Posts Tagged ‘anti-heroart.com’

Bukey the Cat (R.I.P.)

Monday, 26 May 2008

when you adopt an animal from the humane society they have you sign a form basically saying you take full responsibility for this life you’re bringing into your home and you better not fuck up or else. i do take better care of bukey than myself. i care more about her than my ownself. that’s why her going blind has upset me worse than either of my two divorces. it’s why i bawled like a little baby for three hours straight the other day after she slipped off the bed and hurt her back (she’s all better now). she is my true soulmate so i care more about her than anything else in this world. that leona helmsley who left 12 mil to her dog and nothing to her grandkids? that is cool. that dog of hers loved her more than anyone else on the planet and she knew that and did the right thing. they say a lot of old folks give all their money, or a part of it, to their beloved pets. i’m right on with that.

howie

p.s. bukey’s on my lap right now.

**************

Dear Robert:

Ah fuck, Death again.
Death at the end of every sentence, built into every heart.

The social scientists will never admit that losing a pet is worse than losing a human, too many people would be surprised and insulted to discover they will be missed far less than a dog or cat. Yet it’s true. If I had my way, the pets I loved dearly would be living on elsewhere and those humans that broke my heart would be put to sleep. That seems fair. Fairer than this.

When we first meet those animals that become our pets, we immediately forget their bodies, so perfectly matched to their souls, will give out long before our love for them. For this reason, no matter how old we get, the death of a pet will always be a crime.

I’ll spare you the jack-assed line of the professional eulogist (“I didn’t know ____ personally...”) I knew Bukey (though pronounced BOO-key her name sounds like “BYOO-key” in my bullet head) and how special she was. I read about her antics for over a decade. Her feline indifference to being a sort-of AHA mascot lended credibility to the writing since no matter how many people didn’t write in with comments, she was always first to ignore the words and instead eat pizza.

Bukey threw me for a loop by eating human food, and when I informed you cats have no taste receptors for sweetness you posted pictures of her destroying a full box of Krispy Kremes. Ha ha ha.

Right now you’re legally insane. Love does this and so must grief. You will find your way through the maze.

Bukey was a beautiful girl who lived a long, full, happy life. She couldn’t have had a better owner.

Neither could you.



In loving memory.

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Porn and Ham Versus the Siren Song of Suicide

Friday, 11 January 2008

If you’re the ‘Emperor Of The Universe’ (per another post) why can’t you exact CHANGE on this motherfuckin’ planet, nigga? And by CHANGE I mean you, me, M. Todd, S. Gary, Hip, WBM III, Capt. Morgan, etc., would be celebrated as this moment’s best authors and we would be welcomed with open arms by the hottest bitches we can imagine (and we have imaginations, by god) and millions upon millions would buy our novels, poetry volumes, t-shirts, key rings, bumper stickers, etc., and we’d be nigga rich and living like we should be living instead of working shithole jobs for shithole pay.

— Digital aka Dirty Howie

Hadn’t yet had a chance to add I’ve been downgraded to “Emperor of Only This Room I’m In”.

The practical answer to your question is that I have nothing worth selling, no novel or stories and poems don’t sell anyway. Now you could take the best from AHA and make a book out of that, with all of us pitching in on both costs and content, maybe a third of it new. The technology is now in place to self-publish high-quality books, as few as 25 or even five. A Delaware friend of mine published his own book of poetry that way. It (isn’t very good, but) looks like anything you might find in a bookstore.

The second practical answer is, if you want to publish something to get rich, your best shot is to write a romance novel (second best shot: cook book). I don’t know that most people hate their lives, but even the happy ones want to get away from themselves via the fantasies and escapism of linear storytelling. Even Donald Trump must occasionally watch movies or TV to take a break from himself–tho why would he bother when he’s a living cartoon who can blink anything he wants into existence–but he does.

I’m too disgusted to write seriously (or for long) because, “It’s all been said before, and better”, also not an original thought. There’s a better way to bliss: doing nothing at all while suffering. You have your alk and drugs, Todd has music, alk, drugs. Gary has food, alk, a pension and insanity. I have porn and ham. It would be so easy to just give up. It’s damned tempting. The way we live makes suicide the sanest choice.

Hail Motel Todd!

Wednesday, 17 October 2007

Motel Todd.

At AHA he was the one I felt experienced the most: drugs, sex, jobs, women, hell. I wouldn’t dare put a dime in the jukebox of his suffering, I feel like I’ve lived whole other lifetimes flipping through his selections: more and more drugs, depraved sex, horrible jobs, evil or lost women, nonstop hell, each one a dart thrown at your face, all at once.

He’s a damned good writer. He should take the sum of his writings from AHA and bind a book. Howington tells me Todd’s submitted shit was always illegible and riddled with typos, but between the two of them the final product always gleamed.

I don’t believe what Todd believes about politics, but I don’t judge him or his writing. Can the following statement be any more generic: his experiences shaped his valid point of view. Dat’s dat.

What will Todd do with his seed of greatness, plop it in a pipe and smoke it? Wash it down with a beer? (Hopefully he’s not pounding them like the good old days).

The choice is his.

This has been my hail of Motel Todd. Read his shit. It’s good.

Link to Motel Todd’s Dildo Misanthrope