“This is the end, beautiful friend…”

Just One of Those Days?

Today is one of those days where I woke up and had so much to say and nothing to say at all. Confusing? Certainly. Annoying? Definitely. The actuality is not that I have nothing to say, rather the reality is that I am tired of shouting at the wind.

We all do that from time-to-time. Maybe that is a bit too general and assuming. That may even be a bit arrogant – assuming that I know that everyone spends time talking/shouting/yelling at the invisible energy that gently pushes the leaves and petals and plants or tears apart life in a dynamic show of Earth rage. I can afford that arrogance. Not only is the Foundation loaded like the diaper on a over-eating baby with diarrhea, but I am a narcissist (I think I may have said this a couple of times).

I had the dream again last night. The empty dream. My dreams typically start the same: a small figure in a blue dress with no facial features except for black eyes (yes, the iris and the sclera for you anatomy freaks) appearing on the silent, mouthless visage.  The figure dances and points to a hallway: a two-story, wide-fucking hallway that is lined with several doors. Some are simple wooden doors. Some are futuristic doors like those on the Enterprise (1701-D or E). Still others are secure, metal doors like bank vault doors or dungeon doors. Some are old-timey. This is what occurs in the beginning of the normal dreams. She points to the hallway, points to a door, and I go through the specified door and the night thoughts begin.

That is the norm for my nights. But not last night. Last night, the hallway was black. A faint, white light illuminated a single chair in the center of the hallway. A disembodied voice told me to sit. So, I sat. I sat in this chair under the white light like I was about to be interrogated by fiends while other fiends watched from the darkened perimeter (I could see no further than the circle of light illuminating the seat and myself). There was no music. The funny thing is that I did not notice that the music was missing right away, it was after I had been sitting and waiting in that chair for some time. So, I guess I really should say that I cannot remember whether there was music the whole time, music that stopped when I noticed there was no music, or if there was never any playing at all.

"I hear that song, too! I am in the darkness..."

“I hear that song, too! I am in the darkness…”

I sat. I sat. I sat some more. After a while, it seemed like I could hear murmurs coming from the dark surrounding my little light-patch. I yelled at the murmurs: “I can hear you out there!” No reply. I got angry. No, I got pissed. I started to walk to the darkness, but the light and the chair followed me, but not really followed me. I would say the experience was more like walking on a “moving sidewalk” in a direction opposite of that in which the sidewalk was moving. I walked, but got absolutely no where. Eventually, I decided that I had not been hearing anything and sat back down. All of that walking made my legs very tired. Painfully tired.

I sat. I sat. I sat some more. And this time, while I sat, I waited. I waited for quite some time before I stood up, announced that I was leaving, and started to head, well, I do not know where I was going to head. There were no doors. There was no light beyond the perimeter. The voice that told me to sit then asked me where I would go. The voice reminded me that all there was for me there was that circle, that chair, that darkness…the voice wanted to know where I thought I could go. I yelled that I did not know, and demanded to be let out of this dark, and increasingly foreboding place.

“For you, there is this circle. For you, there is this chair. Good luck finding a door…there is no more for you.”

Now shit got really creepy. For a moment, I could see everything. The doors, the hallway, the figure – everything. The figure usually danced, she was still and lying on the ground in the darkened circle. I called to her. She turned over and faced me. Her black eyes pits of nothing focussed on whatever and however they managed to focus on something. For a second, a black tear fell down her cheek. Then everything was gone. Except for the chair, the circle of light, and the blackness.

Since she is not on this iPad, here is what she would look like as me.

Since she is not on this iPad, here is what she would look like as me.

Since I knew there was something there, I ran for the darkness. Surely I could outrun this circle and chair and find my way out, or at least through a door with something behind it. Fuck me with a seven iron I would even settle for a nightmare that ended with me dying in the dream, and waking up dead in the morning. Okay, so I would not wake up dead, but you get what I am saying. I headed full-sprint toward the darkness and crashed into something. A wall, a barrier, a force field…a giant tree? I have no idea. But it hurt. Blood ran from my face and down my shirt. My nose was broken, teeth were smashed. It all healed as quickly as it began; the blood and mess of my clothes vanished.

