I can't control my fingers, I can't control my brain

( Oh, someone's really smart / Oh, complete control, yeah, that's a laugh )

Skeleton crew tonight before the big night tomorrow. You'd think any of my band of fuck-headed bastards would know better than to try asking for fuckin' Thanksgiving off.

Keeping myself busy in the meantime.

I feel beautiful, crystalline levels of hatred for every thing on this motherfucking shithole of a planet, and the next time that little pastry-making douche so much as blinks at me, I will shove a meat tenderizer down his amphibious little throat.

Fucked if I can remember the past four days.

Whoever's couch I woke up on, I took a towel with me. And a pair of shoes. And half your liquor supply. And the brioche. And some of the silverware. And one of the paintings. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Fuuuuuuuck. Hair of the dog fixes everything.

Your precious European pet was safely ensconced in a closet his crash pad, boss. No bruises, even. Not for lack of trying.

If it's all the same to you, I'm going back to cooking now. He said something about lemon snow pudding with basil custard sauce and I wanna give it a shot. Which is, as you might recall, what I signed on for.

Hello, New York.

I missed you, you great, messy, heaving whore-bitch. Filthy, fucked up love of my damned life. Did you miss me? Don't lie -- I can see it in your glassy eyes; no one does you quite like I do.

It's okay. I know that I'm shit up a creek for Vermont, for Pennsylvania, Ohio, California, Washington, Texas and all those other shithole towns. Napa's got nothin' on you, baby. I'll show you. Cross my heart, on the graves of dive bars long dead and CBGB's cold and gutted corpse.

Damn, but it feels good to be home.

You guys are fucking hilarious.

In other, less retarded news... Boss, I'm skipping Seattle if it's all the same to you. It's not worth the dining clubs.

Well, shit.

I woke up in Napa Valley. Found this out after I staggered out of the hotel fresh from some dream of Sid and Johnny bone marrow pudding.

Bad news: Fucked if I remember how I got here.

Good news: This is French Laundry territory, motherfucker.

Goat cheese-stuffed dates wrapped in bacon. It's how I'm coping with being stuck in the fucking Buckeye State until the rental gets fixed. Yee-fucking-haw.

Fuck me gently, I miss my city. Getting out and getting drunk with other cookies is all well and good, but trying to sleep in places like this is like digging my own goddamned grave and having a lie down. Where's the noise?

In Pittsburgh, of all fucking places. Squirrel Hill's pretentious as hell, but I had sugar shock for a late breakfast and have been jittering my way through the day like I've got the DTs.

We'll see if tonight's anything worth talking about. Color me skeptical.

Sending back a shipment of sunchokes, fiddleheads and high-grade maple syrup. (Could roast the sunchoke with butter and the syrup. Throw in some rosemary, maybe some garlic.)

Still arguing with the Vermonters about cheese and G.G. Allin.

Smack in the middle between the Adirondacks and New-fucking-Hampshire. It shocked the shit out of me -- I didn't even think people lived out here. Maybe just foraged in the wild like prehistoric ape-things. I keep lookin' around and waiting for the Deliverance banjos to start playing, even if I am still in Yankeeville instead of the deep-fried South.

On the plus side, Masque now has a choice fucking deal on Tamworths and Gloucestershire Old Spots. You would not believe the size of the bastards out here, boss. I asked if they'd be willing to slaughter Wilbur in honor of being graced with my presence, so expect a shipment in the morning. There should be a smaller package with it since I know Angel, my little chuleta, can't live without pork testicles. Tell him it's from Papi, huh? Cost-wise we're still ahead of the Savoy.

There's a good chance they fuck the livestock out here, but damned if they don't know how to raise pigs.

Going out to scrounge up free drinks tonight. Need it after staring at a vomit-inducing amount of rainbow-themed food.

Whatever brainless line shit that wanted to float dyed lobster in aspic is getting my foot up their ass. This isn't fucking Chuck-E-Cheese, and we're not doing not-so-clever spins on 1950s "Americana". It was motherfucking nasty when housewives threw fuck all in Jell-O, and it's disgusting now.

Useless.

Garde manger was kind enough to pin some articles to my locker. The Mexican hardcore was well and good -- I'll show it to his madre later -- but the article about some Gossip Girl bitch calling herself a punk rocker earned everyone the gentle crooning of Billy Joel in the kitchen all through Monday.

Beatings will continue until morale improves. Fuck yeah, I'm petty. Nothin' wrong with suffering alongside your beloved pissant soldiers.

Today's the big day. Another one gone. Another fucking one dead and buried, too old and too young and fuck it all we're all gonna die eventually, anyway. I miss you, Dee Dee. I'm okay admitting to that. But I don't miss the drugs. I don't miss the needle. Except ah, fuck, I do and you've gotta keep reminding me of that damn it all.

College. You and me, we've gotta have words.

Maple bacon donuts save the fuckin' day. That is all.

Hey, assholes. I've got a day off coming up and won't be heading in to work to check in on things, right. There are people out there who owe me alcohol. In exchange, I will give you my eternal disgust. It's a bargain.

Heroin. You're on that list. Buy me a drink. Just get in range of my hands, I promise it'll be good.

My people have been calling out political douchebaggery for decades now. It's what we do. In light of the most recent scandal, I've decided fuck this shit. If the Jackass can be a world power and act like he does -- this is shit I've done and been bitched at for in the past, so what makes it okay for "the leader of the free world" to get away with it? -- then so can I.

Boss, I'm gonna need to take a leave of absence. If I'm gonna run for President, there's a lot of campaigning that'll have to get done, right?

Whaddya think of "Punk For 2012: Never Pretended To Be Anything But An Insensitive Asshole"? A little wordy, but I'm gonna have my guys work on it.

(That includes you, Blondie.)

[Back-dated to painfully early Tuesday morning]

More proof that my time should just be spent with that band of classy fucking pirates I work with. I'm going in early to control break make work on something. Anything. Don't bother me for a few days, all of you, unless you want a paring knife in your eye.

All these young, vibrant, frustrating little fuckers crawling over me like especially attention-starved ants. I want Sid and Joey back, not hugs and vampire bats. I want CBGB open again, not to be reminded that I'm still within a mortal lifespan and yet might as well be dead. I want my music and my people, loud and full of fire, not this shithole apartment so quiet I can hear my own breathing.

Need to find some work to fill the day lest I wind up like the rest of you bored and boring bastards. Time to start calling around and finding out who's still hiring, who shut down and who OD'ed from coke. Some days it feels like the '80s all over again.

I come back to this city, my city, to hear that the closest fucking prat I have for family has been busy boning holy fowl and that two of my favorite workplaces are closed and one of my chef-priests is dead. As if CBGB wasn't enough.

What the fuck is wrong with this picture, and why the hell am I not desecrating all things bright and beautiful with my immortal genitalia?