Let’s see. Manson thought the Beatles were talking to him. Chapman thought he was Lennon’s mirror self. And some nutbag last night in Columbus apparently blamed Dimebag Darrell for breaking up Pantera.
Once again, insanity rears up and bites the music world on the ass. There’s no making sense of any of it — why would you want to kill your “other self”? Why would you try to start a race war because of someone’s lyrics? And what logic underlies shooting a guitarist over a band breakup? Didn’t it occur to the shooter that bullets are a minor impediment to a possible reunion tour?
It’s sad and stupid and pointless to try to figure out, but it’s scary, too, knowing that anyone can go at any time because some cross-wired brain sends a goofed impulse at the beginning of the day.
You look around you and see the behavior that you can’t explain or understand, no matter how empathetic you consider yourself, no matter how in touch with thinking outside the box, and it’s hard not to wonder why.
There’s a lot of wrong in the world that still ends up making sense — murder for revenge, starting wars over territory, whatever. It’s the other evil that makes me truly sad.
Or maybe that was food is for chumps. I can’t recall anymore. Late nights of staying awake punching in code until the letters and numbers and operands and function calls all look more and more like Axl Rose and Judy Garland’s bastard stepchild — that’s what’ll be the death of me. Fuck drinking my liver into an early and forced retirement, or being bludgeoned to death by elderly women with sharp sticks… I’m taking the nerd’s way out.
But at least I’m not stealing another person’s words and thoughts uncredited.*
There’s something clearly refreshing and ever-so-slightly moronic about staying up for more than 24 hours in a row at the age of 33. Even if it is ostensibly in the name of capitalism — yay, Almighty Dollar Bill Y’all!
Geez. Fred Durst. There’s a set of eye sockets waiting — begging, even — for a good crunchy fuck.
I’m now at the point in my consciousness that not even Warren Ellis’ depraved web challenges can hurt me. Instead, I’m am listening to the Flower Kings and preparing to go and scoop kitty poo from a tiny box, because the voices in my head demand it.
Bah, humbug. More caviar, Jeeves, and bring me the head of a Thai ladyboy while you’re in the kitchen.