Nothing Was Delivered

If you share my fascination with Juggalo culture, then this is the whirling death trip into the heart of ICP darkenss you were waiting for.

In the end, it’s just another way for thousands of kids who feel that no one understands them to get together an collectively bitch that no one understands them. It’s like organized religion or a Tea Party rally, but with at least a bit of self awareness at how ridiculous the whole thing is.

We wanted to say in the song because Juggalos are our family, and Juggalo homies are there for you. Especially when you’re younger, going through shit, you’ve gotta lie to your family, and you don’t have to lie to your friends… you go fuck a hooker, you can’t tell your mom or your family about that, but you go right to your boys, and be like, “Man, I fucked a hooker last night!” [Laughs.]

A little update. Sorry for all the cat-blogging.

It’s been 2 days and I can’t tell if Warren’s really getting better. I didn’t notice him walking around, looking like he ha to pee last night or this morning, but SOMEONE peed in my bathtub last night, and I don’t think it was me.

He seems lethargic. He splays out in the center of the floor. He doesn’t fight me when I try to give him medicine. Doesn’t follow me around. Just doesn’t seem well yet.

Maybe I’m rushing it. Maybe it’ll take time to get him back to his old self. Maybe I’m imagining it. Tonight will be the big test. We’ll get out his favorite toy and see if he takes the bait.

When it starts getting late, one of my cats, Warren, will go lie down on the bed and wait for me to join him. When I show up and turn the lights off, not matter how late or early, he takes that as his cue to go eat his dinner. Then sometimes he comes back and sleeps at my feet, and sometimes he doesn’t. It’s a little ritual we have.

So last night I wasn’t concerned to see Warren jump up on the bed around midnight. Instead of lying down, though, he started sniffing some pants I had put there. Then the crouch, and the look on his face. He looked right past me with that “really concentrating on taking a shit” look. I understood immedietly what was happening. This was inter-species communication at it’s finest.

I swatted him off the bed, and he finds another spot. I picked him up and brought him in to the litter box, but he wanted nothing to do with that. 5 minutes later I notice him peeing on a couple papers I had on the floor next to my desk. There was no need to stop him at that point. He was obviously determined to pee in that room at some point.

Something was wrong.The next morning I was getting ready for work, and saw him in a cardboard box trying to go. He didn’t look in distress or pain, but he seemed like he constantly had to pee, like a barfly who’s been drinking Coors Light all night and can’t hold it in for more than 5 minutes.

Luckily the vet was able to take him on such short notice. I had to leave work in the middle of the day, drive into Asbury to get my pet carrier out of storage, try to coax Warren into it quickly, then shoot down to Neptune. He was quiet most of the way. He’s not trouble, really, which is why I’m being so calm about this. I know he doesn’t really mean any harm.

Anyway, the doctor poked and prodded him for a few minutes, and the verdict is he should be okay. Probably a bladder infection, and we caught it early. Antibiotics for a couple of weeks and he’ll be fine. That does mean he can’t participate in margarita night on Thursday, but so be it.

Still, I’ve spent most of tonight chasing him around the house. You can see that look in his eye where he finds a little corner or a piece of cardboard on the floor, and realizes that he has to pee right then, right there. I still love the guy, but he’s not winning any Roommate of the Year awards.

I don’t mind spending a bunch of money taking him to the vet. He’d do the same for me. And I don’t resent having to miss work. I don’t even particularly get angry about the peeing, because it’s not his fault they don’t make Feline Depends. However, I am not looking forward to waking up early every day for the next couple of weeks and trying to contain a cat and then pour two (2!!!) medicines down a cat’s throat before work. Florence Nightingale I ain’t.

Went to see Midnight In Paris tonight. I don’t want to give away too much, but the gist is that many people spend their lives wishing for a past that never really existed. Or if it did, it wasn’t any more special than where they are now.

Paris has seen a lot of midnights, and they have probably looked pretty similar, whether you were stumbling out of a bar with Hemingway or hold up in a flat with Verlaine. Pick your favorite era, and you probably can imagine strolling the boulevards as they were meant to be, not the diluted version you see now.

People say this about other cities. New York is an obvious one. Also music scenes, art scenes, movies, toaster ovens, you name it.  They don’t make ’em like they used to, huh?

Romantics especially tend to live in the past. When you look back, you can filter out all consequences, and be left with only possibilities. Seeing all the choices collapse into history is tough to watch. We tend to say “if only”, and then have another drink.

That’s not to say I wouldn’t have liked to get drunk with Dali, but if you can imagine a perfect world, isn’t it your responsibility to make what you see around you more like it? Your goal should be to make kids 50 years from now look back at your lifetime and say “I wish I could have lived then.”

Holy shit. When I left the bar, with 9 minutes left in the game, Boston was winning 5-1. In the last 8 minutes, though, it became a blowout. Final score 8-1.