“I couldn't live a week without a private library
- indeed, I'd part with all my furniture and squat and sleep on the floor
before I'd let go of the 1500 or so books I possess.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Whistling In The Graveyard

Saturday, November 17, 2007


So I'm back from my big trip to the county.

It was every bit as uneventful as it sounds.

Lot of watching TV, got some drawing done, fucked up my back on the crappy bed. Found my old tan trench coat, which I'd abandoned some time ago for my newer, sexier, black one. I figured I'd dig it out for those occasions when I didn't want to look like an aging goth and more like a pervert. Problem is, it'd been kept in one of the closets in the new rooms that had been added to the house and for some reason those rooms aren't well ventilated, so the coat smells like it's been buried in fucking mold for a few months.

I'm trying to fix that now by running it through the washer, despite the 'Professionally Dry Clean ONLY' label. I don't do dry cleaning. Dry cleaning is for the weak. I do man laundry. Man laundry is everything in one load, cold water, dry as necessary. If it doesn't survive then you were a pansy for wearing it in the first fucking place.

Oh, there was one blog-worthy event. I had to go pick Mom up after her trip. Well one of the hundred local churches has this thing where they box up free or discounted food for people who need it and Mom delivers it to a few people so she had me pick her up at the church.

You don't have to have been reading this blog long to know how I feel about churches.

In short, they make me itch.

Anyways, I pull into the church parking lot, resisting the urge to drive Mom's big-ass SUV right through the fucking thing, shut off the engine and I hear music. And it's kinda familiar music. Kinda sounds like The Doors...

Who the fuck would be blasting The Doors inside a church? Well, I would, but I was outside so I was reasonably sure it wasn't me. Time and space being relative things, it's impossible to be 100% sure you know.

Approaching the windows I see a drum set and mic stands and a live band. Someone is playing The Doors live on the church stage? That's sufficiently groovy. But then I listened closer. It was a very Doorsy sound, but the lyrics were your standard churchy, preachy, "We're not worthy" bullshit.

You know when people say they had to bite their tongue to keep quiet?

Yeah, I'd never had to do that before tonight.

I'm lucky (as are all of you)I didn't bite it clear off.

How fucking DARE anyone use The Doors for Christianical purposes?

It's worth explaining something at this point. I am the Prodigal Doors Fan. I became one in the early 90's when Brian went all ape-shit over Oliver Stone's Doors movie. God only knows why, because that movie sucked ass, as does most of Stone's work.

Hey Stone, just because you CAN put 30 jump-cuts in one fucking scene doesn't mean you SHOULD.

But yes, the movie sucked (despite the presence of Val Kilmer) but the music spoke to me. I saw deeper meaning to it. It was spiritual and moving.

And then one day I woke up and realized that he was just a drunk guy with a microphone.

I went on like that for a while. A jaded ex-Doors fan. Or so I believed. Till one day I was sitting in a bar and Roadhouse Blues came on and I said to myself;

"Alright, a drunk guy with a microphone."

And I was once again welcomed into the fold (movie still sucks though). How dare Christianity attempt to taint my love of The Doors?


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