What a Bullshit Return

I got a hotrod Ford and a two dollar bill.

Indeed. I also have an empty glass smelling of lightning jet fuel mineral smelling vapors. Those vapors, the remnant of a raptured Kentucky church of spirituous beauty, will shortly be replaced by more of Austin Nichol’s finest. The liquid is growing frost in my freezer, acquiring icy love of the first or fifth order. Importantly, there are five platonic solids, and damned if they all mean at least something to mineralogy with the exception of the most complicated and most numerously vectored among them. Yes, there is in fact a naturally occurring pentagonal dodecahedron in nature. We like to call it pyrite. Any pyrite, really. Five sides on the crystal faces, twelve separate non-intersecting vectors, fucking cooler than hell. Much like that one girl, the honky-tonking woman, the one that knows her rank well. In fact some of this stuff down here under heaven is just cooler than hell.

Anyway. The point is this:

Where have all the men gone? Where have they left to? Let me forgo the defining of the breed, you know them when you meet them. Or at least you should.

Why are there so many weak boys? Why are there so many of my sex that are such worthless specimens of the species? Why do they hurt my friends? Why do they make them cry?

I have no answer. They are weak, and in that weakness, they hurt my friends. I cannot abide by such action. Their activities raise up in me the warrior tendencies I have since sandy diesel stained murders tried to put to bed. I hate them. I hate that they hurt my friend.

Men are strong. With strength of any ilk comes the responsibility to protect. Whether your creator is God or selection, our human species depends on the strong defending the precious. When those jello-spined males do not live up to their role, the role of proactive manhood, of not being a little bitch, they hurt my friends and they insult my manhood. I want those males to hurt in turn. I want to make them cry.

I am no longer violent. But I can say this:

I have spilled enough real innocent beautiful human blood for bullshit ideology and capital gain that breaking a nose on general fucking principle is not going to keep me awake at night.

I hate that about myself.

Choose Your Own Damn Title

You know what? I'm bored with this.

I really don't want to do this anymore. This constant creativity. I'll still be around, and I'm sure I'll be back, but it will be a while. Maybe a month or two, maybe a week or two. I have a vague idea of a post I might put up in the next few days, but I don't know how to write it and I'm tired of this writing crap.

That doesn't mean I'm not going to stop by and say nice things to those who need it or mean things to those who need it (GSR). In other words, I'm not gone, just not being productive. Besides, I have drag races to go to. And mountain biking to do. And people to associate with.

So, anyway, that was that.

I'll email all interested parties when I decide to restart this thing. Or if I kill it off more effectively than this little message.

I'll still be playing around occasionally at The Five, and you're all welcome to stop by.

Arnold

So camping didn't happen. That's fine, I guess. Next week I go up to see the drags in Denver, but the week after I'm free.

Here and there I've been missing someone. A couple of them, really. At this point it's just gotten complicated to say I miss people. This one was a friend of mine who taught me important things. When to plant turnips. How to start grape cuttings. How to use old crankcase oil and spent gasoline to make smudgepots. Smudgepots are important. They keep fruit alive. He taught me how to irrigate and how to conserve water, never taking more than the absolute minimum. He taught me how to start a tractor using the crank start under the radiator. We spent years talking often under the shade of his shed. I kept up his house as time murdered his bones.

He told me over time about his life. The man had a grasp of the tragic, but he kept a grasp also of the comic. Good guys marry crazy bitches, apparently.

He died and I missed his funeral. I never got to hang out with him on his way out of this world. I was off in The Gulf. He saw one more war take away a friend of his before he resigned himself to the ground he had made his living.

I always miss him around this time of year. He died right after the Fourth.

I'm Leaving

I'll be gone for a while. Not cryptically gone. Not OMG! I'm leaving forEVER!

I'm just not going to be near any sort of networkish trash. I have a holiday to remember not to drink during, a boat-ramp-side memorial/fishing trip and burial-at-lake service (welcome to Colorado), and maybe a camping trip if the funds to get out of town come available. I also have this murderous physical training routine I have been subjecting myself to since by all current information, I'm still leaving soon. Important? Probably not.