The Cuckoo Hoots (Thoughts, Doings, Etceteras)

Haven't done this in a while, so...

What I’m not going to talk about is Trump’s obvious push for tyranny. Or how fucking sycophantic he’s looking toward Musk right now, or how he’s not going after any fucking criminals, just regular immigrants. He’s (of course) saying that he’s going after criminals, but he isn’t. They’ve not busted many criminals. About 7% of those who ICE has busted have been criminals. And the reporting says that’s all ICE is after. It’s bullshit. People wonder and make stupid reels about the cartels not fighting back…well, that’s because he’s not after them. And I’m not going to talk about why. I’m not going to talk about how this is just another example of the system and its self-perpetuating bullshit or the fact that America needs those criminals to perpetuate their prison system by creating lunatic addicts and also keep you needing a hero, and I’m not going to talk about how goddamn cunty it all is. No, not today.

(The clips on the news don't impress me. I've seen them bringing out the same sad old man over and over and over again for a fucking WEEK. Standing in the same doorway. Showing the same ICE team. Does that shit fool anyone? If he was busting the shit out of the cartels, that's all you'd hear. And I don't think people would be lined up in the streets protesting if he was after the criminals. Fucking Trump. Goddamn swine. And I'm starting to wonder if there's not something to that 5G mind control shit, but that's a treatise for another day.)

I hate to say it…or maybe I don’t…but as a man who understands that the blue and red wings flap the same bird who is pecking your eyes out, I’m fast becoming one of those “Fuck politics, I got shit to do” people. This is because politics isn’t going to help me with fucking shit, and it’s really stupid for a man as broke as I am to try and be some sort of political…critic? Shit. No. I think I’ll leave that to those who graduated Summa Cum Laude at a Uni—he knows who he is. And…that’s actually one of the things I’ve been doing, talking to this writer who has an untapped potential to spend the second half of his life as a modern-day Vidal. I can only hope this is realized because the Swine are in the fullest of full effects—Trump will succeed where Reagan did not in fomenting WW3. Why do I think this? Well, a long time ago my late grandfather said, “If we do start a third world war, it will be on account of the Panama Canal.” I find that a little eerie. I wasn’t—

Fuck. I said I wasn’t going to talk about this shit. 

In the past…what is it, three weeks? I’ve turned in my part of The Beauty in Darkness and Piece by Piece. And I cleaned the everloving fuck out of Prince Junkie and turned that in, too. That book needed a lot of editing. I didn't have the skills I have now back then, so if you bought it, I'm sorry. This version is clean, and there will be a paperback.

A bit about it--

When I went to jail in Houston—and Harris County isn’t like this anymore, so you’d to find someone who went there pre-2020—while they still had Mykawa—to know this (and I’m trusting Jimmy here, he went in 2020 when evidently they started giving the criminals televisions, phones, and possibly access to catering), to know that it was once a series of gigantic holding cells called the Dungeon. It was very old west-y. I was there for three days, and I got so dopesick that they dropped my evasion charge and put me on a bus—you can read about in the book, but in the one on Godless, I called it the Tombs. That’s fucking New York. What’s funnier is that I did this when I was there as well, and Jimmy said, “You mean the Dungeon, my guy. Tombs’s New York.” So that’s a thing I’ve fixed.

In the book, Ben goes to jail for washing windows. Part of what actually happened is in Flibbertigibbet, a story in my collection (under Robert Tannahill (evidently, Amazon isn’t savvy enough to know that I’m him as well, thanks to my going by Rob), The Girl in the Galactic Glory Hole and Other Tales. The truth is, that cop let me go. What I went to jail for was cutting through the wrong park on my way to see the Man, being told to stop and come here, saying go fuck yourself and then I ran. I had a backpack with a can and rig, both thankfully clean, in there. I booked across a field, across the street, and tried to hop a dude’s fence before being reminded by some very loud sirens and very loud light and very angry, very large men that there are way more cops than there are of me, they are faster, and they have weapons like tasers. Paraphernalia (clean) is not a charge in Houston.

