It's Not About Butthole Pleasures, or 15 Other Things to do with a Dead Cat.

So, what to write about today. All the good stories have been told. I once read that there are only seven stories in the world and the thing that makes them interesting is not the story itself, but how it's told. It has become one of those essays that I read years ago and have since lost the title and author. Maybe it never existed. There's a creepy thought, if so, i'll just file the serial number off and claim it as mine. There we go. Mine. There are only Seven stories in the world, it's how you tell them. Precious, my precious.

And now that I have got that bit of plagiarism out of the way, onto the topic at hand, which I've since forgotten. I keep feeling like I have to write something with some deep meaning that is inspirational, but the topic keeps slipping away while I'm not looking. It's like becoming inspired to create some great piece of art, so you go out and get a 200 pound chunk of marble, a bunch of chisels, some pastels (because marble just isn't cool unless it's got some vibrant green in it somewhere), a sandwich for later, and some opium for connecting to your true self. You get all this shit home, set it up in your basement, smoke the opium, eat your sandwich, and proceed to stare at a bunch of chisels, a 200 pound chunk of marble, and some pastels for hours on end with no results. It's a maddening thing, feeling inspired but not knowing what you are inspired to do. I've already created the computer case and cleaned up my basement after the fallout of that creativity spurt, so that's out of the question. I've played guitar for hours this week, but nothing other than cover tunes are coming out, and although cool, not what I'm needing to lose the creativity bug. I don't need another gutted motorcycle in my garage, and I also don't need any more shit attached to my TV, so what to do? I need some more opium. That'll help.

I am a cigar snob. I admit that openly. The problem with this is, once you've driven in a Porsche, you don't want to get out and get back into your '86 tempo. There is only one place that real cigar's come from, and that's Cuba. I've tried many other's from Nicaragua, Dominican Republic, all over the States, Canada and Europe, Brazil, etc., etc., etc., but there is just no substitute. The real problem with this is the same as with the Porsche, they are both unbelievably expensive. I actually considered, in all seriousness, flying down to Cuba for a day, picking up a box of Montecristos, and flying back again because it would still be cheaper than buying them from a tobacconist up here. How sad is that. I don't know what the saddest thing is though, the fact that it's cheaper to fly down there and pick up a box, or the fact I almost did it (and it's still not entirely out of the question). I guess it's all about how far we'll go for our guilty pleasures, and that's what life is all about. It is those small, guilty, sometimes insignificant, little pleasures. It's what keeps us all going as a race. Let's face it people, life is not a magical trek down happy lane where every want and desire is fulfilled. It's the small 10 minute thing that keeps us going and not blowing each other up. To paraphrase Dr. Denis Leary "Life sucks, get a fucking helmet". My view isn't necessarily that bleak, but it is true up to a point. We have to hold on to those little things that we do in order to feel good.

Before I quit smoking cigarettes (I know, sounds hypocritical, so let me tell you the Moloquin philosophy. Cigar's are for pleasure, cigarettes are for addicts, there is a difference, and I don't smoke a box and a half of cigars a day) I read somewhere about keeping a log during your quitting time, because your mind doesn't remember the details of a really shitty experience. I held onto that for a while. Seemed like an interesting experiment to try down the road. I ended up using that method during the summer of unpleasantness and wrote a "novel" about what I was going through during the shittiest time in my life. I never need to go back and look through it, but it is true, the details of that time have been lost, and I know there is a ton of shit in that 200 pages that my mind has completely blanked out. It's for the best that I don't remember alot of it, I know that, but the interesting thing is while I forget all of the horrible feelings I went through during the aftermath, I can remember little stupid shit that pulled me through. I remember the first sunny day that happened after everything blew up and a million other little things like that. It's amazing how the brain will hold onto stuff like that to keep us going, but purges what it doesn't need.

Maybe postal workers have a genetic defect that makes them remember all the shitty things and that's why they gun their co-workers down. Just a thought.

Looks like I pulled a Homer and did the thing I was bitching about in the beginning without meaning to...There we go, point of the day, sometimes when you aren't looking, the thing that you were looking for finds you. As long as it's not a junk yard dog named "Chopper" we're all good.

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.“
Sigmund Freud