Frustrated. Enraged. I sat down and put my head between my knees and tried to think. No thoughts would come. I looked up periodically to see if my Hell was gone. It was not over. It was only just beginning. Soon, many faces began to appear. All of them filled with hate and venom. All of them focusing hate and venom. Some of it at me, some of it at the circle, some of it at the darkness. All of it intense…and red.

Red! Something new (well, besides those horrid faces) and it was welcome. I began to feel a little less anxious, and then, just a quickly as it all appeared. It was all gone. I was standing in the white circle again. The chair was gone. There was only the light. A door appeared. Slap my ass and call me “French Patio,” there was a god damned door. I started toward the door. The voice spoke again, only it was from behind me:

“Through there is what is to come.”

I turned to the voice and saw that it was the figure speaking. Speaking through her no-mouth. I do not remember hearing her speak before. She did not dance. She turned and walked and sat in the chair. She and her chair and her circle of light vanished. I was left with the door. I opened the door and was greeted by nothing. More darkness. I entered the darkness and opened my eyes. I was now looking at the ceiling in my darkened bedroom, my alarm ringing in my ears.

I got out of bed and headed down for a smoke and some coffee (I did remember to set the auto-brew before I turned in last night). I walked to the window. The dark Samurai City morning peppered with cold air and snow flurries. It is still snowing. It will keep snowing. I noticed that I had not turned on the lights. I was standing and looking out into the pepper-colored morning and sipped my coffee. I heard the voice in the back of my head; so loud that it felt like it was in the room with me. I turned and saw no one. The voice was there and clear as water:

“…there is no more for you.”


Can’t Sleep, Brain Will Eat Me

The dream is always the same. It starts with an interesting night with wonderful company that eventually turns into naked people, pornography on the television, and crazy sexual antics. After the guests have passed out, the night ends with me going up to my room and leaving the arriving morning staff to remove the guests from the grounds…after a nice breakfast and apologies for “Mr. Rothechilde was called into the Thunderdome this morning and regrets that he was not here to see you on your way.” When I get to my room, I discover that a couple of guests had decided to explore the house, found my room, and proceeded to have their own grand old time.

They are sexy, and invite me to join the fun (which amuses me since it is my room and the only reason I had not gone nuts and started shooting at them or something was because they invited me to join before I could grab the Sig hidden on the bookshelf behind me), and I join them in the bed

Strangely, I am not disturbed by their lack of facial features.

One of them notices the collection of cuffs and collars and whatnot hanging on the far wall and goes to retrieve a set of leather wrist restraints. I am asked if I wanted to be restrained; I said that is not typically my role.

Strangely, I consent.

After I am secured to the bed, helplessly bound by my own devices. One of them pulls out a long knife and stabs me in the chest.

This is when the dream leaves and I am suddenly awake. Shaking like Charo’s tits at a hoochie coochie bonanza, and drenched in cold sweat. Now, I am remembering the lack of faces and get even more disturbed.

I wander downstairs to shake off the ickies, and wonder how long this dream is going to be a part of my now horribly non-circadian sleep cycle (no, that is not a thing, but it felt good to write) while chain smoking and sucking down absinthe and listening to the television in the background drone on with Sanjay Gupta talking about eating a dish that seemed to consist only of animal penises. He asked if he wanted tiger penis, would they have it. Apparently, the lamb balls and dog penis are not enough critter dick to sate his appetite.

Normally, I do not have nightmares, and when I do, they tend to involve judges and lawyers, or hippies, or having to buy clothes off of the rack. But this is weird. It has made me so paranoid that I may even be starting to fear trying to go to sleep. Instead of getting a little rest, here I am typing away (which feels good since I have had a block on writing for so long). Typing away and not even sure that I am making much sense. Really, this all sounded great in my head, but seeing it printed is not really pumping my nads.

Common sense is telling me that this must mean that I am pretty tired; I mean my title even has a fucking contraction in it, and I am too lazy to change it (or I may like the title, which probably means that I am pretty tired). Hell, I am even feeling too lazy to make sure that my tags are in alphabetical order; I think WordPress does that when the blog is published, but I am not certain at the moment, and have no desire to go and double-check.

This is dangerous. Is my anxiety regarding this dream actually trumping my OCD? Where the Hell is my ADHD during these dreams?! I mean, it would seem that I would get as distracted by the faceless fuckers (pun intended) that were trying to fuck and kill me in my dream and the scene would change to a Soundgarden concert or Saints Row or a nice cheese pizza. This is all pretty unsettling.

