Rock'n'Roll

Hey, I'm in this great new rock 'n' roll band. I started it, too, this new rock 'n' roll band that I'm in.

We're really good.

We're called The Werewolf Mummies. Which is why we're so great. We're not just mummies, or just werewolves. We're both. We're The Werewolf Mummies.

There's a band called The Mummies, and they rock.

There are all sorts of bands with wolf names, and some of them have to be lycanthropic. Right?

But there's only one band that's The Werewolf Mummies, and we're ready to rock your party.

The Werewolf Mummies. Yeah.

Rockin'. No time to blog.

Melted

It has been many years since I have released an album. For many of those many years, I have been recording a thing. A record. It's a record I cannot seem to finish, as hard as I try.

There are hundreds and hundreds of songs. Hundreds and hundreds of attempts. Hundreds and hundreds of them, but none of them are right.

None of them are right, I tell you.

I work and I work and I just can't get it right. I can't finish Chinese Democracy.

I am Axl Rose.

And there's another problem.

I've melted.

I'm little more than a puddle in my recording studio. I have melted over my chair. I am a thin film on the carpeting. I drip.

I can't finish recording.

I can't blog, either.


****


This is a blog. There, I can blog.

Father

My father tried to teach me how to blog.

We woke up at 4am, because, he said, you have to get up really early in the morning to blog right.

We woke up at 4am, and we got together all the things we'd to blog.

My father gave me the stuff I'd need, and said that it used to belong to him. I would use his stuff for blogging, and he would use the stuff his father used to use to blog.

That's the way it's always been in our family, he told me. Two bloggers, father and son. Two sets of stuff. Father's and son's.

We loaded up the car and we drove out to the lake to blog.

We went out in the boat, and we spent the whole day blogging. We blogged all day.

I loved blogging with my father.

My father died, and I have no kids. I will never marry, and I will never have a son of my own, so the stuff sits in the closet.

No one will ever use it to blog.

Cowboy

I am a cowboy, out riding the range. When I ride the range, I chew gum to keep my jaw working and working.

The gum in my mouth, sometimes I spit it onto the range. My gum litters the range.

I am a cowboy, with an old piece of gum in my mouth, and I'm going to spit it onto the range.

But, I spit my gum into my palm, this time. I look at my gum, and I notice, for the first time, that in the indents and folds, there are communists. There are communists in my gum.

So, I wash out my mouth, to kill all the communists in there.

And now I am a cowboy, riding the range, sniffing out all the communists I have spit to the ground. It is important that I find all the communists I have left scattered around. I cannot rest until I have rid the range of them.

So, I can't blog. I'm terribly busy.

Heir

Can you feel the breeze, sweeping in through the window?

I am the heir to the throne. All that you see from this window, all the land beyond, will one day be under my purview. Every mile you see, every yard, every foot, every inch, mine.

Every breeze rustling the grass will be mine. Every single column of air that decides to cross the river to the North, the boundary of the kingdom to the North, will enter and exit at my pleasure.

When a breeze enters my kingdom, it will visit me in my courtyard, and I, the soul of magnanimity, will greet the breeze warmly. And ask after its family. And ask after its people. And ask after its plans for the future.

Even the breezes will be mine to command.

When will I ever, for the life of me, have time to blog?

Lit

Not only can I not blog, I can't lit blog. Which is just exactly what I want to do. I do. I want not simply to blog—and, gosh, blog the night away—but I want to lit blog.

I, for example, want to point out that the new issue of that literary journal has the same cover as the new issue of Vanity Fair.

I, for example, want to weigh in on that letter. You know the letter I mean. The one that may or may not be from the nut. That letter. The one that may or may not have been a tactic, an attempt to tar someone with a brush—an attempt made by a cabal of wealthy and powerful writers. That letter.

I, for example, want to say something about the stuff that she said about that country that she's from.

I want to do it, but I can't.

I'm unable to lit blog, because I'm buried up to my neck in sand. It's everywhere. Sand, enveloping my body. Sand, such small fine particles, gathered together to hold me in place. Sand working its way into every crease in my body—the wrinkles in my belly, the tiny deep pit of my belly button, the thicket of hair under each of my arms. Sand, fitting me.

My little pinky is moving, slowly digging its way free, but I don't think I can release myself from my prison of sand. I feel the tiny shifts, though. The sand, fitted into a little wall, spilling away and to the bottom of the hole my little finger is digging. More sand takes its place. More sand fits in place. Sand everywhere. No chance to read.

No way to know about the journal, or the letter, or the interview. No way to do anything but wait here trapped. Until I starve.

Pickaxe

I'm running and I'm running and I'm running through the tunnels. And the rocks are coming at me and I'm jumping over each.

When a pickaxe drops to the ground, I grab it and I use it to bust up the rocks that come and come and come. And when a key appears, I can grab it and fall through a door.

And for a few brief moments, my life is quiet, and in the falling my life is my own. The thrumming of colors, spinning in my head as my hair blows back and my mind goes numb, and spin blue/white pinprick tingling stop.

And I'm running and I'm running and I'm running through the tunnels. And the rocks are coming at me and I'm jumping over each.

And I'm too busy to blog.