Sports III

Ernest Hemingway says the first draft of anything is shit and Hunter S Thompson would wait until the last minute of a deadline to write of some manic hyperbole so we will settle on Charles Bukowski’s advice of “just fucking write” more or less at least I think that was him but he also gives advice to young men to not write poetry—not that the young men of generation z could write poetry anyways—god knows I can’t. Anyways—we are off, flashing, lights are flashing, the neon is blinding, no this is not union square, this is not broadway—this is the mess of a mind that has been catered to by the algorithm—yes your mind’s algorithm coupled with the internet brought you to this writing. Interesting. But now you are reading the Vanilla sky of my mind talking to your mind and you know who I am—Jude McCoy—but I don’t know who you are. I have no idea who reads my writing, every so often a random chap will tell me he loves my writing and I take it congenially because I am usually writing for either God, or some random crush I have.

But looks like it is just you again. Well, you will do. Just don’t judge me too much on sentence structure, vocabulary, rhythm, cadence, grammar, punctuation, diction or any other damned thing and we should get along just fine. Now let me just seal up this third wall with the last bit of putty and we will be back to our cherished sled ride across the Bering strait of our shared consciousness of the writer and the reader. Ready..1..2..3—————

I have a connection with Tom Osbourne where they didn’t treat me right when I worked at UNO so now I am paid an annual salary of $100,000 to go to every single Nebraska Cornhusker game for every sport and just kind of hangout, write about things every so often and post a couple things on social media a month. So here we are at the end of the football and volleyball season and wrestling is somewhere dominating their matches in some dark shadow of John Cook Arena. I won’t even mention women’s soccer because we know more about the mens soccer program at UNL than we do the women’s. 

I am the worst person to write about sports. Jude does not know ball. I don’t even care about it. I don’t gamble on it. I don’t know any of the players personally. Just good old Tom Osbourne paying me $100,000 to lay around and eat runza’s and Valentino’s pizzas. What a guy.

Literature XIV

JRR Tolkien 

So this is what I like about the Hobbit : Gandalf shows up in Bag End and is like, hey Bilbo you are an adorable little cunt aren’t you? I’m going to kidnap you and make you my bitch but first my gang of dwarves are going to gang rape your peace of mind until you are rendered senseless. Then Bilbo is like, but Gandalf, I am just a homosexual who smokes tobacco and reads books. Gandalf says, not today faggot you are coming with us. Then in Lord of the Rings Gandalf comes back to Bag End and says to Frodo, hey remember those tales of Bilbo getting his peaceful little life gang raped by a pack of rabid dwarves and then he came back a raving psychopath that doesn’t get along with anyone. Frodo is like yeah, that shit is wild. Gandalf goes, those stories are all true and I am going to groom you into my bitch even harder. Frodo is even more homosexual than Bilbo so he is like, “Gandalf that shit is fire let me gather my most flaming homosexual buddies to join me.” 

Jack Kerouac 

What I like about On the Road is that it is a bunch of yahoos getting their rocks off. 

Hunter S Thompson 

What I like about Hunter S Thompson is he is like, get in faggot—we are going to do meth, crack and heroine until you think that you lived through the 70s. 

Ernest Hemingway 

What I like about Ernest Hemingway is that he makes you feel like a cuck for never being to a bullfight because you live in America and are not a god damn Spaniard. Then he goes on in in a Farewell to Arms and says you are homosexual for not fighting in World War I. Proceeds in the sun also rises to say that you might be alcoholic but you were not an alcoholic in Paris, France so keep drinking loser. Have you even killed a fascist? No, because Cuba is now off limits to Americans and Ernest Hemingway lived there during a revolution and was so respected by the proletariat that his home was not touched. 

William S Burroughs 

What I like about William S Burroughs is he is like, we are not the same you are brainwashed to worship the soft machine and I fuck little brown boys and killed my wife. 

Charles Bukowski 

"I have fucked so many women and none of it matters." which makes me feel better because I can relate, I have jerked off to so many women and I can agree, none of it matters. 

Honorable Mentions 

GK Chesterton and CS Lewis are the only authors I cannot punk like this. GK will pierce the mind while CS will pierce the soul. Also F. Scott Fitzgerald does not have a flattering character but writes very good prose. John Steinbeck writes for actual poor people. Much poorer people than I have ever been especially since the poorest people in America identity with the wealthiest these days so that reading about the depression era is very difficult. Henry Miller creates beautiful ocean reefs that are alive with life in a way that makes one feel left out. William Faulkner is in the South and can’t help but leave racism on the tongue just by reading a word. The sympathy for the unreconstructed South is so tangible. Norman Mailer is a lurid writer but highly moral that makes him almost too good to be true. He reminds me of Bilbo writing about Middle Earth. Just another homosexual who likes to stay at home with his tobacco and books after many adventures. 