It was suggested that this nightmare may be the result of guilt or remorseful feelings regarding the unfortunate incident with Lord and Lady Phant, but I think it is something else. I am not sure what it is, but definitely something else. One of the night staff suggested that maybe having all of the dark imagery around the estate and grounds was doing the damage. Perhaps this is the result of having skulls and hearses and deathly erotic sculptures scattered through the lawns and orchards. I suggested to her that the problem may have been that I had too many smartass night staff people working around and should start cutting back on my overhead. She brought me another bottle of absinthe and retreated to the kitchen. I could hear another staff member trying to comfort her. Strangely, I feel guilty for snapping at her. I’ll have to leave a bonus for her tomorrow.

Tonight on Darkside Radio or “See you at the crossroads…”

The Octopus waves, beckons you to enjoy the show.

Octopus says: “Dance with the Green Faery!”

Greetings and Salutations! Tonight’s show is going to be one of kind. A return to days of old, and a fitting end to the menace of Darkside Radio with DJ Xavier. Due to the most unfortunate of circumstances (well, not THE most unfortunate, I am being a bit of a drama queen…), Darkside Radio will be going off the air on October Twentieth, Two thousand and Twelve. Tonight, my show will be my last.

Being who I am, I cannot simply state the above and print a playlist for this evening. No, I have to do more, and using Bone Thugs is not enough either; I have to blather. I had no intention of ever being a DeeJay. I am far too shy for that. Really. I prefer to make my statements through writing. And it was so back in the days of MySpace. I created an account there, and had one friend: Manthony. I never really used the profile much. Years later, I met a clan of women named Dean Hodge, and began to do what the equivalent to blogging is in the MySpace universe. I was a hit with the Hodgii, and began to feel my oats after they officially made me one of their clan. Later, I created another profile, one that was just for Xavier. It was here that I once again found myself friendless, save for my secretary, and Manthony. Feeling pity for me, my secretary helped me find some people that she thought I may click with…and she was correct. T’is began my relationships with both DJ Mirage and Sister Constance.

DJ Mirage was quite a charmer, in her own compassionate, albeit darkly sexy and evil way. What started out as an idea to somehow make a guest appearance on her show (which, I later learned would be near impossible due to geographics, and a few other things) turned into my becoming a Darkside Radio DeeJay. I was not sure that I had enough music to meet the gothic/industrial/EBM audience, but I did have much music that was dark in nature, and was the Nineteen Seventies’ and Eighties’ queer older brother of music: New Wave, to begin my own show. And so it began. In the beginning, there were others there to help me not feel all freaked out and cray cray. There was Zephyrael, Phil, Trinity, Lestat…and some whose names I have forgotten. Shame on me. Through it all, there was DJ Mirage, and her partner in crime, Doc Nasty (the “father” of Darkside Radio, KrushRadio, the universe…). And as it stands to this day, aside from myself, there is DJ Mirage, and DJ Parallax. As it stands to this day, is the fear that what is going to be lost is not just a station, but two of my dearest friends and associates. Fortunately, there is Facebook, and I will never forget you two, my dearies.

Oh yeah! I was on Sunday mornings for a little bit as well.

Over the years, I have gone through several phases. Evolving or, more like changing states like some kind of deranged matter. My original show was four hours long. I shortened it because I started to bore myself, and have a little trouble seeing the broadcaster display after all the absinthe drinking that is required to broadcast one of my little voyages into internet shenanigans. While I started out kicking the old school goth jams and new wave hits (Ha!), I eventually added more industrial, some punk, and at times gangsta rap (Recently I added that new “dub step” stuff. Apparently, it was actually about in the nineties. It should have stayed there.). No matter what I may have decided to do for the night, from playing a block of songs featuring the word “fuck,” to having a celebration of tunage glorifying that good ol’ Eighties tradition of stalking and not taking no from some bitch, I always tried to remain on the darker side of life. However, the end result was always “creepy.” I guess I just decided to run with that.

