9/17/2056

Seeing the world in a cataclysmic fireball brings tears to my eyes for many different reasons.

Some from regrets, I should have asked that special girl out, moved to an exotic land, splurged on an even bigger TV.  Some from the nostalgia of never being able to do it again.

Like sex, (there’s no way I’ll do it with a mutant…  unless I was drunk) but also sports.

Sports, where prestige, importance, and sexual fertility were doled out in accordance by placement of near arbitrary numbers.  1st place, cadillac el dorado.  2nd place, steak knives.  3rd place and time to rebuild your team.

My personal favorite was the raceway, a sport of death and metal caterwauling through slick asphalt, until there could be only one. These races challenged our perceptions on what sports could and should be about. Most importantly was which brand name was the fastest in the world. (The answer?  Wonderbread with Tide coming in distant second.) The other would be to get as spectacularly drunk as humanly (or androidly) possible.

At first stock car races only had a few tens of laps.  It was incredibly hard to get completely blotto, but we men (and robots) were a hardy stock.  But as the races became more and more popular, the number of laps increased exponentially. Until finally we had the superoval of car races, the Budweiser 5,000,000. A grueling three-month drunken debauchery of sport, fun, and speed.  This was more a battle of attrition than anything else, but there could be nothing more riveting than the struggle of man riding machine, over and over and over and over and over and over again (to the 5,000,000 power).

Nowadays, the best sport I have is rolling rocks down hills and seeing which one is fastest.  (I am coach, player, commentator, and also fantasy league commissioner of rolling rock.)

Gone is the sense of pride. Gone is the community. All I have left is my drunkenness. And a few distant memories of the smell and taste of burning rubber and – if we were lucky – death.

9/8/2056

Acid rained today, just my luck, I wanted to go for a picnic.  So on those lazy hazy acid rain days, I took out a sheet of paper and started sketching.

I think whoever reads this would appreciate knowing of man’s ability to create, to inspire, to find his boundaries, and then break them.  It’s the high of creativity, of making something for yourself.

Back in the day, before the robots made all our paintings, artists used to hold galleries, art walks, and generally celebrate artistic freedom to make whatever the hell you wanted to.  Sure, not a lot of it made sense.  (dresses made from light bulbs?  Illumination of a decadent age.  Hats that resemble jellyfish?  A new spin on the old irony of a fish head.  And so on and so on and so on.)

Most people didn’t understand our artists, which is why we eventually resorted to having robots paint all our pictures.  it was just easier to understand.  Plus you could program them to just really shit them out, like a copier with the stirring heart of isolation.  Simply program the “no one understands my agonizingly beautiful lack of self-awareness, and then bam!  The robot would just start painting in broad strokes.

Maybe I’m just being nostalgic, but I remember visiting the MOMA on a field trip, snapping endless pictures, until I saw a Picasso, etched indefinitely into my brain.  I saw the beauty of a woman, broken outside of a 2d shape, the breasts, the legs, the face, the sex completely flopped out in every perspective, from every angle until it was just a piece of meat.  Even as a kid I was struck by the simple beauty of degradation.

Now I feel sorry for even thinking of the place.  When the MOMA turned into a brothel, a little piece of humanity died.  Instead of curious field trips of children, it became a haven for biker gangs and cheap tricks.

I suppose art is the first thing to go when a nuclear explosion happens in a country’s own backyard.  Oh well, at least the mutants eventually ate the biker gangs.  Post Post modern art or Post it of the times?

9/2/2056

Today I went back to look for more rubbish from our past.  We as humans, as people, have the ability to propagate waste so inanely, and yet perhaps that’s what makes us human.

For instance, in the garbage receptacle, I found the last remaining icon of a civilization too advanced for it’s own good.

For anyone who’s seen it, there’s little in the need for introduction.  Named as AFI’s number 1 most important film in the last century, academy award winner for best picture, 2 Girls 1 Cup, serves as a reminder that what we fail to understand now doesn’t mean there’s no beauty in it later.

