In order of inception and abandamnation:
This one was about this time I went to the beach. (I don’t go to the beach very often.) I was dating this girl, she lived down in Hermosa. Hermosa is like, down by… the water.
One time I was down there and I woke up in the morning. She’d gone off to work for the day. I went outside and found some coffee. Then I went down to the beach.
There were surfers surfing and I went out on the pier. There were lots of guys fishing. I stood at the end and stared off into the water. (I do this a lot, because I’m dreamy.)
Then there was this really weird thing that happened. There was this guy with a boombox and it was playing The Doors. It was playing the song “The End.” It was playing “The End” and I was standing at the end of the pier. At the time I noticed it was playing “The End,” I was thinking about my life and how so much of it had gone so very wrong, and there were all these people that were gone and all these things that had happened and now were over, and how my life seemed pretty much, well, over, and then there was this song going on about how this was the end, my beautiful friend, and, well, I felt bad.
So that was a post about how I felt bad. But I didn’t post it because I didn’t want people to think that I was suicidal or anything and be all, oh Ben, there’s no reason to be suicidal! There’s so much to live for and etc.! So I didn’t post that. Which is fine.
There was this one time that I played pinball. I don’t really remember why I didn’t post that. I went to a bowling alley and played pinball and there was this kid who wanted to play too, and I was like, oh jeez, now I have to play pinball with this little kid and he’s gonna suck and is gonna talk a lot and be a pain in the ass, but actually he was pretty cool and didn’t talk overly much and actually wasn’t bad at pinball! So that was a relief, and also he told me some interesting facts about the X-box (sp?) which I have since forgotten.
This was a post about my Mom and the time my cat died. But nobody wants to read about that. My cat was twenty. Twenty! That’s pretty old for a cat. Her name was Tessie. I’d gone back to visit my parents for Christmas and my parents met me at the airport and they were both crying. Tessie is dying, my mom said. So we drove home and there was Tessie dying on the kitchen floor. She was lying on the rug sort of under this counter-type thing where it was warm. She was soaking wet and shaking and I lay there with her all night until she died. Then in the morning my mom and I dug a hole in the garden and buried her. I forgot to close her eyes and when we put her in the hole some dirt fell down into her open eye and I have never forgiven myself for letting that happen. But who wants to read about that. Not me. Also for months I worried that some dog or bear or something was going to dig her up and eat her. I had covered her grave with about eighty pounds of the biggest rocks I could find on my parents’ property so that wouldn’t happen, but still I worried about it. It turned out to be okay, though, nobody dug her up. And now when I go home her grave is covered with all these vines and flowers that my mom planted, so that’s nice. You can see it from the kitchen window when you use the sink.
This was some thing about some girl. There was some other guy and she lived in some other country and it was unpleasant. Don’t get involved in long distance relationships, was the point of that story, but everybody knows that so what’s the point in talking about it? No point, exactly. Moving on.
This was a post about the air quality in Los Angeles. I have no idea why I would ever write such a thing. I think my thesis was that the air quality was bad. I have always been a daring thinker.
This was a post about all the people who write for The Nervous Breakdown. It was cleverly done by rapidly transitioning between the various styles and preoccupations of the different writers without ever of course saying who they were. This would have been fun because everyone likes to see themselves portrayed in the world. But on the other hand I am naturally satirical so it would have gotten me lynched. I eventually deleted it from my hard drive so in case I accidentally was murdered by someone it would not come to light like Kafka’s posthumous works and get me hated in the nonexistent afterlife that happens on this planet when you’re dead. No, I will not tell you how I made fun of you.
This was a post about the sky and all the things I have seen in it. There was a shooting star I saw one time at Point Dume which was quite meaningful to me. I was sitting on this boulder at about three in the morning and I said, Hey God, if you exist, give me a sign, and immediately– immediately!– this shooting star came blazing across the sky, directly overhead, I swear to God. And when it was gone, I sat there for a while, and then finally I said, but really, God, if you exist, give me just one more sign. And nothing happened.
But I didn’t post that because, well, I don’t know. Still a little unclear on that whole God thing.
Oh shit, getting paranoid and anxious. Moving on.
This was a post about The Melvins and how and why they are the greatest band on the planet. Not sure how and why how and why are different. Anyway, nobody wants to read about the Melvins, except maybe Milo, and Megan Nico DiLullo, and even if they did, it’s really hard to write about music. You find yourself talking like an asshole, like one of those horrible people who like wine and want to tell you about its fucking bouquet or whatever. So I didn’t write that post. But the Melvins really are the best band on the planet, and if you don’t believe me you deserve everything you get in my opinion.
