Sometimes Tucson sings to you. You know, you're all full of bourbon and pills, and if you listen just right, it will tell you what you want to hear. Or, equally likely, what you don't want to hear...So you go for a couple of months in a relatively sane fashion, and then The Sickness comes back on you, and you have to find new ways to get enough oxygen, to shut out the horrible song that The City is crooning in your ear.
Problem is, pretty soon even reckless driving and irresponsible firearm fun just doesn't cut it anymore. You need more. Faster. When even seeing the Sausage Creature1 doesn't impress you, you know you're a real Tucsonian. You find yourself sneering at people whose bumper stickers read (upside down) "If you can read this, flip me over". You find yourself yawning at the Meat Rack.
And then you ponder what to do next. What other idiocy will spur enough adrenaline to keep you alive in the hellish heat and altitude that some fool built this City in. What the hell do the lowlanders do, when The Sickness comes on them? What horrible pastimes do they indulge in, in New York and Boston2 and Big Rock? Do they, too, grow weary of screaming down the highway with bugs in their teeth and skulls in their eyes? Do they grow lethargic at the very mention of explosives and home-loaded "super shells"?
Like any junkie, I need more...I need it just to feel normal, now. Screaming at golfers is fun, but does nothing for my cravings. Taunting Wiccans in the park is healthy, but still I can't sleep at night, because The City, she sings.
Indeed, she sings for me...And one day, she'll sing for all of you, and may God help you on that day. Cracking jokes about "The Holy City™ of Eris is one thing, living here is quite another. And you'll all live here, one day, even if you stay right where you are. Japan has moved here, and they like it...You can tell by their happy groaning and exulting screams of horror.
Tucson grows. She stretches and infects. She'll come to your house one day, standing on your porch and waiting to be loved. And you'll love her, just as I love her. You'll sing with her and scream your joy to an empty, uncaring universe, just as I do.
I love this City, and I'll never leave. Because I can't. And one fine day, you'll all understand just what exactly it is that I rave about from time to time. And then, like myself, you'll lay awake all night, listening to her sing of her love for you.
Or Kill Me.
1 The Sausage Creature is what you meet when you are ejected from a vehicle, or fall off a motorcycle. If you're particularly lucky, you just meet him. Otherwise, you become him.
2 Aside from Guido-baiting, I mean.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on March 15, 2011, 05:21:28 PM
Sometimes Tucson sings to you. You know, you're all full of bourbon and pills, and if you listen just right, it will tell you what you want to hear. Or, equally likely, what you don't want to hear...So you go for a couple of months in a relatively sane fashion, and then The Sickness comes back on you, and you have to find new ways to get enough oxygen, to shut out the horrible song that The City is crooning in your ear.
Problem is, pretty soon even reckless driving and irresponsible firearm fun just doesn't cut it anymore. You need more. Faster. When even seeing the Sausage Creature1 doesn't impress you, you know you're a real Tucsonian. You find yourself sneering at people whose bumper stickers read (upside down) "If you can read this, flip me over". You find yourself yawning at the Meat Rack.
And then you ponder what to do next. What other idiocy will spur enough adrenaline to keep you alive in the hellish heat and altitude that some fool built this City in. What the hell do the lowlanders do, when The Sickness comes on them? What horrible pastimes do they indulge in, in New York and Boston2 and Big Rock? Do they, too, grow weary of screaming down the highway with bugs in their teeth and skulls in their eyes? Do they grow lethargic at the very mention of explosives and home-loaded "super shells"?
Like any junkie, I need more...I need it just to feel normal, now. Screaming at golfers is fun, but does nothing for my cravings. Taunting Wiccans in the park is healthy, but still I can't sleep at night, because The City, she sings.
Indeed, she sings for me...And one day, she'll sing for all of you, and may God help you on that day. Cracking jokes about "The Holy City™ of Eris is one thing, living here is quite another. And you'll all live here, one day, even if you stay right where you are. Japan has moved here, and they like it...You can tell by their happy groaning and exulting screams of horror.
Tucson grows. She stretches and infects. She'll come to your house one day, standing on your porch and waiting to be loved. And you'll love her, just as I love her. You'll sing with her and scream your joy to an empty, uncaring universe, just as I do.
I love this City, and I'll never leave. Because I can't. And one fine day, you'll all understand just what exactly it is that I rave about from time to time. And then, like myself, you'll lay awake all night, listening to her sing of her love for you.
