'Over the weekend the vultures got into the Presidential Palace'

This place is dying for carnival. We need to get away from the clergy for a while. Build up some good old-fashioned sins to confess. Seasons change, and with them come the smells of the past: The lover you put down on the hood of your Olds, the fight you won by virtue of your bowling alley friends. We were gods once, and indifferent. Uncaring in the meager light of the neon signs. But now everything seems so important. Infants crying in baskets. Taxes and mortgages. The slow motion apocalypse of an economic meltdown. It's hard to remember that time when our revolution would not be televised. There are those of us that ache for something real. The promise of our childhood cereal boxes, that perhaps, one day, we would be relevant. If not, then not. We have screams in spades, and we're warning you...

Rigby

Something has crept back into my head tonight, crawling like kudzu up the back wall of my brain case. Tumoresque, it's got my senses hot-wired and misfiring. I smell coal smoke and rotting leaves. I can hear the creaking ghosts of assembly line machines; feel the heat of ten thousand bodies writhing to a beat that hasn't stopped pounding since the lights came back on.
But what's got me wild eyed and pacing the hardwood more than anything tonight are all the stories; the rumors and little legends that make up the foundation of this place. How there's a two block cold spot near Sutter Wharf where a fisherman once netted what he insisted was Vincent Price's skull. How there's a girl in Faders 6 who was born with wings and sings prophetically in her sleep. That there's an antique store, locked up and forgotten, near 5th and Wickerman, filled with clocks that only chime when a good man dies. I hear it's the quietest place in town.
I'm humming at a familiar frequency tonight, tuned to the whispers coming from all these unmarked graves. Rigby's calling, and it feels good.
I almost forgot how it feels, always smelling like fresh dirt.

Who Will Survive, And What Will Be Left Of Them...

Oh kids, there's bad juju in the air tonight. Everyone's got the Saturday shifty eye, flicking through flavors of fun like a fat kid in an ice cream parlor. It's time for the wisebloods to restock their beverages, lock down the lair, and watch from the window as the wicked and the malformed tear each other apart.
It's the Crawl for Cancer in our fair town.
I can hear them howling at my doorway, pub crawlers binge drinking for cancer, chain smoking for cancer, giving awkwardly enthusiastic head in bathroom stalls for cancer, since noon. Now de-evolved to a state of shambling rage, their eyes have gone shiny to fuck and destroy anything: your pets, your lawn ornaments, your Martha Stewart Everyday Garden Patio Ensemble®.
Yes children, it's a monsterous night in the monkey house!
I'm watching my neighbor, the strange and terrible Don Iguana, do a mating dance in the blue light of his apartment terrarium, furiuosly flicking his tounge to taste the blood in the air. He is a social barometer of the apocalypse, and I implore you to heed his warning. Stay inside. Tell someone close that you love them. Call your mother, for pete's sake. She worries.
Cuz they're burning this fucker down for charity tonight, and come morning, what we build out here could be anything.

Tap Room

I'm going to write stuff here for a while. That is all.