Tonight I am wondering if a bio-engineered molecule can change my life.
I have suffered from psoriasis since 2002.
I was diagnosed as ‘severe’ a few years ago.
After countless steroid creams and quack homeopathic remedies, I’ve decided
that it’s time to get down to business and try to slay this red crimson dragon, once and for all.
Me and my skin have had quite enough of this rough and scaly road.
It’s high time I try and put an end (of sorts) to this disease of my dysfunctional auto-immune system.
I only ask that you all pray this treatment finally works for me.
I am itchy, red and so damn very tired of scratching.
Light a candle, please.
My thanks to all in advance . . .

~m

I am saying serious prayers tonight for a country I have yet to visit.
If you’ve heard about the tropical cyclone Yasi, you will know what I’m talking about.
This nasty monster has morphed into a cat 5 cyclone.
Not good.
There are many people that I love living there.
Please say a prayer for all those that just couldn’t get out of the way of this bloody beast.
(and there will be many)
Mother Nature needs a serious reality check in terms of what normal human beings can handle.
Looking for some serious mercy here.
But as a wise friend said, “Que, sera, sera . . . ”
Give it up.
Just give it up.
NOW.

~m

Was going to see you soon but life got in the way.
Peaceful travels, my dear friend.
I am incredibly sad tonight.
The candle is lit.

~m

I need the sharpest of knives to slice this
epidermal anomaly from the trappings of my weak and aging body
Deep slices to the elbows, slow and tender slices to the knees
please scratch my legs until they bleed, thank you please
this betrayal of skin, the most hideous part of me
is a possession of the worst kind,
an internal itch I will never be physically able to touch
the P takes over my body, the quintessential tired host
it will never be free . . . as the crimson spreads far above the blood that boils deep within me
People will continue to stare,
invisibly pointing to my sprawling scarlet letter ‘P’
just another ugly ducking,
just another ugly waiting stranger hiding deep inside of me . . .
I hate this

Maybe it’s a sign of survival, of anguish,
of the frightening realization that mortality does exist in the deepest recesses of the mind.
Maybe it’s a sign that everything is still changing,
still in that near frozen state of flux . . .
For him, for me, for the four walls that still imprison him,
for a world that looks to him as confusing today as it did several hundred yesterdays ago.

Maybe it’s not a sign at all but a palpable gesture that while he sleeps,
this ravenous disease does not; it always wants more.
It replaces what it takes with something barely recognizable, something dark and foggy,
something you never want to talk about around the coffee table but remains forever.
Sometimes this thing just takes.
And takes . . .

Maybe it’s a sign that he is tired, fed up with playing the host,
sick of food that looks like pureed shit put through a strainer that he has to try and swallow.
Banana Crème Pie should never look like soup.
But it does.
And that’s a crying goddamn shame.
His mother was a pastry chef, Christ in a sidecar.

Maybe someday I will look back at this point in time and have a moment of revelation
but I’m not betting on it.
If this disease has taught me anything it’s not to get caught up in any kind of emotional gambit.
It’s a losing proposition at best.
So maybe it is a sign.

For my father maybe it’s a sign that simply says ‘stop’ . . .

This poor little robot is so very much like me.
{sigh . . . }
Almost there, almost there, almost there . . .
Turn up the volume and grab a warm and soothing cup of something
and click ‘play’.

Kinda hard for me to believe this guy did ‘Cat Scratch Fever’ in 77.
I didn’t listen to him then but I’m sure as hell listening to him now.
This blew me away.
Gun control for the masses.
Every single goddamned day another constitutional right gets thrown in the
shitter by these bureaucratic boneheads.
Republican & Democrat.
How do you spell bullshit?
I love Nugent in this interview.
Rock on, dude, rock on

I wish I was being funny.
I’m in a nasty mood tonight, sorry.
Thomas Jefferson said it best when he said,

“A government BIG enough to give you everything you want, is STRONG enough to take everything you have.”

Fuck the government and all their high paying ‘no-show’ jobs, bullshit posts and meaningless rhetoric.
I have had it.
There is a backstory but you won’t read it here.
Christ in a sidecar . . .
And as far as blogs being taxed, just wait . . .
These assholes will eventually tax excess pubic hair, if  they get their way, and they always do.

God help us all.

I’m feeling my 50 years these days a bit more than I’d like with a painful bout of bursitis in my left knee.
I can’t seem to get the inflammation under control just yet.
Patience.
And Advil.
And some Vicodin.
And repeat.
I have some amazing and wonderful things to tell you but it’s going to
have to wait until I can sit  for more than ten minutes without looking like a fat dog shitting razor blades.
Off to fill the ice bag . . . again.

I’m a bad Santa, a Grinch and yuletide curmudgeon of the highest order and I admit it.
Just the thought of this most blatantly commercial and candy-cane-twisted holiday sends me running for my dimly lit cave high on Mount Crumpit.
I’ll level with you and say that in my icy-cold heart I will always harbour a love
for the Christmas holiday with its ‘peace on earth, goodwill toward men’ mentality
but jeepers creepers how many lameass Mercedes Benz commercials can these ding-a-lings make?
Even if I had the dough I would never put a giant red bow on an SL550 and give it as a present.
You gotta be one hell of a pretentious douchebag to pull that one off.
I hardly ever watch TV and at this time of the year, even more so.
Television is where your radar picks up on all the subliminal horseshit this holiday has sadly come to represent.
Every year I try and trick myself into believing that I still hold close the personal ties of holidays past.
I’d be better off sticking my head into a steaming pile of reindeer shit.
Working retail does little but mar and mutilate a spirit that’s sadly on the ropes anyway.
I don’t hear the silver bells and I can’t see the blinking colored lights (unless they’re from a cruiser pulling me over for a busted taillight, Merry Christmas, ossifer)
Maybe it’s a psychological omission on my part, a defense mechanism to keep me from losing my plate of milk and cookies.
I should have dumped this post to Crumpit when I had the chance but I also felt it was only fair to explain my ‘month of December’ frosty sense of discontent.
If you visit here around the holidays you’ll notice that Mick gets very quiet.
I choose to leave my thoughts in a quiet place where silent snow falls, stars twinkle and the moon is always full.
It’s only in this blue crystal space that I build my sky-high snow forts of thought, ideas dripping like icicles in my frozen castle of winter words.
Maybe this will be the year that I somehow find a way to melt the walls of snow I’ve piled high, my vast emotional fortress of sorts.
Maybe this will be the time I find the absolute truth that lives peacefully inside a holiday I can honestly say I miss.
Then reality taps me on the shoulder and says, “Read This, Grinch.”
Yeah, we’re off to a brilliant start.
And people wonder why I despise this holiday and what it currently represents.
God help us, everyone.
I’m going back to my dimly lit cave, thank you very much . . .