Posts Tagged ‘crap’

Fear and Loathing in Louisville, Kentucky


Jason Giecek


I am in the land of Ali, the birth place of Hunter S. Thompson.

I am Dr. Me to Mr. Me to my lover’s preciousness.

She hates me during those phases, here I sit in evil phase, writing about the love of spring in the summer time.

I laugh at that sentence, almost comical, making me want to carve it into my chest.

I stand in fire waiting for life, to die, to dance in star light.

She cringes from human touch, she can’t remember a time that love was real, not a barren place, didn’t have to place her hope onto the back of her baby, life was reality, not just a dream,

A hopeless nightmare….




Cheap beer and steel guitars,
Whiskey and lonely hearts,
Broke down in San Antonio,
Drinking time in old down towns,
Looking for a good time,
Finding nothing but a broken heart,
Cheap perfume
And lonely eyes,
Living the honky time life,
Bar flies and worn out trucks,
Drinking time,
Pull up a stool and shoot the breeze,
Closing time is far away,
Don’t mind ole Montana,
He down on his luck,
Found a woman,
She did a buck,
Run away with a rodeo clown,
Broke his heart,
And now he sits at the bar,
Trying to find a replacement heart,
Drinks his lonely heart beer run,
Texas born,
Down on his luck,
He hears the jukebox play,
Ole Same is on his way,
Lonely hearts
And cheap motels,
Only wine can heal it fine,

Beer makes it televised!!

I have traveled somewhere and got lost in a book store once. It may have been in Lexington, Kentucky. It was wonderful!

I need to write tonight, I am very tired, not necessarily physically, mostly mentally!

I’m trying to be a good boy, I didn’t kill anyone today!

I may have beaten some customer with a loaf of day old french bread and may have shoved a ten pound turkey up their butt.

Cashiers can get cranky when they skip nap time and then have a customer screech, “This turkey should have rang up at $12.95, not $12.96.”

DO YOU FEEL THE PENNY NOW MY FRIEND!!!!  I scream, shoving pennies by the bucket full down their throats. I AM RHAK, WARRIOR GOD!!! DIE PAGAN FILTH!!!

This gets you a visit to HR.

“Do you think that it was appropriate to scream….” reads transcript from the video surveillance “You have awaken the evil inside of me that has slept for a thousand years!?”

I shrug and then reply, “Maybe, the entire scene needs to be viewed in its entirety, it’s a master piece in English Norse Theater!”

“Does shoving a bottle of $18.45 wine down the customer’s throat while screaming, TO THE WHORES OF YOUR MOTHER’S WOMB compile into this theater script?”

I nod.

“We’ve had 58 complaints today about you!”

I smile.

“That’s down from yesterday, gotta admit, it’s an improvement!”


Also, my brains are turning to mush.

People don’t realize the fun of being a cashier.checker.dragon slayer.

We stand there for hours, scanning your otter pops, control top pantyhose, and $4.95 a box condoms.

“Pick up a pregnancy test as well, same aisle!” I smile, fake of course. Checkers don’t have real smiles, just like they don’t have souls anymore.

They sold theirs for a box of cereal.

I sold mine for some Raisin Bran.

Nummy for the raisin bran!!

Course, standing there, you get to think, deep thoughts, deep, deep thoughts, like —

  • I really must have done something wrong in a previous life, maybe killed a whole bunch of babies. Maybe I was Hitler. Or a Pharaoh of Egypt, one of the evil ones, who killed a whole bunch of babies.
  • Why did I go to college for?  “Hot babes, lots of drugs!” my brain responds.
  • Do cashiers really get laid a lot like the recruiter said?
  • What is “Getting laid”? Will I ever see a really life naked vagina again?
  • “Probably not, loser!” my brain responds. “You should have stayed in school, became a doctor of literature or underwater basket weaving.

Seeing my old professor from my college days brought back some of those memories, of college frat parties, girls, girls, men, men, more men, no wait, wrong flashbacks!!!
Professor was head of the humanity department, I took his history of the 20th century world, and learned to question authority or do drugs.

I don’t remember.

If you remember college, you did it wrong.

Or maybe that was the 1960s.  I forget.

“Hi! Been a long time!!” I said.

He beamed.  “Did you take my classes, what was your name again?”

I told him.

“I remember you, you were the smart ass in seat 7 row A!”

I nodded.

We both laughed.

I told him about my adventures as an IT monkey for the mafia or a casino in the middle of a corn field, my descent into madness AKA retail.

“You should write a book!! I’m working on one!” he nodded and then we had to part ways.

It’s always nice to see old professors and teachers so they can see where their prized students landed.

“You were my hope…” one of them almost cried at me, running away in tears.

If I’m your hope, you’re f*cked!

I wasn’t his real hope, he was going senile, his wife explained to me later, but if it made me feel better, worst, whatever, then go ahead and believe it.

