I really wanted something grand to announce my ascension to blog captain for these next couple of weeks, but grandness doesn't come easy in this day and age.
Nate "Honk If You're Horny for Golf" Barberick and I once briefly discussed how terrible a certain movie about a writer was, though I think both of us only saw the trailer.
I know I only saw the trailer.
A certain passage from this movie that was utilized in the trailer grated on me, burned into my memory and always seemed at the tip of my thoughts. This was in the early days of the Internet, when I was a full five inches taller (don't ask) and the sky was full of kicking horses. I thought about sampling the passage and trying out the baby Internet as delivery system for the ridiculousness that had been branded onto my brain--no explanation, just the passage, looped, on/in/within the Internet, a megaphone of hate.
I was under no illusion that the project would exorcise the passage from my being, but it seemed like it could be the next best thing to rebroadcasting my sleeping dreams, image-by-image-feeling-by-feeling (which I had dreamt about as a child and would still if I wasn't so jaded by the ugly realities of existence.).
So, I thought about doing it for a while. I lived in an apartment building that smelled like dogs because it was full of pit bulls. Most of the other occupants of the building seemed unhinged and/or special. Me? I was a fucking genius. I video taped a falling burning mattress thrown by a firefighter from a 6story window in the building next door to mine, then a man picking his nose near the scene. I ate Morningstar fake chicken every night, ladies!
At some point at my desk at work, I believe it was in the A.M. (as if it matters), I received what was then called an email that contained this link. I then realized a bunch of shit about the world and myself.
D. Rolf (Your Captain, Your Stomach, Your Lotion, for two weeks)