Apparently, it paid off. At least a little. I met some interesting people by means of my shows through Twitter streams and looking like a music bot for a while. A few people never got that while I was updating my Facebook status, or tweeting some song titles over and over for a couple of hour that what I was actually doing was broadcasting a live show. A few did get it, and would make requests. Part of me wondered why the fuck they were spending a nice Saturday evening inside somewhere and listening to me. The bigger part, ego fed to the maximum, welcomed the attention and was honored that someone actually felt that I was interesting enough to sit and have playing as the background sound track for their night. Thank you all for listening. Now, we can still meet for cyber shenanigans; just read my blog and leave a comment. Perhaps I would write more. Shameless plug, but it is that sort of night.

So, I guess it is now time to put the baby to bed. I am not sure why I am feeling so sentimental at this time. I mean, we darklings are supposed to embrace the end. We sing and dance about the glories of the night. We dance with vampires, zombies and witches. We run around in corsets and Victorian garb. We sport leather and spikes and shades and piercings. We are tattoos and Neo and weirdos who want to sleep on your couch so we send you a picture of us and our boyfriends in women’s underwear with ferret in mouth. We are what goes bump in the night. So why am I dreading my own walk into that very darkness that I tried to coax you into for the last few years? Simple, for once, I am unsure of what that darkness may hold, save for the end of my nights on Darkside Radio.

This was the hardest broadcast, ever.

Tonight’s show will revisit my original four hour format. Tonight’s show will begin like I used to begin: with Erika Eigen’s “I Want to Marry a Lighthouse Keeper,” the song that plays in my head in the background of my dreams…and nightmares. Tonight, I have tried to play a little bit of everything that I have played over the years. Tonight, I try to say a fond farewell to those that listened to me and to a couple of hours every Saturday that I have accepted as part of a welcome ritual. This is harder for me than trying to quit smoking.

To Doc Nasty: Thank you for making this possible. Thank you for putting up with my freaking out over a red button and being there to get me on the air. Thank you for enabling me to spread my sickness through cyberspace, and being a real mensch about it.

To DJ Parallax: In the short time that we have known each other, it has been an age. A wonderful one. Keep in touch, my brother.

To DJ Mirage: First off, I know where to find you and can reach you by phone, email, and Pony Express. Always remember that. Second and most important, you have been an inspiration, a sister, a friend, a vampire, and a zombie to me. From MySpace to Brainaversary to Facebook, you have been the most awesome companion a creepy pirate from the Great Lakes Region could ever hope for when spreading dark music across the internet. We have been through much, ma chere. You will always be the Queen. It was awesome, and thank you for having me. And like I mentioned above, you better not try and flee… 🙂

And now, I present the artists that will be featured on tonight’s show. As you may notice, I decided to make tonight’s show an old school New Wave and Punk, earlier Gothic show with a dash of Alternative rock and Industrial sounds. To listen, tune to at 10:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time (US) and stay tuned until at least 2:00 am. If you have Twitter, @XRothechilde and @Darksideradio give song-to-song updates during the show.


Tonight’s Featured Artists (Subject To Change)

Erika Eigen

Type O Negative

Stone Temple Pilots


Joy Division

Siouxsie and the Banshees

The Cure

The Smithereens

The Smiths

Peter Murphy

The Sisters of Mercy

DJ Mirage: The Gothic Barbie. Queen Mum of Darkside

The Damned

Lacuna Coil

That Handsome Devil

The Koffin Kats


Mad Marge & the Stonecutters

The Meteors

New Order

Public Image Ltd.

My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult


Ministry & Co Conspirators (yes, Ms. Paganwitch, this is “Black Betty”)

Electric Six




Nouvelle Vague

Thomas Dolby

The B-52’s


Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

Living with “creepy” ain’t so bad…

Sonic Youth

Dead Kennedys




Bigod 20


Nine Inch Nails


Duran Duran

Tears for Fears

Tre Lux

The Cult

The Gothacoustic Ensemble

Love and Rockets

Depeche Mode

Switchblade Symphony

Dead Can Dance: “The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove” Dedicated to The Gothic Barbie – DJ Mirage”

Commercials are from: “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas” and “Grand Theft Auto IV”

Promotion spots for DJ Xavier produced and Created by: DJ Mirage, Ethermagus, and DJ Parallax

Is It Friday, Already?