I’m a hope!!!


I don’t like to write about myself, as in the first person, reality sets, non-fiction crap that goes straight on viral in the topics of depression, masturbation, or medical science as a cop out for why I’m insane.

Nope, I don’t usually write about my addiction to porn as that might go viral, I’d go famous, be invited to talk shows, talking head doctors on the boob tube asking me questions like, “Why my friend do you like to self-abuse yourself?”

Cause it feels so good when I stop.

We’d all laugh but deep down, we’d know it was the truth.

Tonight, I can’t sleep.

I wrote another piece on another site – found here – LETTERS TO THE DARK – FICTION

I write sometimes just to get stuff out of my brain, an escape, stuff to drop from behind the happy mask I wear, even in front of my lovers and friends.

I sitting here at 1:40 in the morning, writing, just stuff right now, off the top of my mind.

I did take a nap earlier which probably didn’t help but also my mind is racing, thinking, over thinking, over processing things, so I just decided to put the thoughts to words, and hopefully they make sense to whomever reads this or my other blog.

The night is a good time but also a bad time, a time to think, the time most of the “normal” people are in bed, sweetly dreaming, or in nightmares, and here I sit, listening to music, and writing, a third blog entry on two sites.

I think it is what keeps me from going on a long walk off a short pier.  Few people in my life know the madness that is inside my brain.

Those few people have the same issues, one of the reasons we couldn’t move to lovers as we are too crazy.

Someone needs to be anchor to reality, someone has to be the one who screams, “Hit the brakes!!!” as we head towards the cliff!!

I really shouldn’t listen to death metal lost love songs on YouTube.

The ads on the videos are depression medications, the ones that cause thoughts of suicide or vision problems.

I think masturbation has the same side effect.

“You shouldn’t masturbate anyways, makes you lose your edge in madness!” I once had a girl tell me.

We were very close friends in high school.

We tried to kiss once and ended up falling off her bed.

There we were on the floor, she on top of me, laughing.

Her mom peeked in.

“What are you two doing?” she said.

“We were on the bed and fell off when we tried to kiss!” Sarah said, laughing the entire time.

Her mom laughed and shut the door.

“You want to do it, don’t you?” Sarah smiled at me, feeling the bulge in my pants.

I did.

She did.

We didn’t.

It would end up ruining our friendship.

We kissed for awhile, there on the floor, she guided my hand up her shirt, feel her.

But that’s as far as we went.

She told me later she had wished we had gone farther, to had me as her first, that day.

She ended up in a toxic relationship; an abusive prick.

We sat one day at a bar where we met up, to talk about the “Good old days”.

We ended up at a motel, a classy place, a hot tub next to the swimming pool.

It was nice, sitting there in the hot tub, next to each other, people who came in assumed we were a newly wedded couple preparing for a night of love making, hardcore sex, whatever.

We didn’t, again, but as we let the bubbles guide us into a place.

Again, we kissed, we made it back to her room, on the floor, making out on the bed as some movie played on the TV.

“Do you wanna?” Sarah winked.

How I did, even more than that day back years before, but we didn’t.

I left that room, hours later.  The morning sun rising.

Is the above real?

Who knows, it could be, it could be my imaginary world.

I know most of you are like, “Sure, you didn’t have sex with her!!”

Anyways, welcome to my mind, come on in!



Anal bleeding and thoughts of Suicide – A Cure for Depression!

What is society but a bunch of junkies, tax lawyers and such trying to get laid and failing at such?

“I can get laid anytime and anywhere!”

Some people roar while others cry out, almost whimpering in a silent voice, against the dying of the machine, “Fuck society!”

Society is a broken machine, still trying to chug along, plowing into things, people, whistles through the belts, a resource hog.

“Why does society disappoint you?”

Maybe all our heroes are counterfeit, maybe all of them make money off the back of small children.

Maybe this is all an illusion, a horrible dream, one of us needs to wake up, screaming, our lover will hold us, the one who passed away in that horrible place almost five years ago.

We’ll tell her about the horrible dream.

Sadly we’ll wake back up in this world, this is reality, shit reality, but reality nonetheless.

The medication we use to make us “happy” and “:lovable” aren’t working, definitely not curing us from the madness, the rage, it’s not even hiding it into the closet, the fester and mold.

We are a society of pill takers, to cure depression we take a pill that makes us live through thoughts of suicide and anal bleeding just so we won’t be sad.

I’d be fucking sad with anal bleeding let alone thoughts of suicide!!

The voices inside my head say I’ll be okay and that’s fine to me, even better than anal bleeding and thoughts of suicide.

Society is a revolutionary evolution, sliding towards infinity but with a short term life ahead of it.

Creatures moving towards death at a high speed of velocity, a wall in the way, any second.

Rebels without a clue – angry at everything, even the perfect lay, the ultimate fuck.

