saying he was all right. Poor Rocky. It would figure the guy with the biggest heart I know would have a faulty heart valve. I feel like Marla Singer from Fight Club with her fuckitall you could die any day philosophy and the second half of that: the tragedy being that she didn't. She just kept on living. Take my heart, Rocky. I'm not using it. Speaking of usefulness.. my Jerry's Kids-esque Xmas invitation to WHOEVER U ALL R out there to kick down to The Cause of Jiggleism couldn't have been a bigger frikken flop. The damn "Donate" button from Paypal might as well have said "Click Here To Make Rick Eat Shit." I don't know who the hell reads this site, but I can take a crack guess at the financial demographic: POOR. And far be it from me to hammer on anyone living in the kind of poverty that is my daily dumpster bread. Read away, gutter children. I exempt you from the Donate button. YOU ARE THE FUTURE, MY LITTLE GUTTER BABIES! Maybe like Adolph and his boys we can capitalize on the cultural poverty of this nation, build an army, paint the world map black. [This is what listening to Trent Reznor over your morning coffee can do for you!] MANY, MANY THANKS to the TWO individuals who did click the Donate button for a sum total of $30. Mike and Greg, thank you. Mike is currently in the negative income situation of law school, and Greg, a fantastic artist who had to give up his art to support his family as an architect, is about to have a baby. Hooray, Greg! Don't you just long sometimes for the days of Daniel Boone? America's early days, back before we bought Louisiana from Napoleon for $16 million, roughly four cents an acre. And I'm not talking the Louisiana of today, but the Louisiana Purchase, damn near the whole frikken West. But even Daniel Boone died poor and pissed off. Pioneers, like good writers perhaps, get little more than the pleasure of doing something genuine. Though admittedly that is a lot more than most get. The spoils go to the lawyers and the next of kin. Or maybe I'm just talking out of my ass. I wish I could talk out of my ass. I'd have a few choice words about that damn Donate button. Anyway... So to you my loyal readers, my gutter babies, my dumpster diving divas and dukes, and to you Mike and Greg and Odhulk and Pepper Mouser and Grammy and Colby and Sis and Mary and the whole list of you who kicked down toward Duke's first and second replacement engines, thank you and grandiose apologies for dropping off the map shortly before Christmas and not reappearing until now BUT I WAS BUSY! I was, in fact, out having fun. I was on the road. I was in Mexico. I was kickin' it with my nephews in soCal. I was dancing in the streets of Bisbee on New Year's Eve and then watching Molly pop away at her balloon suit right down to her birthday suit at Jay's birthday burlesque two days later. I was busy. Now I'm back in Texas, a big state fulla big-hearted artists who have embraced me of late, never questioning my itinerant status just inviting me to stay and write and make art and maybe soon to learn to weld and continue, as always, to parade around Houston like goofy chickens in peacock-feathered cars for no other reason than just because we can. God Bless Texas and the whole of Earth around it and all the sad sacks of bones who found it and foundered and floundered and fangled and spangled and friggered it. I'm gonna buy me a boat and float on it, upon it's thousands of rivers flowing hither and yon. I'll be Fitzcarraldo before I'm finished. And Rocky, tender that heart. We got work to do. We gotta stomp on the Chungle! Happy Birthday, Elvis. RSM the Duke of Random Verbiage
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