The Bottom of the Barrel 

So we are left with Jim Harrison, Thomas McGuane and Cormac McCarthy who are only relatable because of that one summer I had in Montana that made me realize I am a fucking bot. 🤖

Music I

LA DI DAAAA

The war of the roses

Farmers

Valoglass

Scotland 

Ireland 

Potato

America

New Jersey the docks

Midwest, WWII

The bricklayers Union in California

Divorces, the South

California

Omaha single moms rock and roll

The old market

Antiquarium

Record store

Loft

Acid

Me

Born in an attic

An exclusive affair of extended immediate family

Hippie bohemians

Lowest working class

Working class people who did not want to work so they identified with the bourgeoisie 

The vegetarian scene 

Rainbow

Punk rock

Dads music—early saddle creek

Gabriel and Monica

Feminist new wave

Ani difrqnco

More of the same

Jackie Marts, Dean, Merrill’s, Ryan, Nick, ebc, Bob

Arizona

Living with Monica

Benson party scene

Nightmares, insects, dinosaurs, what about David?

When I think of rock and roll these days I think of Bob Dylan.

I think of Bob Dylan crashing his motorcycle and surviving to go country.

I think of Jim Harrison, Thomas Mcgaune and Jimmy Buffet in Key West chasing Tarpon in an ugly scene with pristine surroundings once they got in their boat.

Jack Kerouac, William S Burroughs and Allen Ginsburg.

Hunter S Thompson.

This zine.

The Black Lips roaring musicality on Let It Bloom.

Of course The Day the Music Died.

Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin.

To me rock and roll is San Francisco with no agenda.

Rock and roll is a road trip with no ambitions except finding “it”.

Rock and roll is so alive in a place like Omaha until the alcohol, cocaine and friends are gone.

After the rock and roll, the friends are always gone.

It’s in the name.

A body rocks and then he rolls.

Just like Dad.

Just like that rock and roll lover.

Just like Hemingway.

World War II.

Who I used to be.

That little boy or younger man always dying beneath the rock to become an older man who rolls out from beneath the rock.

I lament like Kurt Vonnegut of the loneliness after the rock star life of a socialite.

I weep like Charles Bukowski at the beautiful young women while I scheme of how to get another chance through my crocodile tears.

I could still read Celine.

There has to be more night to journey through.

And there is.

Winter is coming.

It will crush me like it always does but this year it will crush me much less and therefore I will be much less new in the fall.

I am getting a hold of life’s gargantuan punches, under-toes and rapids.

People need me to be stable.

The DUI’s probation schemes are beginning to get through to me.

Jim Morrison’s ghost is hidden in last years crash and burn.

I sit like the heart broken pianist at my type writer with the 1970s ideals of Joe Biden looking back at World War II, the 1950s, and 1960s.

Vietnam.

The Gulf war.

The War on Terror.

Norman Mailer all the way up to his book on a fire being on the moon.

We went to moon guys!

No one cares.

Henry Miller saying how horrible America had become for the existentialist and that was in the fucking 1920s and 1930s.

Apocalypse Now.

Interstellar.

My family.

All is laid to dust beneath the headlines of Maga’s Trump, technology, six and seven, my 90 hour work schedule.

I worked 90 hours this week and still found time to give money to online bratty women.

Six months sober though.

Nothing says the music has died like being six months sober.

I don’t even care about music.

It’s the explosion of atomic life that I love.

The Jonestown Massacre came to town and I couldn’t get myself to go because they are a glorious band but wouldn’t it be sad to see such a punk rock outfit in a place like the Slowdown in 2025?

It is akin to my complaint about doing cocaine in Omaha.

Then what?

Generic sushi?

The state of rock and roll today is like Anthony Bourdain as an old man getting cucked in print by a young toxic heroine.

Nothing to do except Ian Curtis.

So it all comes back to Bob Dylan speeding his motorcycle down a straightway into a tree.

I drove my car into a median and popped my tires.

I popped a wheelie.

That was my act of jubilant defiance when it finally came home that the American Dream had died.

Marlon Brando’s slug goes over the edge of a razorblade and lives only to die from the salt of the US government by the hands of Martin Sheen.

The people engineering our demise in Silicon Valley are no longer living luxurious lives of affluence but holding the line against the AI monster they have concocted by competing for the few jobs left by working from 9am to 9pm six days a week.

As each industry goes belly up from the ai generated bots I work more to keep my personal hope alive of flourishing someday in something that’s gone beyond an hyper-capitalistic system.

Open corruption in the government.

A government shutdown supported by both sides.

Army families at food banks.

Food stamps not working just in time for winter.

