I will open with a quotation from, possibly, the greatest book ever written,
God Damn You, Christopher B. Holmes, Appendix B: "The Grumpiest Man," written, composed and performed by Andrew J. Jerz,
"Jesus Christ McManus rattled around the alleyway beside the dumpster-kittens and the darkest, blackest, sootiest of city squirrel-rats. On the darkest night, at the ass-most end of Newbury Street in Boston, USA, the party was over. Caked in the shit of two hundred screaming shit-for-brains, shit-for-hands, and shit-for-testicles fans, J.C. "Geez" McManus adjusted his nuts and drained the last swig from his piss-colored libation before using the empty, glass vessel to disintigrate a rodent-insect eyeless freak of a creature that had scurried into the moonlight from beneath a parked box-truck with a deadly-accurate head-over-heals tumble of a toss - a perfectly balanced pinwheel of glass, spit, and probably a little bit of left-over vomit that would have made any Iraqi knife-thrower-extraordinaire jealous of the form and artistry involved. Geez smiled with a heavily narcissistic and self-assured delight, knowing that the blood-spatter on the pavement where a creature of the Lord had stood just moments before - however abominable the wretched golem had been - was the work of his skilled and practiced hand. It was a beautiful thing, and somewhere deep within the bile-ducts and porous, spongelike interior of the man's spleen, some kind of Thanatotic chemical squeezed its way into the blood that pumped slowly - at somewhere around forty or forty-five beats-per-minute - up into the darkly resin-coated brain-synapses of the drunkest, loudest, most nihilistic son-of-a-cunt ever to front the greatest punk rock band in our Nation's fair yet limited history. This was Kenmore Square, some time in the vicinity of nineteen-seventy-fifteen ano domini at three-forty-twenty antemidiem on a vaginally-moist August morning in the precariously balanced outskirts of the country's first and greatest city; and if Norman Rockwell's ghost had risen from the grave to paint one last picture to complete his as-of-yet unfinished Five Freedoms series of posters, it would have been of J.C. McManus in this moment - towering over the dispersing fans at five-foot-twenty-four, and higher than Elvis on drugs that he couldn't possibly name - and it would have been titled Freedom From Really, Really, Shitty Music (and the Birth of a Terrible Beauty).
"Geez had instigated the literal shit-storm that had ensued within the venue. Earlier in the night, fans had lined the front of the stage with shots of whiskey; but, disenchanted with this horrendously capitalistic show of - what he considered - feigned appreciation ("look how much I like your band, I spent money to show you how great I think you are!"), Jesus Christ McManus drank the shots only after pissing directly into every single glass before the two-hundred kid, sold-out crowd. "Sold Out" in those days actually only meant that some people would have to hang from the pipes on the ceiling if they wanted to come in and see the show. A seat in the ceiling rafters isn't a bad thing except for the exceptional level of smoke inhalation involved, but cancer wasn't as trendy then as it has become now, and Pam had yet to divulge any information regarding her fat face or the lump on her neck to the youth of the generation; and so, the pipe-hangers swindled and brindled and dwindled their way in throughout the show, increasing exponentially in quantity the leading up to the moment that Jesus Christ McManus would take the stage. By the time the man had climbed to the microphone seemingly from a metaphysical trap door cleverly sandwiched between two wrinkles in the time-space-continuum, the roiling masses at the edge of the modest stage bubbled like fire-ant fagioli in some kind of gravity-defying, sideways crock-pot of some extra-perceptual, cackling, demonic Italian nonna - her sagging tits ejaculating directly into the mixture as she stirs and stirs until the still-living creatures boil over the edges, tossing human-shaped arcs similar in physics and appearance to plasmatic solar-mass-ejections across the vaccuum, ultimately crashing into the magnetic sphere of the now performing act on the stage and delivering to the still-earthbound masses the most magnificent show of mixed-metaphor-northern-lights that punk rock and literature can possibly bring you on one page without any variety of visual aide or diagram.
"And this went on for at least an hour before Geez reverted to his most apelike instincts, becoming suddenly naked on stage so that he might defecate into his hand and disperse his excrement amidst the audience. It was probably the whiskey talking, but most of the crowd was quick to return fire between guzzles of hard liquor mixed with equal parts in human sweat (a mixture that, despite having no apparent chemical properties that would produce such effects, has been known throughout the history of man to produce unruly and unpredictable behavior even from the most refined of social classes [or castes, in Buddhism]; if you don't believe me, mix [in a controlled setting] equal parts human sweat and whiskey and feed it to a succesful bank manager: report all physical results and sudden behavioral changes in your blue notebook before handing it in to be graded).
"Jesus Christ was vomiting blood just before the final encore, and that was how he knew that it was time for a cigarette break, and maybe a rail or two to calm his nerves.
"All in a day's work."
And now, a bunch of shit I pulled from my sketchbook, since most new, finished art is currently in-production:
