The Gonzo Wolf

The morning roller coaster came to a crash around 10am when the hammering began. I managed to fall back to sleep for a bit by using a BBC news broadcast. There’s just something about a woman’s nasally, monotone, accent-heavy voice that puts me right to sleep. The floor crew upstairs had other plans.

Trump and The Pope are still fighting, and it sounds like history’s wimpiest mob squabble. Squab? Mobble? Either way. Nothing is real anymore. I gasped when it happened to the presidency ten years ago, but now social media mentality has spread through to The Vatican. If I were a Satanist, I’d be demonicly giddy. Twas De Debil all along!

So much negativity all around us, day in and day out. It sticks to us all like Deep-South humidity-nuts on July’s inner thigh, and you should treat it accordingly. That said, I got up and did exactly that.

As soon as I could peel myself from the morning-chilled leather sofa, I showered and shaved. It’s impossible to get a grip on your mental health if you look like twice-baked ass on the outside. I’m beginning to believe my bouts with depression coincide with the growth of my facial hair. The scruffier I appear, the further you should step away.

Somewhere between trimming my stray cat eyebrows and the sting of Old Spice on a freshly shaven face, I flipped on the juice for a little payback. The Tejano music from those contractor’s tiny radio upstairs was soon drowned-out by my crap-brown, two-channel Fender amp & my poor man’s purple Les Paul.

Now, if I could just memorize those damned words.

Preach truths, toke jokes. And shoplift Amazon. I hope everyone is having a manageable Monday.