This was a post about the concept of midnight. It sounded like a great idea but it turned out that I didn’t have much to say on the subject. I contrasted it with the idea of noon and I think assayed a clever comparison involving the idea of mirror worlds. I think I was high when I tried to write that, which is weird because I haven’t smoked pot in about nine years because it makes me psychotic. But I have heard that THC lives in your fatty tissue and is released sometimes at inopportune moments like when you are trying to write posts for The Nervous Breakdown. So that’s probably what happened.
This was a post about my favorite CDs. Like, those few CDs that I seriously could not live without. I own about 800 CDs and I did some serious soul-searching and discovered that all but 17 were essentially disposable. I tried to write little things (very descriptive term) about each of them but came up against ye olde Melvins music problem. This CD is meaty with a peppermint-apple aftertaste. I will say that the CDs were: Herbie Hancock’s Sextant, Waylon Jennings’ Dreaming My Dreams, Les Paul and Mary Ford’s How High the Moon, Slayer’s South of Heaven, The Beatles’ Abbey Road, Harnoncourt’s recording of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, Black Sabbath’s Master of Reality, Arvo Part’s Alina, the complete recordings of Charley Patton, the Takacs Quartet’s recording of Bartok’s String Quartets, the Beastie Boys’ Paul’s Boutique, the Jimi Hendrix Experience’s Are You Experienced?, Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here, and this CD of chanting monks which is Dufay but I don’t remember which Dufay, music for St. James the something. Also I was hesitating on whether or not to include the Neutral Milk Hotel and Marilyn Manson’s Mechanical Animals. I knew Duke would be pissed at me if I included Manson but on the other hand I figured Duke would be pissed anyway cuz of all the other ones. Then I got a little pissed at myself because I was worried about whether or not Duke would be pissed, not that I don’t like Duke and value his opinion, just that, you know, I’m old enough now that I think I shouldn’t worry about being cool in front of the cool kids only apparently I still do. Also of course every Melvins album ever recorded should be on there but I was strict with myself and narrowed it down to The Maggot and Houdini. It was hard. Oh, and Patsy Cline!!! Greatest Motherfucking Hits, people!!! Recognize!!!!
This was a post about the headaches I’ve been having lately but I didn’t want to hear a bunch of stuff about how I should see a doctor and whatnot. Also I haven’t really been having headaches lately and I couldn’t figure out why I’d want to write an elaborate post about something that just wasn’t true at all. I don’t think I’ve gotten a headache in about nine years. Which is coincidentally about as long as it’s been since I smoked pot. Interesting, no? I think so. Actually I don’t. Who cares.
This was a post about all the posts that I was going to write but didn’t. I figured there should be twelve of them because twelve is a dozen and lots of tasty foods come in sizes of a dozen. But then I couldn’t think of a dozen posts that I hadn’t written so I had to make the last one up. Then I felt like I had cheated but I didn’t want to erase the last one because somehow it was my favorite. I didn’t really know how to end it though, so I am still writing it. Someday maybe I will finish and post it and then you will be able to read it. In the meantime I hope you are all doing well. I’m sorry for not lampooning you publicly. It was nothing personal, I assure you. I’m lying in bed now. Infinite Jest is beside me but I haven’t read it yet because my life is (apparently) of finite duration. Also I am wearing socks and other clothes and the iPod clock radio thing is playing Patsy Cline as it should. Did you know that Willie Nelson wrote the song “Crazy?” A lot of people don’t know that, I say, having absolutely no idea what people do or do not know. Also probably most people don’t give a shit anyway. Or even know who Patsy Cline is. It’s frightening to think that we live in a world where people don’t know who Patsy Cline is, or Slayer. I mean, it’s okay if you live in Africa or whatever, but not if you live here, in America, the right place. If you live here you have to know these things. On the other hand I hear people talking about someone named Lady Gaga or some shit and I have no idea who that is so maybe I shouldn’t talk. But I have a hard time believing that Lady Gaga is anywhere close to Patsy Cline’s league so whatever, fuck the world. I sound very grumpy, don’t I? But I’m really not. It’s probably just these headaches I’ve been having.
P.S. I’m really very handsome.