Well, I didn't make it.

This was a tough damn month, and I only managed to get to a little on the north side of 32,000 words. I could say that it was because of work, what with the designer event and Black Friday, and I could blame it on Thanksgiving, and not feeling well in the middle of the month. Or I could blame it on all of the strange other events that I don't want to get into here.

But ultimately, the buck stops here. I didn't have it in me this year. Maybe next year.

Back to a more semi-normal posting schedule in a day or two, most likely, not that anyone's reading this.

strange days...

somedays it's dark
somedays i work
i work alone
i walk alone

unknown
sweetness
bring me
laughter
or not

most days i work
most days it's dark
love me
or not

weird things are happening all around... details are unable to be posted here... just think and wonder...

What I have in my heart, I'll take to my grave...

I got to witness the tenth anniversary Hatebreed concert last night at Toad's Place, and it was an amazing, spectacular experience. (Full disclosure: Jamey "Jasta" Shanahan, the lead shouter, who some would say IS Hatebreed, is my first cousin.) My partner in crime and I arrived early and went and had some fine pre-show dining at the Edumacated Burgher on Broadway. For some reason, I always seem to end up at the Burgher before Toads shows. Maybe it's the food, maybe it's the funky atmosphere(the Burgher is one of the last things left on Broadway unmolested by the evil corporate hands of Yale), but I just can't see going to Toads without the Burgher being involved somehow.

Anywho, we then repaired to the entrance of Toads, but on seeing bands still rolling equipment in despite it being nearly 9, we decided to go and sit in Koffee?, since it was about 20 degrees out. We sat and discussed the finer points of making films of comic books until they kicked us out, by which time it was almost showtime. We stood on the sidewalk in front of Toads a bit, taking amusement from the sight of some poor teenage girl coming out of the club with a rather large egg growing out of her forehead, the result of an apparent incident of some nature in the pit. She refused medical attention from the nice policeman standing outside, and instead got some ice and headed back inside, conceivably to get cracked again. When a flood of smokers came out at the end of 100 Demons' set, we headed inside, happy to be on the guest list(Thanks, Jamey and Uncle Jimmy~!)

Hatebreed hit the stage at about ten minutes to eleven, and immediately launched into "Empty Promises", the first song from their first full length(sort of, at 28 minutes) album, Satisfaction Is The Death Of Desire. They followed it by playing the album in its entirety, start to finish, for the first time in eight years. After that, they played the whole Under The Knife EP. By this time, the crowd was insane. Several people got bounced, (though not as many as the December 2003(?) Webster concert, in which Thom and I watched the bouncers have a pitched battle with concertgoers in the alley outside the venue) and for a time, it looked as though the flimsy barricades between all ages and the drinkers might go down. By the time Hatebreed kicked into "I Will Be Heard", their final song, I was completely wrung out, and it felt like we'd been in Toads forever, even though it had barely been 75 minutes. In the end, Thom and I both got to hear the songs we wanted to, it was a phenomenal show, and I got to see it for free.

This is my life, and it's ending one minute at a time...

A terrible title for a post about what I'm thankful for, but the way things have been going, it's how I feel.(It's also what I say to anyone who expresses feelings of sympathy towards my situation.)

Anyway, these are the things I feel thankful for this year:

My loving wife and my wonderful daughter, who put up with way more than they should, and who don't get enough back in return. Thank you.

My family, who continue to support me even when I act like a shithead about money, or bump into someone while driving their car.

My friends, particularly the ones who continue to remain my friends even though I see them about as often as the Jets win.

My jobs, because it was a very loooong unemployed summer.

The internet, because I can bore people looking for links to t-----ts and such with this crap, and because I can get lots of free stuff that I shouldn't have.

My health, which continues to be pretty okay despite how terribly I treat myself.

So, here's to another year of happiness in abject misery.

ATTENTION PHIL MUSHNICK OF THE NEW YORK FASCIST RAG:

Go Fuck Yourself. That is all.

It wouldn't be so fucking bad if you actually had a nice thing to say about Vince once in a while, but the fact that you have a hard-on for the destruction of the WWE and Vince clouds any kind of objectivity you might have. Apparently it's cynical to pay tribute to a guy who died because it only draws ratings. How about all the tributes to Reagan? How about the days of all-Pope-all-the-time TV?