Listening to the soundtrack of their generation, wishing they could go back to that time, Mary Jane, in the back of the Chevy, fucking like school children on a Friday night, instead working for $7.50 an hour while their wife screws the mail man, doesn’t even know if the kids are his.

Perfect past, dead present, no future – welcome to society…..


31452490845_f7598ede24_bWe were cruising on the road, dateline, July 10th, 1993 – outside of some sleepy little dusty town.

Drive through liquor store just outside the town limits, 14 bottles of whiskey stashed into the trunk, enough for the 75 miles to the next little shit hole town, Petersburg, named after Walter Peters, a general from the Civil War.

What so civil about war anyways?

John was taking hits off the can of gasoline stored in the back, tipsy, running on speed, trying to see if there were bunny rabbits on the side of the road selling tomatoes and a variety of fruits.

There wasn’t a soul outside, just flashes of lightning, drifting rain, memories, words of sorry, Angela was trying to find us, me.

She killed herself back in Tulsa, some boy broke her heart, he doesn’t need to be named for this story.

We were hoping for a life of leisure when the bottom fell out, miscarriage, 2003, I tried to be a man, but failed, like always, and ran away for the road.

Four bit hookers on speed, trying to remember the golden times, space, time, ripped from the womb of mother, father drunk.

Tonight, the yellow lines of the road speed by us, laser show, this is our story, running on empty at mile marker 23.

I was listening to the radio, this was our song, feelings, right there, busted heart, Las Vegas took my last dollar, found ten on the way to Reno.

I remember sitting on the roof, throwing shingles into the street below.  Pigeons stared at me as I listening to the moon trying to tell me everything would be alright, shouldn’t jump, break the street, in a bloody mess, someone would have to clean it up anyways.


Night, the road always seems to be peaceful out there.

It wasn’t, my mind was thinking, always bad to think.

Johnny was dying in some hospital out east, bad liver, killed himself with the bottle.

1492, something about the ocean blue, this one was dedicated to Johnny, maybe when he died, we’d stop at some flea bite hotel outside of Fargo, North Dakota, we’d drink some gasoline from fancy crystal glasses, out by the broken pool.

Our life, a salute – a man in the corner, making potions, in some traveling show, riding the train, listening to the music of the tracks.

We stood outside, in the whispering wind, listening to the memories, 2017, still high on whatever we found on the street of the last town.


Indiana corn field burning brightly in the sweet, sweet night.

Good night, till tomorrow, we shall see…..

JACK KEROUAC: Where are you now? 


A Retrospect of my life in words and pictures


Dr. Andre Costello

The world begins to slowly move away from the body, traveling through space, time is a different matter.

The lady at the bar laughs and pours us another drink, in the name of humanity.

“War is not an option?”

A statement?

She didn’t exactly know.

We stood up and she disappeared into the setting sun.

The sun, a blazing orb of yellows and reds, burned my skin but into the desert we went, my head held high and the body rejoiced in delightful agony of pain, running from the feet, up the spine and into the brain.

July 12th, 1993: Angie is dying, one minute at a time, as we all do.

She did it exceptionally well.

Hagus De Morus, trapped spirits on this world, overlooked a dreadful mass of humanity, the villains of the world; tax lawyers, used cars salesmen, angry youth trapped in globs of human waste trying to swim upstream like broken salmon.

“Here we should give up!” she once more appeared and said, smiling.

I had wanted to give up miles before, days in.

She wouldn’t let me.

We did not see the setting sun, as the world ended behind us, one minute at a time.


the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Jack Kerouac, where are you now?

Trapped in some shitty after life, writing about the cause and effect of madness on the road with some long dead hooker who we never learn represents our mothers, our daughters, our sisters, our nieces, the long lost love inflection we met in high school but never had the balls to ask her out?

Are we the same way, different time?

Did we see the setting sun against the dying of humanity, or are we just mad, insane, completely utterly, sitting on the street corner watching the dogs and fights and the fucks and the loves?

“Cigarette?” the executioner asks.

I shake my head no.

“Good, those things will kill you!” he says smiling through broken teeth, rotting flesh falling from his face, to gather on the ground.

I bought a ticket, someplace, any place, the madness of my mind, my eyes, seeing the world as a twisted mold of disease and war, the painted hookers of 7th Street disappearing from my view as the bus hit the highway.

Gary, the lover, the fighter, the writer, was dead, in the ground, killed by society, drug of choice, life, a killer, no one gets out alive.

I tried to find my way back to that “other life” where I was happy, floating above humanity in a balloon, sky high, now, here in the blood, the mud, shit of society, looked down upon by those high up, those not realizing that some day soon they too could be down here.

The highway kept moving forward, pulling us down the line, further apart from the lovers, closer to the edge, the cliff, would we go over in a blazing ball of fire.