When cooking, I grab whatever spices. I like to reach into the back of the cabinet, to see what smidgen I might cling. Last night I found this: Death Rain Nitro.
A friend gave me this years ago. It is a powdered form, like anthrax or cocaine.
HOLY + SHIT. This was easily the hottest thing I have eaten since that lost weekend in Chile. My tongue did the pain Amy scissors dance. It swoll up. It had a supper of gasoline with the poor. He Hate Me.
I sent an editor a writing tips essay. It should be “out there” soon, unless the editor decides to not place it “out there.” I have over 559 writing tips, but only included tips #2, 14, 119, 9, 5, 16, and maybe a few others. Here is an example.
TIP FIVE: Don’t Try.
Charles Bukowski has these words on his tombstone: DON’T TRY. That’s either very sad or very Zen, I’m not sure which. My favorite tombstone engraving can be found in Round Rock, Texas: I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK. But I digress. Was Bukowski’s soul destroyed by all the cheap beer and ugly women? No, those two things restore a soul. What about his years working at the United States Post Office? Now you’re talking sense. Either way, his epitaph seems the best philosophy for a writer. For some ungodly reason, a lot of people want to be writers. They are seeking something, some miasmic state just over the oily horizon. They need to cease. To cease trying. They should instead lock themselves into a deep cave and write. Then write some more. Like a clam. A microwave cloud gathering. A Muzak, or a mural. And so on.
Come down to Memphis and try to drink like that and you’ll get your ass kicked, Papa.