MLB isn't the only sport that has steroid issues. What about the NFL? Lyle Alzado ring a bell?

Fucking Jackass.

I don't even know why I'm dignifying this by posting it, but:

WE'VE been writing it for more than 15 years, but we're going to try it one more time. And then we're going to try to do what the rest of the media does: we're going to ignore it.

After all, what's a dead pro wrestler, or two. Or 20. Or 80. They're only pro wrestlers; it's not as if they're real people.

While Bud Selig and Donald Fehr resisted Congress's efforts to expose and eliminate steroid use, they should be grateful that Congress, and, by extension America, gives a damn whether ballplayers live or die.

On the other hand, it's hard to keep a body count on pro wrestlers, under the age of 40, who have died sudden, steroid-aided deaths in the last 20-25 years.

Not a single active MLB player is known to have died a steroid-related death. But imagine if there had been one. Or two. Imagine if a massively muscled outfielder with the Tigers or Cubs was found dead in his hotel room today.

Last week, as MLB and the MLBPA finalized the Congressionally exacted steroid policy, Eddie Guerrero, one of McMahon's top WWE stars, was found dead in his hotel room in Minnesota.

Pro wrestlers are commonly found dead in their hotel rooms.

It works like this: The wrestlers know that their bosses want over-the-top muscle.

They know that there's an implied, industry-wide directive to be on or to get on the juice.

They know that they have to be on the road many weeks at a time, without any medical coverage or sick days.

Miss a show due to illness or injury and you miss a payday. Often, one or two misses and you're fired.

So the cycle begins. Steroids to get and keep the job, barbiturates to kill the pain and get some sleep, stimulants to get through the next gig.

That's why pro wrestlers are found dead in their hotel rooms.

Guerrero was only 5-8, but with muscles that pushed the limits of natural physiology. And he was a pro drug abuser every bit as much as he was a pro wrestler - the two, in the Vince McMahon Era, rarely stand alone.

McMahon, the king of pro wrestling - himself once massed on steroids - skips through the cemetery. He surely must think it wonderful that so few people care, that the media view his business only as a trendsetter for lowbrow pop culture.

Last week McMahon exploited Guerrero's death to make ratings hay with his NBC-TV partners, first on McMahon's hideously desensitizing USA Network show (USA is now owned by NBC) and then through a speak-no-evil memorial on MSNBC. And let's not forget McMahon's long friendship and partnerships with NBC Sports boss Dick Ebersol, who convinced NBC to turn Saturday nights over to McMahon's XFL.

Lowell Weicker, from McMahon's home state of Connecticut, is a former governor and senator ... [who has] long served as a member of the WWE's Board of Directors. We don't know what Weicker is paid for his presence, but given that he has to look past the perversity of McMahon's TV product and that he has to look around the scores of dead young men produced by the industry, he works cheap.

Anyway, under threat of Congress, MLB last week introduced a stronger drug policy. That made big news - while another pro wrestler dropped dead. And they continue to drop dead, ever so softly, so as to scarcely make a sound.

Just the way McMahon likes it.

(From today's NY Fascist Right Wing Tabloid Rag)

R.I.P. Eddie Guerrero

Eddie Guerrero passes away
Nov. 13, 2005

WWE is deeply saddened by the news that Eddie Guerrero has passed away. He was found dead this morning in his hotel room in Minneapolis.

That's from WWE.com, so it must be legit. Holy crap. Unfortunately, the first thing I thought of was that he died of an overdose, but we'll have to see.

Another wrestler dies young. Too bad.

So this is more than a little surprising...

Vitaly calls it a career.

He certainly wasn't the Klitschko I expected to see retire. But hey, I guess he's been having a lot of trouble getting it together, and I assume he probably didn't want to get stripped of the belt, particularly after the WBC said he had to fight in 60 days or else.

So your heavyweight champions are: Hasim Rahman (WBC), Chris Byrd (IBF), John Ruiz (WBA), and Lamon Brewster (WBO). How freakin' depressing is that?

Blogging from work...

Blocked on the NaNo story.
Working too much...
Brain melting...

New blog~!

Freak of the Week used to be a mailing list for me and a few of my associates. Now it's a blog, a clearinghouse for goofy stories and stuff that makes us laugh. Come and visit us.