Damp City

Went and saw Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson this evening. It’s a fine documentary. Nothing too spectacular but it has some wonderful footage and the obligatory Johnny Depp voice over. I never get tired of watching Dr. Thompson shoot typewriters and pour scorn on Richard Nixon.

I walked most of the way home in the rain. I should have stayed on foot. The bus I rode the last few blocks home on smelled like a beer can left out in the sun with cigarette butts floating in three inches of rancid lager at the bottom.

It is uncharacteristically cold, wet and dreary for this time of the summer. There are strange booming noises somewhere out in the street.
I desperately need to sleep but I've been having the dream about the pit bulls fairly regularly this week and I'm afraid to close my eyes for any great length of time. I am experimenting with a rather potent combination of red bull and cachasa (Brazilian sugar cane booze) and it appears to be keeping me on my feet, or at least crawling semi-coherently. I am focusing on beautiful things and aggressive noises. Today's survival anthem is both a beautiful thing and an aggressive noise. My most favorite punk song ever. by X.

My phone's off the hook, but I'm not.