It’s a warm friday night.  Ricky, my older brother, takes us to the last remaining drive-in theatre in the state.  We sit down comfortably in our seats, my hand buttery from too much popcorn.  My eyes riveted to the screen.  And for a little under 3 minutes, the screen dazzles and I’m transformed from a boy into a man.

I remember when the first film came out, how they slandered the picture, criticized it for exploitation, for pornography, deeply reviled.  The picture would be nearly forgotten years later.  I believe the great Roberto Benigni said it best, “I can hate a film for many things, but certainly I must love something from it, if I cannot look away.”  And perhaps when reviewed again, and again and again, the themes come to life.

Man’s dominance over his counterpart, sure.  Passion and love mixed with the destruction of self, absolutely.  Irony, situational and dramatic flash again and again.  The dehumanized sexuality which would mark the country as the decadent bastard of Rome.  These thoughts come to mind.  Or maybe there’s even more to it, than the simple images of two girls defecating for our viewing pleasure.

“That which we do not understand, I can’t help but fervently try,” James Lipton.

So the disc plays in the DVD player, again and again, and while I may not understand everything, I fervently try.

8/27/2056

No one will ever read this.

Well no person I suppose.  Maybe when I’ve grown to weak, and can’t handle the throwback of my double barreled quasar shotgun, a horde of mutants will overpower these steel doors and follow the hungry scent to the last surviving brain, where they will feast on the last memories of humans.

Then the mutants may ravage my place, either ignoring the flashing screen, or staring dumbfounded at these letterings, transfixed by a language beyond grunts and violence.  Okay then.  Here goes.

FUCK YOU FOR EATING MY BRAINS.

There.  I feel so much better now.

Onto how my day went.

Drunk on space beer, I’ve been rummaging through some old garbage bins, looking for anything I can use.  Found some classic 2-D movies, which I’ll be blogging about later, but mostly wanted to talk about the real find.

Stuffed somewhere between plutonium tubes, a sex catheter, and some old Hormel cans of Bald Eagle meat, I found a special relic of the past.

Music from way back when has the power to connect the language of humanity through simple riffs, chords, and harmonies.  Not like today’s music.  (Or should I say ten years ago before the bomb took out my favorite radio station.)

There’s something about classical music that younger generations never seemed to understand.  Even listening to my old man’s Soulja Boy records, I can tell the quality of a lyric like:

“Jocking on yo bitch ass/ and if we get the fightin/ then I’m ocking on your bitch/ you crank me at yo local party/ yes I crank it everyday, haterz get mad cause I got me some bathing apes.”

Lyrics like that come from the heart.  Now take that in comparison to what my son (bless his mutant heart) listened to about 2 years ago from DeathPoop 6’s infamous song get yo hands off my punta.

“OOOOOOHHHHHHHHH GAAAWWWWWWDDDDD Stick it in again/ OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH LAAAWWWWWWWWWWDDDDDDD  Now in the other hole/ You my Punta!  I’m your Punta?  Yes you are indeed my Punta.”

I rest my case.

So I must leave my faithful readers until next time.  Today I think I’ll retire with some classical music.  Some Nickelback.

08/25/2056

It’s been the real cream of crap.

The sun splotches with green goo shimmering in the sunlight.

Looks like the mutants are coming out again.  Damn mutants.

I sit here brewing a cup of comet coffee and stare at the pixel screen looking for the words to begin the last blog on the face of the Earth.  What alien being will discover these transcripts of West Germanic lettering, decode them into 1’s and 0’s and then reprocess them in their foreign alphabet soup language?

Will mutants ever evolve to the point of utilizing advanced human technology to civilize themselves?  Or will they remain a collection of bizarre looking fetus butts, and fecal faces, only good for one thing, space slag?

Or maybe, with a brief light of optimism, cast by the last remaining rays of a dying sun, are there other humans who haven’t been vaporized into ash, and look forward to the gentle touch of humanity, some small insight into an unforgiving world?  To perhaps connect (if only through a sterile screen) through man’s most basic desire: to tell and to listen.

One thing’s for sure, these past few weeks have been the real cream of crap.