fireworks and busts

the fireworks from coranado go off, hurtling thru the soupy smoke of the previous fireworks. after pizza and beer, and several hours away from the pushing crowds of collectors, i am sane enough to say i am not so peeved at the faceless hordes. while waiting for our pizza at a gaslamp pizzeria, we watched police bust a guy and girl in a white van for shooting up. shooting up! on a crowded street?!?! what kind of stupid do you have to be? as 300 plays to the jumbotron audience in the new stadium, i am content with the window open and a chilled out night. i have plans. absolute plans. time is not unified.

variant nation

all of them, scum-sucking variant Hoarders. willing to tongue-kiss homeless people to get their grubby hands on whatever piece of exclusive Plastic is available. exceedingly Seedy. i feel seedy and it hangs on me like the flabby gladiators in their 300 loincloths swathing around in their long red capes, hoping people react to the Fantasy and not the ugly, smelly, stand-in-line-for-an-hour Reality. it becomes about Access and in this pit of 140,000 masturbators of Fantasy, they want to get out of their pimply Reality. what drives them? have they no Fear, no Decorum, that just because you CAN sew a catwoman costume does not mean you should wear it? go to the gym. and in the gym, furtive looks - everyone is Embarrassed because the Reality of hard work is contradictory to the magic words that build their Fantasy. and gods help me, i understand it, but am not Seduced by it, i am wary of that bitch Fantasy. she and her sister cunt Reality will always punch you in the nuts. they are rodents, scurrying and smelly and not even as noble as the rodents of new york and i promised myself i would be Compassionate, but their Loser stink is all over me. i am corrupted by it and appalled and yet i still work this. but i am here to Tell The Story. and i am still looking for the Story and i will keep looking. this Con is filled with people who do not get It. make your own Reality, just don't do it in front of others.

tequila's wretched kiss

oh my god. there were times this morning i actually thought i was going to faint like a girl in the convention hall. the last of three and one half jose cuervo shots were sloshing through my forehead veins, constricting and giving me waves of unreality that kept resolving into overweight people hefting giant warner bros. bags filled with convention exclusives. dear gods ... it was horrific. i felt bad for phil - drunk and stumbling i came home at 1 am, and my room key flashed yellow instead of a comforting green. i had to wake him up - the thought of going downstairs to fix my key was too appalling. got better after a lousy lunch of chips and veggie fajitas at a lobster restaurant and an incredible talk with Ren. Horn likes to yap - i love the guy, but he reminds me of Assymetrical Chest Hagar from CU, who also never shut up.

off to casa roberts to drink more.

Fear and Loathing in San Diego

Loaded only with beer, bottled water and active Manuka honey for the dime-sized splotch of staph infection on my face, I Face the demon of the ages - Comic Con. Every year this scene seems to get worse. Degenerate geeks celebrating their geekiness by harnasssing the collector mentality into an Exclusives Only mania that would make my Plantation Owner Forebears giddy with discriminatory glee. I refuse to let this poopheaded subculture Get to me this year. Almost every year its some life-altering disaster and the day has already plunged into chaos - the signing sheets have not been printed, Shawn is staying (though that may be a blessing - less to worry about as I Descend into the underbelly) and the staph has still not subsided. It rages under the skin, pustulating like the sweaty throngs outside the convention center. I am unworried. I have beer enough to drink through it - god willing.

T-shirt of the day:
Winners train, losers complain.

To which I might add, Fate continues to Refrain.

More later.