This has been one long and short week. By long, it has been filled with much activity. Running here, walking there; funeral here, kick boxing there. And so on…

With all that has been happening in the last week, I finally took notice that I had gotten far behind on many things:

  1. I have not touched the motorcycle this week. I need to get that going or else I will not be using it before the end of this month.
  2. I have not been writing…AT ALL. And that is not good, not good at all. I am supposed to write a couple of articles for a martial arts newsletter. I was supposed to be keeping up on this blog.
  3. I have not begun a steady regimen of resistance training (however, this is not so bad…wait and read further).
  4. And I am sure there are a few things that I intended to accomplish or keep up with that I have put from mind at the moment so that I can focus on other things at the moment.

One positive thing: apparently, my endurance has increased. My cardio-respiratory endurance, that is. It all started with my new Chief of Security/Personal Body Guard. M started out as a student of mine in jujitsu and rapidly became proficient. So proficient that I found it necessary to make her my own personal protection system. She has one fatal flaw, however. She is a runner, and I am not a runner. I would rather punch one thousand sides of frozen beef than run.

Please, do not mistake my attitude for aversion to exercise, Not only do I still train in jujitsu regularly, I have recently started kick boxing (this is what I mentioned that you should wait and read further for…), and since the class is more aerobic fitness oriented, I have been getting plenty of exercise.

And I started running.

Apparently, M had been training under another cat I trained with many moons ago, and he and I started training again. At first, I thought this would be just like the days of yore. It was not. M had converted him to running and now we started training sessions with what he claimed was a one and one-half mile run. I still insist it is ten miles, maybe a light year, but that is of no consequence. The point is that we were starting out by running. And it was not good.

Well, knowing that I need to up my cardio game, I stopped dreading running, and even started running a bit on my own outside of jujitsu training sessions and kick boxing. The path I was taking was supposed to be exactly one mile long. I pushed and gradually made the full circuit finally, and I rejoiced. As it turns out, I have even more to celebrate as the distance, I recently learned, is not one mile, but it is one and one-half miles long! That run before jujitsu should be a piece of cake now (which I deserve to chow on since I have upped my game!).

Now that the weekend has arrived, hopefully things will calm down a bit and life will settle to the normal craze-fest that I have grown to love and appreciate. Manthony has been trying to get me out to one of his clubs for a night for some time now. Perhaps tonight will be the night for me to go out and have a drink or seven.

A Few Things

First Things First

My neighbor died a few days ago. I happened to be out checking the progress of the new vineyard and the clearing away of the old, dead trees when I noticed across the way that there were a bunch of police cars at my neighbor’s house. I left the vineyard and walked across the divide and opened the fence that led from my property to my neighbor’s.

I asked one of the women standing out in front of the house what was going on and one of the women, who turned out to be his sister, said that he had died. They did not know how. She had come by the house to check on him and he was sitting at his desk, with a pen in his hand like he was writing. He was slumped over, dead.

" a drop of rain, falling to the ocean..."

I offered my condolences and went back through the fence to my vineyard. The grapes are looking great, and the laborers that are cutting the dead, fallen trees into firewood are moving way to slow. I took out my sidearm and fired off a shot that barely grazed the ax handle held by one of the laborers. I commented that had he been working faster, then I would not have been able to pull off such a shot. The laborers began to work a bit faster then. Ah, Capitalism…

He has been gone for a few days now and when I look across the hills and peeks of the apple trees I can see the faint yellow glow that emits from the outdoor lights that are on twenty-four hours a day. The lights used to be white. Now, they are yellow, they add an eerie glow to the vineyards only yards away.

Ellen Garrett, Rest in Peace

I went to visit her at the hospice. She died three days later. I will miss her.

Hooray for Me!

A couple of days ago, I posted a blog. While I was writing this blog, I happened to notice a button on the tool bar for this blog window and it showed a tool tip that said “kitchen sink” or something like that. I clicked the link and slap my dick and call me Seymore Butts, I noticed that I had more text options. I could change the color of the text. I discovered how to underline! Now, some of you WordPress veterans may have known how to do this already, but I was driving myself to OCD Hell because I could not do much for blog formatting.

I even discovered how to make a quote show up inside the blog and be separated from the rest of the text like I have been seeing in other blogs. Now, granted this is not a quote, but I am all excited about the prospect of being able to do these things and want to show off my new skills.

