The Blog…

… has been languishing. Languishing badly indeed. There were things Hellstrøm could have posted, but… nah. They weren’t ripe. It’s not like Hellstrøm hasn’t been writing, but it wasn’t the right stuff for the blog, or it just wasn’t ripe. Write, let it lie, look at it sometime, write more, edit, write more, cross out half of it because it’s shit, write again, it’s still shit, and so on… That’s the way it goes, and it isn’t something that fits itself to the blog. Fifty and more posts in petto, it goes its own way, and one picks and chooses what comes in the blog, because God knows Hellstrøm doesn’t want to expose you to everything he writes, nor does he want to expose everything he writes to you. He is a judicious son of a bitch, and you should be thankful for that. It’s bad enough as it is.
But, in spite of not wanting to encourage anyone to expect a surge of posts, I can say that there may be a couple of things coming. Have a seat, brace yourself, haha! No, but seriously, you know that joke about the fleas in a New York hotel, the ones with hunched backs…?
The main problem with writing things for the blog, to be honest, is that most of it is foolish drunken ranting. There may be a grain of truth in drunken ranting, but you have to be drunk in order to do it. Or, to be more specific, you need not only be drunk, but be drunk alone. Can’t write in company, for Christ’s sake, writing is a solitary occupation. And if your life is normal, you don’t get drunk alone, nor are you alone at all very often, late at night, in front of the computer, in a writing mood. Which is to say that Hellstrøm’s life has become somewhat more normal, no real desire to get drunk alone. Besides, Hellstrøm may write drunk, but his editor is stone sober in the morning. God help the son of a bitch (which one?).
The fact is, Hellstrøm is getting on in years, and even Hellstrøm can’t stem the tide, much as he’d like to. He has responsibilities, the old bat. One might almost say he’s become a responsible person. Almost. He manages to steal away, now and again, and he always hedges his responsibilities to an acceptable level. In spite of all the requirements he has no intention of ever meeting anyway. If there is one thing Hellstrøm knows how to do, it is staving off the world to keep himself from going insane. Hellstrøm will always fight them off (I haven’t the slightest idea who they are). Just because he’s paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get ’im. He’s a million miles away, motherfucker, you’ll never get ’im, and though he loves writing all this shit, he doesn’t give a flying damn if anyone reads it. He’s got other brands in the fire, other cats to whip.
Hellstrøm is doin’ good, God damn his dirty little soul. He don’t deserve it, but he ain’t been abused lately. Try as he will to make it all bad, he’s doing good. The devil braying outside his door is being ignored. God only knows how long it’ll go on, but he’s taking full advantage of the situation. He’s a hound that’s taken the scent, and he won’t let off until it’s reached its end. He has the feeling it never will. He wants more. He’s riding the Big Wave, he’s cruisin’. How much longer? Well, good luck to him, the sucker. At the bottom of his soul, in spite of it all, he was always naíve. On the other hand he’s an old codger, so look out. It’s a dangerous combination.
Listening to Jubilee Street from Nick Cave. Look at him now. And then Ska Fort Rock from the Skatalites. God damn, let those horns take you away…!

Confusion, Confusion

Recently someone told me I am confusing my readers. All right, I’ll let you in on it, it was that officious little bastard who calls himself Mr. Wilder. The bloody fucking EDITOR. He said: why do you post every six days? It’s totally confusing! Post once a week, everyone understands that. You post every six days… monday, next week sunday, people look monday, next week saturday, they look monday… and so on, until they look monday and you post first on tuesday!

What the fuck…? Doesn’t he realize I have to keep my readers on their toes? No way am I ever going to let them get in to any kind of rhythm here. That would be far too easy. Rhythm is routine, and routine is mindless, and mindless… that is to say mindsdlessness is… mindlessism? Ähhh…
Whatever. Fuck ’im. Never ever will I blog once a week. Not on my life. Not even on yours. If you find it confusing, tough titty in the big city, as my parents used to say.
Listening to Chipatapata, from Thomas Mapfumo

Hop, Skip…

The horrible thing about a blog is, you have to figure out something to write every few days, otherwise no swine will visit your fucking blog because they are all so damned impatient and constantly bored that their attention-span amounts to the length of a hunch-backed flea.

So, here I sit, thinking about what to write, and not a damned thing occurs to my somewhat addled brain on this fine Monday morning. I hate Mondays. Which reminds me of a Banksy piece. For those of you who don’t know it: tough shit. For those of you who do: tough shit. 
Just the Way it Goes from Jaya the Cat.
 Now that we have dispensed with the cancel (ehhh, I hate it when my fingers type something they think I meant when I meant something completely different) CYNICAL formalities, how about a drink? 
And a jump.