Month: July 2003

Jonahnebraska (11:00:54 AM): haha bob hope is dead.
IAmBillLatham (11:01:18 AM): he finally died?
Jonahnebraska (11:01:40 AM): yep
IAmBillLatham (11:01:46 AM): remember how he’s been entertaining soldiers since the civil war?
Jonahnebraska (11:02:14 AM): yeha. haha.
Jonahnebraska (11:02:28 AM): he died at 100.
Jonahnebraska (11:02:33 AM): damn bastard.
IAmBillLatham (11:02:37 AM): so Strom Thurmond died. Bob Hope died. Who’s next?
Jonahnebraska (11:02:47 AM): Prince.
IAmBillLatham (11:02:56 AM): hahahahahhahaha
Jonahnebraska (11:03:12 AM): wouldn’t that be funny?
IAmBillLatham (11:03:40 AM): yeah it would
IAmBillLatham (11:03:55 AM): we should have them all memorialized on a mountain together
Jonahnebraska (11:04:12 AM): like mt. rushmore?
IAmBillLatham (11:04:16 AM): exactly

They had been smoking hash for the better part of the night when Alex started screaming that nothing was linear. He knew it in the back of his mind so clearly, but understood that no one else could see where he was coming from. He understood but decided, albeit loudly, to explain his position.

“NOTHING MOVES FORWARD!”

“THERE IS NO ORDER!”

“MADNESS! DARKNESS! GOOD GOD, MAN!”

He was hysterical and ranting. The equations of time and space. Equilibrium. Conscience and conscious. E pluribus unum. In the end we all go down screaming one by one and mother nature swallows us back into her cunt for all of time.

The bastards just didn’t get it.

So Vinny stuck a shiv in his stomach and gave him a handful of ephedrine.

“What the FUCK was that for?”

“Things move in a straight line, man.”

Ok. Three quick directions for some things you need to do today if you live in or around Omaha. You can do this before work or after work. On your way to the bar. On your way to your family function. Just for the hell of it even. The point is, you gotta do it.

Step 1: Get in your car/on the bus/on your bike/walk/whatever the fuck you have to do

Step 2: Go to the Antiquarium

Step 3: Pick up the following local cd’s. Real Time Optimist “S/T”, Putrescine “S/T”, Sound Of Rails “Prelude Of Hypnotics”, Sound Of Rails “Night Time Simulcast”.

Step 4: Return home and listen. Or if you’re one of those lucky folks with a cd player in your car (you bastards), listen to them in there.

It’s important you pick these cd’s up. None of these bands are playing anymore as of the last month and a half.

Ok. Enough ranting.

[BROKEN IMAGE: ~claptonisgod/images/goddamnedartist1.JPG]

MyImpressiveWang (10:39:38 AM): Mr. Bill?
IAmBillLatham (10:39:43 AM): Mr. Chris
MyImpressiveWang (10:40:51 AM): How goes it?
IAmBillLatham (10:41:14 AM): pretty good. a little hungover. but mostly pretty good.
MyImpressiveWang (10:41:37 AM): Guess What?
IAmBillLatham (10:42:21 AM): you’re the DC Sniper?
MyImpressiveWang (10:42:53 AM): I’m Iming You From My Phone.
IAmBillLatham (10:44:04 AM): the world’s ending?
MyImpressiveWang (10:44:19 AM): i’m at a job interview. any tips for me?
IAmBillLatham (10:44:45 AM): be calm, be straightforward, lie through your teeth?
IAmBillLatham (10:45:53 AM): and sucking dick may seem a little old fashioned, but that’s how you get ahead in today’s job market
MyImpressiveWang (10:45:55 AM): i did put dc sniper on my resume.
IAmBillLatham (10:46:43 AM): excellent

10 Albums. Go!

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Posted by bill at 10:22 AM | Comments (0)

“Please don’t go away until I am comfortable in my own mind.”

An old woman I talked to on the phone at work yesterday said that to me. And all I could think was, that there was no way I could stay on the phone with her until she died.

His feet buckled under pressure and life was suddenly swept into the undertow. He was trying to keep his head above water, but he could feel the umbilical cord wrapped around his throat like a vise.

Mother.
Ma.
Mom.
Mommy Dearest.
Mother fuck you.

It was hard to believe that for the second time in his life he had returned to the womb. It was cold inside and wet. The uteral walls were like the walls of a cell. He kept pounding at the walls demanding the warden release him.

“I’M DROWNING, YOU BITCH! I’m DROWNING!”

The umbilical cord tightened and he choked a little more.

In the back of his throat he was praying for death. His death, her death, it didn’t matter whose death.

Death.
Dying.
Decay.
Finality.
Rest.

He kicked the uteral walls again. His foot bounced back.

Bitch.
Cunt.
Whore.
Slut.
Harlot.
Mother.
Mother.
MOTHER.
M-O-T-H-E-R.

Were legs spread wide for victory or were legs spread wide for defeat? Were legs spread wide at all?

What penetrated all lower defenses, smashing through hymen and tissue creating and imprisioning him originally?

Where was daddy?
Where was mommy?
Where was god?
Where was the devil?
Where was heaven?
Where was he-

He stopped right there. The answer was quite obvious. He was in hell.

He was trapped in a caul and had to find his way out. Placenta was everywhere and his lungs filled with amniotic fluid. He’d try to scream but he’d swallow more and his lungs would burn in pain.

He could hear her singing.

“Rock-a-bye baby on the tree tops…”

It was cancerous (please kill me).

“When the wind blows the cradle will rock…”

He cringed (please kill me now).

“If the bow breaks the cradle will fall…”

He wanted to die (please, please for the love of God kill me).

“And down will come baby, cradle and all.”

He screamed.

Quite suddenly the memory of his second birthday came flooding back to him. It was his earliest memory. He remembered the cake, and the candles, and the cameras, and the singing adults, and all the terror he had felt.

He screamed that day, but instead they all laughed and said how someone had “had too much birthday”.

He screamed until they put him to bed for the night. Then he was at peace. He was alone. He was happy.

Quite suddenly he was in a very dark place.