So, now I believe that this site will be even more fun for me and I may even be enticed to write more than once or twice a week. Which I could definitely do, if I could only manage to tear myself away from my Playstation 3. I have become addicted to “Infamous” and still have to check out “L.A. Noire.” Ah, priorities.

Wednesday Night at the Bar

That video has nothing to do with this topic. Almost nothing.  I just like the song, the video, and I wish that my trips to my shrink went more like this. Actually, I just loved this movie. I hear this guy has a new one in the works, I am eager to see it. I wanted to post the video for the opening of this film, but I was unable to find it on YouTube.

However, this has nothing to do with the trip to the bar. Except for the video that I wanted to show that I did not get to show. You see the video has a few really chubby women and a score of monkey men. My night at the bar was greeted by chubby women and strange monkey men. And it is along those lines that I go on with this post.

The night began innocently enough, the plan was to meet a couple of friends at a local bar and have a drink or two and then turn in for an early evening. When I got out into Old Samurai City, most of the folks that I was supposed to meet were gone, and I ran into Baron Outenburt and Ethermagus standing out in front of the coffee shop near the bar. Since the Thunderdome is undergoing some extensive renovations, I had not seen Ethermagus in some time; as for the Baron, he pops up from time-to-time as a friend of mine on the Playstation Network, but I had not had the pleasure of conversation with either gentleman in some time. So, we greeted and proceeded to catch up as friends sometimes do when they have not seen each other in a bit.

Suddenly, our reverie was broken by this dirty-ish fellow who had been standing down on the corner with another fellow that was moving about with the aid of a cane. I had seen the guys down on the corner when I walked up and the martial artist in me was compelled to keep an eye on them. Periodically, they would look down at us and then talk to each other, and then look down at us again. I was wondering if the two were conspiring against us and was now cursing the fact that I decided to obey the Michigan Concealed Weapons Regulations and left my firearms in the car since they are not allowed in bars. Well, this guy calls me: “cousin” (which I am not sure if that was because he had been watching “Lilo & Stitch” and was inspired by the culture of indigenous Hawaiians or because we are both ethnic minorities and the Baron and Ethermagus are clearly not), and asks me for a cigarette. With an uncharacteristic feeling of giving, I gave the dude a smoke and then he asked for my cigarette to light his with. I am not sure why, but I gave him my cigarette, he put his HAND ON THE FILTER, and he gave his cigarette what we smokers like to call a “monkey fuck.”

Be a Proud Bitch!

Ew. He touched my cigarette and I had no idea of knowing where his hands had been. Judging from his overall smell, I am happy to still be unaware. Before anyone starts getting up in my ass about any implication that I am referring to a person who is “houseless,” let me tell you that this was a drunk, perfectly capable, non-houseless mooch of a man who was trying to find a clever way to get something from me other than a cigarette. As I tossed my cigarette to the ground and got out the bottle of sanitizer that I keep in my pocket to scrub my hands in a mad fit of germ avoidance, this guy begins to tell us how his friend on the corner got robbed of three hundred dollars. Apparently, some chick took his money. My immediate thought was that this was a drug deal gone bad, and he was feeling the buyer’s remorse one gets when one buys and gets nothing in the exchange.

After a time, the man with the cane approaches me and asks me if I would not only call a cab for him, but would I pay for the cab to take him to Bishop Airport. You see, he was from Atlanta, Georgia and did not even know where he was. He needed to at least get to Bishop so that he could get on his flight home. Really? First of all, Bishop International is in Flint, Michigan. Flint is about a thirty minute drive from Samurai City. That would cost one Hell of a bit of money and there was no way in Hell that I was going to cough that up to some drunken idiot that gave some bitch three hundred dollars for some drugs. Some bitch that he did not know. How do I know that this is what went down? Before he came over to ask for cab fare, he was telling the smoke-mooch that he thought three hundred dollars was too much to pay for an ounce of pot. At least he is right on that point. Unless he is getting the bomb-diggity chronic. Which he was not getting from some chick on the street in Old Samurai City.

After this encounter, Ethermagus, the Baron and I parted ways and I walked down the street to the local Eighties Bar where I was told that some folks may have gone. I ordered a Captain and Coke, looked around and saw no one, and then sat down to enjoy my drink. While drinking and telling Sister Constance that I was going to send her a text message with a picture of my cock attached (which I did, only I sent a picture of a rooster. Get it? Cock? Rooster? Oh, never mind), a guy walked over to me:

Guy: “Hey, what’s up? So, I see you are sitting here on your Facebook or something and I do not mean to interrupt. My name is Rob.”