Or Kill Me.
1 The Sausage Creature is what you meet when you are ejected from a vehicle, or fall off a motorcycle. If you're particularly lucky, you just meet him. Otherwise, you become him.
2 Aside from Guido-baiting, I mean.
:horrormittens: :mittens:
Yowza. Fucking creepy. Momma loves you to death, indeed.
Damn, dude.
Quote from: Sigmatic on March 15, 2011, 05:54:18 PM
Damn, dude.
Well, it's that time of year. The City is waking up and it's all horrormirth and hollering and PILLS HERE, and there's not much to be done about it, except find new and interesting ways to be aggressively stupid.
That phrase (aggressively stupid) has found it's way into my brain, as of late. Don't know how it got there, but it has a sort of fatalistic appeal.
Quote from: Sigmatic on March 15, 2011, 06:06:16 PM
That phrase (aggressively stupid) has found it's way into my brain, as of late. Don't know how it got there, but it has a sort of fatalistic appeal.
You're too close, too close. There's nothing to be done about it. Just gobble your pills and learn to love guns and poor driving.
Shhhhiit. See, I already have an affinity for velocity and explosions. I grew up with a friend who drives like he's filled his car doors with concrete, and buys guns like a crazed militia (an entire one, that is).
But.... they stole my guns, the pill stopped working and ummmm :cry:
This is wonderful, but lately I think everything you have written has been like a wake up slap in the face. Only the waking up is worse than the slap :x
It's awesome and terrible and wonderful and scary as shit and it's all rolled into one.
:mittens:
Another one nailed!!!
When the waking up is worse than the slap, he's doing it right.
Rev, is this why I haven't gotten more than 4 hours of sleep a night since moving into Prov? (Other than one night, and I credit Dimo's punk rock for drowning things out that night... That, or the awe at seeing somebody literally shoved through a ceiling. Whichever.)
Quote from: Luna on March 15, 2011, 06:25:44 PM
When the waking up is worse than the slap, he's doing it right.
Rev, is this why I haven't gotten more than 4 hours of sleep a night since moving into Prov? (Other than one night, and I credit Dimo's punk rock for drowning things out that night... That, or the awe at seeing somebody literally shoved through a ceiling. Whichever.)
You have fallen in with rock n rollers. Dimo, Richter, and the rest will no doubt lead you into horrible, horrible things.
Needless to say, I am positively green with envy.
Quote from: Luna on March 15, 2011, 06:25:44 PM
When the waking up is worse than the slap, he's doing it right.
I didn't say he was doing it wrong.... :?
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on March 15, 2011, 06:29:09 PM
Quote from: Luna on March 15, 2011, 06:25:44 PM
When the waking up is worse than the slap, he's doing it right.
Rev, is this why I haven't gotten more than 4 hours of sleep a night since moving into Prov? (Other than one night, and I credit Dimo's punk rock for drowning things out that night... That, or the awe at seeing somebody literally shoved through a ceiling. Whichever.)
You have fallen in with rock n rollers. Dimo, Richter, and the rest will no doubt lead you into horrible, horrible things.
Needless to say, I am positively green with envy.
One may only most devoutly hope.
Quote from: Khara on March 15, 2011, 06:32:16 PM
Quote from: Luna on March 15, 2011, 06:25:44 PM
When the waking up is worse than the slap, he's doing it right.
I didn't say he was doing it wrong.... :?
I figured, I was agreeing with you.
If you don't wake up screaming you aren't properly awake.
I like "aggressively stupid", too. Good phrase.
:mittens: Wonderful stuff, Roger.
Is this true, Roger? If I see enough Weird it becomes old hat?
Not sure I understand that sentiment. As I've explained elsewhere, we're all surrounded by Weird, swimming in it, Tucson or not. The only way it will get old for me is if someone hacks a bit out of my brain, the part that feels amazement, Horror, and wonder.
As for the junkie part, sounds like you need to get off the sauce for a while. I'm talking about the Tucson sauce. It sounds like methadone for Horror, which is to say that it's better than the street drugs of Ignorance, Apathy, and Religion, but permanent attachment seems to dull the Weird sense.
Not trying to deride the Tucson Experience. Just suggesting that maybe it would be healthy to get away for a while.