Ain’t my fault, it’s the devil in me yeah.

Music – Nirvana – Serve the Servants

…and we’re back.

A couple days ago the old LiveJournal went dark.  Across the vastness of the cyberspace, a chorus of voices, anguished and appalled, cried out in unison: “WTF man, where’s your shit?”

Fear not, ye patient and faithful few.  I have returned.

Bold new look, same poor taste!

Why?  Some speculated the change in venue signified a change in temperament.  If only.  Rumors circulated that, what with LiveJournal recently having been purchased by the Russian Mafia (not a joke), I left for fear of reprisal for my radical views.  Also incorrect.

And no, Hillary Clinton did not have me assassinated.


The ugly truth of it is that I am a petty and envious creature, and after having looked upon our newly revamped capoeira website/blog with its hip WordPress interface and sleek tagging system, I greedily moved the hell on with nary a look back over my shoulder.

With a mere three fucking hours worth of hoop-jumping and utility-downloading and forum-posting, I managed to extricate my archive from the old LJ ‘community’, leaving behind its stinking warrens of gap-toothed teenage girls and emotionally unbalanced singer/songwriters.  I didn’t get out unscathed, though.  For whatever reason the little part of the journal that keeps track of what song I was listening to at the time of the post didn’t extract properly.


Now I guess I’ll never know what Primus song was playing at four AM on August 12th 2004 or whatever.  Fuck it. I’ll get over it.  I’ll just start it over from here on out, entering it manually.

Anyway, we’re here now.  Make yourself at home.


So the other day, I’m cruising along through Oakland, doing a brisk 75, when some shit goes down and I almost die.  One minute, I’m just humming along to the radio, the next some big black amorphous… thing slams right into my fucking eye, and I’m swerving across four lanes, shrieking and flailing.


I remember thinking ‘Well shit, this is it. Life’s over. It was fun while it lasted.’

Some subtle property of the universe, or perhaps of human consciousness, makes time dilate when violent death is imminent.  It all happened in a matter of two, three seconds, but I remember it as much longer.

I wrestled the truck back under control two feet from the guard rail, gasping. I flicked on the cab light in time to see the huge fucking moth that assaulted me land in my hair.  This was no frail bug, this girthy fucker was the size of a goddamn sparrow.  I could feel the creepy bastard wiggling around in my hair, and I started to flail around again, swatting my head like a crazy person.

“Shoo motherfucker! Shoo!” Swat swat swat.

I already knew, at this point, that this was much more than some confused insect, flitting around randomly.  I knew this fucker was agent to some malevolent power, sent  to kill me.

“Son of a bitch bug get to fuck… SHOO.” Swat flail swat.  Waving my hands around, I lost track of him for a few moments.

That was no glancing blow to my eye, I thought to myself, no accidental impact.  No way.  This moth was big, and moved quickly, with purpose.  He must have laid in wait on the back of my rearview, for hours, possibly days.  Then, sensing his time had come, the bastard kamikazes right in to my goddamn cornea, trying to blind me and kill us both.  A fiery explosion consuming man and bug alike.

Well hell no, I’m not going out like that.

My breathing was shallow.  I turned the radio off.  I waited, aware.  It’s kill or be killed, bug.  Come get what’s coming to you.

Over the whine of the engine, barely audible, I heard a sound.  Now maybe it was my paranoia talking.  Maybe it was nothing.  Maybe.

Waiting, silent, I hear the faintest of voices, a sound so slight it’s like a blade of grass dropped across a room.

Shoo yourself, bitch.  You’re going down.

Then I feel its sick, devilish fluttering on my ear.

“Aaack! Go away!”

Some primitive killer instinct takes over, and after brushing the thing off my face, I lash out with a left hook.  No more nice, open-handed swatting for you, bug.  Caught between my fist and the unforgiving shatterproof glass of the windshield, the fucker explodes with a gooey, velvety POP.  It was like punching an apricot, the thing was so thick.

“YES BITCH!  God damn bug.  That’ll teach you fuck with mammals.”

I was elated. I was alive.

I rolled down the window and roared my glory out into the night, waving my gore-covered fist at the people waiting in line at the toll plaza.  Wide-eyed and insane with adrenaline, I shrieked at the terrified commuters inside their sensible sedans.

I pulled up to the booth window.

“Four dollars.” She says.

I hold out the money, brandishing it in my fouled, goo-covered fist.


“Have a good evening.” The hefty Samoan lady says, without looking up.


I tore off onto the bridge.


I related this incident to a friend, and it led to discussions about the nature of life and the universe, as many a near-death experience has done before.

He was fretting about being single and dying alone or some whiny crap, and I did my best to reassure him with kind words.

“What the fuck are you complaining about?  Being single is a god damn privilege.  Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Relationships are like bad colds, man.  One day, out of nowhere you wake up with that shit. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. And you know there’s no cure.  All you can do is drink orange juice and get plenty of sleep, hoping it’ll go away on its own.”

“Then why do you date?”

“Because I’m a heartless cynical self-centered sociopath. And girls dig that.”

“True. And you have dimples.”

“And I have dimples.  Besides, being in a relationship severely cuts into your time to concentrate on important shit.  You should enjoy your free time, enjoy your hours of uninterrupted contemplation.”

“What the hell important shit do you think about? In or out of a relationship?”

“Politics.  The nature of the universe.  Whether or not you could make a s’more over hot lava.”


“Think about it.  Could you do it?”

“Of course you could, it’s just like regular fire.”

“Lava is NOT just regular fire, man. That’s liquid fucking rock.  I don’t know that you could even get close enough to it to brown the marshmallow. Your clothes or your eyebrows or something might ignite long before you get your marshmallow into browning range.”

“No way man, if it was like a small lava rivulet and not like a big open volcano, you could totally…”

The discussion continued for quite a while.  I think in the end we decided it could be done with the proper scientific equipment and hazard suits. I don’t really remember.

We were pretty faded by then.



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