Perils of blogging

Blogging is risky business. My last post — about the possibility of an afterlifewas suddenly slapped with a ‘This post is bullshit’ tag. By what or by whom I don’t know. It’s disconcerting to say the least, you feel like you’re walking — or typing — on eggshells. 

There’s a lot worse than walking on eggshells, of course. Like walking barefoot on hot coals, which I think is practiced by certain religions. Or walking barefoot on broken glass. There was quite a bit of walking on broken glass in those old cowboy movie barroom brawls but they were never barefoot. I never saw one cowboy movie where a dude walked barefoot into a barroom brawl. Most of them even died with their boots on. That’s what I’d like to do — it’s more manly than dying in bedroom slippers, or what would be worse, those slip-proof socks they give you in hospital.

I saw a barefoot barroom fight in Florida. One of those coastal town bars where no shoes are required. I remember a Snowbird from Montreal who came down to Florida just to get his feet warm ended up with bloody feet. Nasty business.

That was Florida in the Miami Vice 1980s — great and grisly. My wife had a high paying job as a risk analyst for multi-national companies doing business in dangerous countries, and I was a lowly writer for the Miami Herald.

I was a pretty good reporter, but a classic example of Hunter S. Thompson’s definition of a journalist — a “fuckoff and a misfit.” That fit the Bill all right. It’s a miracle to me that my wife stayed with me for thirty years. Until she left the planet to be with the Silver Surfer.

Which explains why I now live alone on a meager fixed income in a hovel in the Lower Hudson Valley with a cat and half a dozen ghosts, not to mention half a dozen spirits contained in bottles labeled gin, rum, vodka, scotch, bourbon, cognac and a couple of others I can’t remember. All of which are getting more expensive every day.

But I manage to get by. I have enough money left over for French baguettes, Brie cheese and caviar. Brie spread on crunchy French bread topped with caviar and accompanied by a vodka martini with green olives. Delicious. And a Brandy Alexander for desert.

When I want a real meal I go to McDonalds and get a Big Mac and those skinny extra salty French fries — still the best fast food meal in the business.

But I digress, where was I? Oh, yes, the risks of blogging and — holy crap! There it is. See what I mean! Right out of the  blue like that. This is diabolical. I must get to the bottom of it. This evening I will convene a meeting of the six ghosts and seek their advice on this matter. Five o’clock sharp. A wide variety of beverages will be served. Proper attire required. No shoes, no service.

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Avoiding the Lake of Fire

Demons and ghosts

This is the house of sloth. Nothing much goes on here except a whole lot of drinking and thinking. 

The lowly bungalow is small but large with demons and ghosts. They are real. There’s no room for fantasy here, no room for fairy tales. Our Father who art in heaven art not here. Father Christmas never comes down the chimney. The Easter Bunny hops right on by. Puff the Magic Dragon never shows up.

There is some magic going on, however. Mandrake the Magician often makes an appearance and gestures hypnotically, causing the occupant of the house (that’d be me) to see illusions, but at least no delusions, neither of grandeur nor of glory nor of the kingdom of heaven — only of the pit of hell where ‘the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars… will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulphur, which is the second death.’ [Revelations 21:8]

The Bible calls it the ‘second death,’ but I call it the first, here on Earth, in this life — and I am guilty on four counts out of eight. Not a good verdict — not amounting to hell in the first degree perhaps, nor in the second, but maybe in the third, so less time in the lake of fire. Perhaps I’ll catch a break and be guilty of the lesser offense of man/soul slaughter, or get even luckier and get the minimum charge of reckless endangerment with a life/soul, which carries no time in the lake of fire.

Well, hello, Mandrake just dropped in and he’s had a busy day gesturing hypnotically. He wants a vodka martini and I’m just the man to make it for him.

Demons and ghosts

— Image trick by Outosego

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Nights in the spirit world

In my grief-induced, covid-enforced world of solitary inertia, the line between movies and reality is becoming thinner. And clearly, the adventure-horror-fantasy world of film is far preferable.

The basic provisions needed to sustain oneself in this world are a modicum of actual food and a multitude of salty chips and salsa dip. Spirits are essential. Not the ghostly kind — I have five of those in the lowly bungalow, each of whom make frequent appearances during my binges of spirituality. I refer, of course, to the 80 proof spirits in the liquor cabinet — gin, rum, vodka, tequila, whiskey and brandy.

Which reminds me, I am out of Bombay London Dry Gin for tonight. I do have a small bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin (from their same 1761 recipe). As if the 86 proof gin wasn’t strong enough, the Bombay Spirits Company was kind enough to make the 94 proof Sapphire. So tonight I will have that.

On second thoughts, since I’ll be watching (for the umpteenth time) the 1971 New York drug crime classic ‘The French Connection,’ I’ll make this a whiskey night.

The other spirits in the house, the ghostly ones, will have to endure a steady stream of comments from their garrulous survivor, but I don’t think they mind. So far, I haven’t heard any complaints. In fact, I haven’t heard anything from any one of them, which is a constant disappointment to me. Every night I ask them to chime in when they feel like it, but never a peep.

When the movies end, the sadness kicks in. A kick in the gut, a punch in the heart. I would give every bottle of booze in the liquor cabinet for one night with S. Of course, I wouldn’t have to. She was a drinker too. It was sort of a hobby with us. We would begin drinking at cocktail hour — five o’clock in the shorter nights of summer; four o’clock in the long dark nights of winter.

It’s dark already and it’s only three o’clock. That’s because of the thunderstorm moving in. It’s going to be a long night.

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