Farmers selling out and committing suicide.

Sharecroppers and wage slaves and not even the millionaires have a penny in savings.

This is the age of the billionaire.

I work 90 hours a week at decent jobs and haven’t even started to think about a house, girlfriend or brighter future.

There was a thing called rock and roll that Elvis played after he got off from driving a truck.

Think about a time when there was that much joy from driving a truck.

I experienced it.

It was called being twenty and in love in the 2010s.

I am in my mid thirties and in that brain fog state of senile folk when their own death obscures all of their thoughts into visions of the apocalypse.

I truly don’t see rock and roll being a reality for the next generation.

That’s not true though.

Younger people will always love life.

I see them loving their youth with my own eyes.

I sit back like King Solomon with my proverbial wisdom and say, “enjoy it while it lasts.”

Nothing matters except loving God but that doesn’t change the fact that once the thrill is gone it is all darkness.

I live for the smile of future generations.

Some day it will get so dark for me amidst my joy that the terror of light will seep forth.

I live on like Keith Richards as a testament to what rock and roll could be.

I have my secrets.

Like Jesus Christ was by my side this whole time and that she still loves me.

Now back to gooning before I start another 90 hour work week to pay the bills.

Marrying my mother and my girlfriend is my brothers mom

Where is Dad?

Westside baptism

Kindergarten and grandma Clara

Homeschool 

Prairie Wind

Trinity 

Dundee

Jesus Bus 

Kansas City

Richland and Conway’s

24th and Ida

Full house in the ghetto

Where is Dad?

Two pay checks sent off to onlyfans models for little interactions and ten second to one minute and thirty second clips of asses jiggling and titties in the face I would call one hell of a thirty-fifth birthday. Of course it does not get any better than that. So I am caught up in reverie and reflection all the way to the first moment that the word “wisdom” dropped in my lap. I have been a thinking man ever since I was a wee lad and I go about sniffing daisies and catching grasshoppers and all of the sudden a word like responsibility, discipline, or humanity latches onto my skull and creates a new layer of matter for my eyes to see the world through.

“Listen, kid, I have been thinking about your situation.”

“What about my situation?”

“Well, how you want to come over and play video games while I am trying to watch the ball game. But more than that is that how your mother lets you do whatever you want so you expect me to let you do whatever you want. You don’t have any guidance in your life.”

“I don’t need any guidance. I just want to play the video game.”

“Yes. That is okay for now and we will play the video game at halftime of the game but you are going to need guidance for your future. I have been thinking about, who is going to teach you wisdom?”

“What is wisdom?”

“Wisdom is about making good decisions that are difficult so that a person may continue to live a happy and joyful life.”

“How is your life different than mine?”

“I provide for myself and have built a community of friends. I work for the things I have and you just think you can live off of other peoples work and happiness.”

“So you don’t want me to hangout with you and play video games anymore?”

“No. I don’t. Listen, you are a cool kid and you can come to the party on Friday to see what wisdom looks like.”

“Ok.”

The party was just a bunch of bros who were friendly and got along with one another playing sports like frisbee, shooting and collecting pogs, drinking beers, playing video games and watching sports.

“So this is the big wisdom that you wanted to show me?”

“Yes. See we work to be able to share this community with each other. We have earned this and we do certain things to keep it going. You will understand someday.”

With that I took my five year old self onto other friendships that quickly deteriorated. I became a girls boyfriend and told her I would do whatever she told me to do. A program I quickly deferred from after she let me cuddle with her. Another kid had a Mr. Stretch that I either lost or destroyed so that the kid could not hangout with me anymore. Finally we moved out of the apartment complex and into the desert. Which is a completely other tale that is more interesting in the subject matter of actually living in the midst of the Señora desert than the reality of bugs, sand and sleeping in a car with a halfbreed wolf pup. Oh, look the roadrunner.

One day back in Omaha we were in this bookstore. I didn’t know how to look around a bookstore for something that I would like. I was like ten now. All the books had me feeling gloomy. So much stuff that I didn’t know anything about. Someone asked me what was the matter and I gave this answer, “I just don’t feel like I have any wisdom. I don’t know what kind of book to get. I don’t feel like I know anything about what is worthwhile in life.”

“Wow. Easy kid. How old are you? Those are pretty big thoughts for a ten year old. I think you are going to do fine in the wisdom department. I have got just the thing for you. If you read this and understand it you will have all the wisdom you will ever need.”

Then he gave me Homicidal Jungle Cat. Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip book.

“Is this a joke?”

He told me the author was some big professional wisdom guru guy that just wrote cartoons to help dumb adults in America maybe start to think about deeper truths that actually come naturally to a child’s wondering mind.

I read it like the bible and was satisfied in the wisdom department.