“Well, Rob, get your fucking nosy-ass eyes off of my iPhone and two, I am not in Facebook, not that it matters any to you, you fucknut” Is what I should have said, but he did catch me off guard, so instead:

Me: “Greetings and Salutations, I am Xavier A.S. Rothechilde.”

Rob: “So, I saw you sitting here alone, and just thought I would come over and say hi. I was sitting over by the DeeJay.”

Me: “And now you are sitting next to another one. Only I am an Internet DeeJay, and you probably never have listened to my show. That is too bad for you.”

Rob: “What?”

Me: “Nothing, Rob. Just small talk for small people. What brings you over this fine night?”

Rob: “Well, I thought you may need company ’cause you’re sitting here by yourself and I came to say hello and see if you wanted company.”

Me: “No, but thank you. I really hate to be around too many people that I do not know and I think that you are coming on to me. You may try to Roofie me or slip me some kind of Mickey so that you can ass-rape me behind the bar. I already feel naked because I am unarmed; you are giving me the itchy trigger finger that may have me calling my attorney so that I can avail myself of legal loopholes to deal with the likes of you.”

Rob then walked back to his spot by the DeeJay, the non-Internet one, and ignored me for the duration of my stay at the bar. Now, it may seem that I was a bit hard on poor Rob, but I resented the idea that he felt that I had to be lonely and needing company because I was sitting alone in a bar! Yeesh! I can do whatever the fuck I want, and part of that fucking want is to go out, watch people, and be a hermit in public if I choose to do so. I would have been more than happy to have Rob join me for a drink and conversation, I do enjoy meeting people every once and a while, but his arrogance in assuming that I needed company? For all he knew, my “Facebook” fun could have been me asking where the Hell my crew was or me watching porn while I enjoyed my tasty beverage.

Apparently, we are turning into a culture where it is not okay to be by yourself in public.


I have a friend who is dying from cancer. She is only thirty-six years old, and she is dying from an aggressive, rare form of cancer. So rare that even the old sawbones at the University of Michigan Medical Center are scratching their nerdy, Ann Arbor hippy scalps over it.

Okay, now I have gotten the facts out of the way. The general facts that is. Usually when I write, I tend to take the reader on a voyage and that part of the voyage above could have stretched on for quite some time. This time it could not. I needed to get that out of the way so you could understand quickly. I need that.

For you to understand quicky. This has to be a quick entry.

I went to visit Ellen at the hospice. I was amazed that there was a need to buzz into the hospice through a security door setup. That place is more secure than The Thunderdome. It is for security.

Apparently, there are sickos who cannot wait for those in the hospice to pass and they need protection.

Her mother was there, waiting. Ellen was asleep. I sat down, near Ellen in a chair. Then her mother moved and I sat in a triangle formed between Ellen, her mother and myself. Actually, it was more of a diagonal line. Forgive me if I exaggerate a bit, the whole deal seemed a bit exaggerated.

So, there I sat. Humming “The Lady’s Bransel” to myself. I sat there and looked over at her mother, an elderly woman watching her daughter…and waiting.

Did I mention that Ellen is only thirty-six?

I sat there and felt awkward. Should I say something? What do you say to a sleeping person? “WAKE UP!” is what you say. But what do you say to a sleeping person who is dying? Nothing. You sit there and you hum “The Lady’s Bransel.” Eventually, I had to go. I told Ellen that I loved her and that she was definitely a child of the Goddess. I did expect more of myself, being a priest and what have you, but that is what I had to give; the Crossroads is a tough place to be…

Her mother followed me out. She remembered me and gave me a hug. She told me that Ellen was sleeping the best she had been: that snore she had was her normal snore. I thought that was an odd thing to say, but I understood.

Then I left.

During my show last night, I opened with a song by The Damned: “The Portrait.” I got a complaint at the dedication to Ellen. I took no offense. How was that one supposed to know that that was the song playing as I drove away? I offered no explanation. Who needs to? I ended my broadcast with the song that was playing as I found my way to see Ellen. A song by Sting: “Fragile.”

“Lest we forget how Fragile we are…”