PJ is a mash-up of 4 years' worth of stuff that I either experienced or heard about written in a very linear way. I may not have done everything Ben did, but someone did, and it made its way into my ear. The people in it are all real people. No one is made up. I kicked it with all of them, and we had our adventures together, but most of what happened was really boring, so I tried to take all the interesting, fucked up, deadly shit I could remember and toss it into a book. I wanted to show what it’s like being homeless and what that may do to your psyche. There are those among you who, as I have seen, believe homelessness is no big deal...I guess I get that. Maybe it is the homeless person who is the big deal or not the big deal by their doings. In Houston, I didn’t live in the shelter. I lived in either the house trap or under the bridge. 

(By the way, it's not a competition for who had it worse--this is the shit I did. I tell it because I literally-in the real sense of the word--don't have another tale to tell. Fuck I'm supposed to do, lie? There's good times in there, too, trust me.  But for all of my disorders, what I don't have is recidivism...I don't know. I thought it sucked balls, man. You can't possibly dig dumpster diving and wandering around dopesick and having to fight guys and getting jumped with bike rims and shit, I don't know...you tell me.) 

When I think about how fucking rotten the trap is, litter everywhere, the occasional piss on the floor, and all the other insanity. Find new and interesting ways to shoot mixed drugs. Maybe someone dies. Maybe someone gets shot or knifed. And maybe none of that happens. It just depends. When Little John tried to shoot Rufus through the door, and bullets were flying all around my head as I got the fuck out post-haste (this is in the book), I don’t know…I kinda thought that was a wee bit of a big deal. But that’s just me. Maybe I’m a wuss.

I like to think telling you a bit about it will help sell the book when it drops. That's what this is as well. My tact will improve in the future, I'm sure.

What's good? My CNF tale Lachesism made it into the Wreckcollections. Prince Junkie (poem) was in the Perch, and my first story was published by Down in the Dirt.

And I finished Mirrorball Road.

Another thing that’s not in the book relates to the next thing I’m putting out soon. About two years into my drug madness, I got the idea that maybe I should use the drugs for something other than merely chasing a head. I didn’t really have an (accessible) True Will back then…I had my past with music to draw from…I’d locked it up…I thought to unlock it. The hallucinations and experiences were mostly schizophrenic, so I wrote a book of poems about it called Mirrorball Road. I thought that if I tried to write it out like I did the more normal, so to speak, experiences I had, it would suck. But the experience makes for a great book poetry collection. It’s done, but since I can’t afford a cover, I’m drawing one, and we’ll see about digitizing it or whatever later. I know fuck all about that stuff. If I can drum up a buck or two, I know exactly who to ask for help. 

And music is getting underway. I figured out how to loop beats yesterday. The instruments are a cinch, but keeping time with the drums isn’t, not so much. It’s the repetition. If I have to play 50 plus measures of the same bloody thing, I kind of space out. I start thinking of other stuff and lose just an ass hair of time—it takes a lot of time for me to get a playthrough right on the drums—I am not so great on a kit. I can play hip-hop beats but that's about it. My blasts and chops are, eh, okay. My flams sound like someone throwing wood on paper.

(Update: I know how to loop beats, but I suck at it as of today. This will change quickly.)

This leads us to comics. I have two ideas in mind—one isn’t really my idea, and that’s Cocaine Bros. I don’t know what’s going on with those guys right now. The small issue did fuck all, so maybe I need to get down for a few months and get 30 pages together and show you all that. There’s nothing wrong with taking a little time. I still feel like people are making stank face at me about Tucker being a MAGA. It's not for glory, WE PROMISE. You'll see. 

And then there's Hassafrass. He is Barrister Bob's split personality, or Aylmer, yen dragon, incubus, shadow side, or projection; pick your description. Bob, a chaos magician, makes his own special drug cocktail, and Hassafrass is his just reward. What he really is--a narcissistic little demonic pain in the balls who follows a drug-addicted lawyer around all day talking shit. He also thinks he's an alien, but he isn't. He's just a piece of poor Barrister Bob.

And then there's Polarity. 

I don't want to say squat about it yet (or anywhere in public) other than it makes my soul hard. 

All coming soon, soon, soon, in the realm of soon and ish.

Thanks for being here, y'all.