"The world in which you seek to undo the mistakes
that you made is different from the world
where the mistakes were made."
The Counselor

The first time I OD'd, I completely lost my sense of humor.  I'll tell the story another time, but recovery was difficult.  More horrifying and harrowing, than anything.  It took me 3 days to get through Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, which was newly available as a rental on VHS, and I would pass out on my Bible, lying unconscious and face-down in the holy fire.  I'd wake up, and the pages would be stained with sweat, from my detoxing undead corpse.  My body was unstable, and I had to take constant walks to keep my heart from exploding in my chest.  I would sit there reading the Bible, tapping my chest so as to defibrillate the muscles that threatened to faint and go careening like a maiden into the abyss at any moment.  I tapped my chest neurotically, to quench any hellfire still sputtering around in there.  If I sat still I would have exploded.  My heart was comprised of exploding stellar gases, and I was more of a supernova than a planet capable of sustaining life.  I wasn't solid.

Fear & Loathing was horrific.  That movie picked a bad time to come out.  The timing couldn't have been worse.  Of course, I didn't have to watch it.  But I had to.  It took at least 3 TV screenings, maybe 4, 20 or 30 minutes at a time.  I could tell it was good, but there was no way I could get through it all at once.  I drank water by the gallon, and it was around then I discovered that it's possible to OD on water.  Yep... water.  You can drink so much water that your cells become saturated and your body starts to flood until your words and thoughts and dreams are all standing knee-deep in an ocean of floating furniture and half-submerged automobilia.  To my amazement, and probably horror, I discovered that drinking too much water is another form of intoxication.  It's amazing how fragile and tenuous we are.  We think we're strong, and that we'll live forever.

What a joke.  But it's the "joke" that makes us think it's funny to dress our kids up like undead murder victims for the annual Zombie Walk. 

Cute, huh?

In my experience, there are 2 ways this photograph will age.  It might take awhile, but in time, the parents and/or the little girl herself will either balk with amazement at the mercy of the God who allowed them to survive the near-miss encounter with SUDDEN, UNEXPECTED DEATH, or the parents will spend the rest of their lives in a state of truly zombified incredulity at how they could have been so incredibly, horrifically, and painfully dumb.  They will never recover, and will be lucky to spend the rest of their lives walking around on their knees pouring gravel on their heads in an attempt to ease the pain of the fires of hell that will never be quenched, rising in their hearts until they themselves are entirely consumed, and dragged to perdition at last.

They will be like Michael Fassbender in The Counselor, all arrogant and self-assured at the beginning, reduced to a mass of emotionally-incontinent charcoal by living through the consequences of the decisions he made when he was proud.  His pain is incapacitating.  He is like a bug pinned in the display case of his own bad decisions, reaping the deadly consequences of flying too close to the bug scientist.  His limbs are flailing around and he is buzzing, but he can't move.  It's too late.

It's over.

The Counselor is an underrated movie.  There's too much sex talk, which you can skip once you've seen it a couple times and know where it is, and are aware of what you're not missing.  And definitely skip the utterly gratuitous first scene, of Michael Fassbender and Penelope Cruz in bed.  It's disgraceful.  But the movie is a masterpiece otherwise.  Great writing.  Descanse en paz si puedes, Señor McCarthy.  If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it.

I released California Death Trip in 2002, a few years after the Fear & Loathing OD.  Apparently, I hadn't learned my lesson yet.  The cover creeped out a friend of mine, who was genuinely spooked by it.  I used to think it was cool.  Then I had another chemically-induced near-death encounter, and the whole "Nathan Payne Memorial Service" joke wore off in an instant.  I thought it would be funny for people to attend my actual memorial service thinking it was just another show.  "I guess he got a gig at the Idiot Gardens Funeral Home; strange, but I guess I'll go.  Where is this place again?"

But then, lying at the gates of eternity after a night of idiotic drinking, I instantly hated the name forever.  Fortunately, I only got one album out of it.  And an old one, at that.

I took this picture in Puerto Escondido, Mexico in 2019, because I thought it was funny that a town would think to make a scorpion the centerpiece of a fountain.  Not a warrior, or an ancient pagan deity, but a scorpion.  Not even a different, happier insect, like a grasshopper (which I've seen), but a venomous tormentor, a deadly, Biblical enemy of man.  Arizona has toxic animals and insects, but I've never seen a rattlesnake fountain in Phoenix, or a scorpion statue, or Gila monster.  Of course, this is Mexico.  The Halloween of nations.  If you want to get your Zombie Walk on, Mexico is the place for you.

Even though Mexico is indeed the Halloween of nations, and even more fundamentally horrific than the Scandinavian countries that breed unhappy people who play all kinds of depressing pagan sub-metal, if you are a horror character, and wander off the beaten path of the annual Zombie Walk, you might find yourself arrested.

Not even Chucky can run free.  He was arrested recently for brandishing a knife, by Mexican cops wearing Punisher logos.  Even though he's an obvious ginger gringo, and therefore a prime candidate for a standard roadside fleecing, Chucky was performing criminal acts without the blessing of the local constabulary.  Which is a major no-no down here.  Independent contract killers are frowned upon.  Unlike the U.S., where murder is indiscriminate and can be committed by any number of random hateful madmen, in Mexico the death-trade is heavily regulated.  Chucky crossed the line.

The only question is, does he now work for the local Punisher cartel, or has he been dissolved?

I put my money on the former, considering that they let him keep his knife tucked into his overalls while he was being booked.  They probably took his cuffs off immediately after the photos were taken, and led him to the jefe. 

"You don't blend into a crowd, gringo, but you are an obvious psychopath, and I think we can find a use for you.  You work for me now."

So if you're in a bar in Coahuila, and a short gringo with red hair and a plastic botox grimace of homicidal glee offers to buy you a drink, leave the state immediately.  Don't even go back to your hotel.

Just get out.

Since Mexico is the Halloween of nations, if it's from a horror movie, or the book of Revelation, there's a strong chance you can find it walking down the street, or available for sale at any given market in Mexico City.  Granted, these scorpions don't have women's hair, or faces like men, as described in Revelation.  However, when those judgments are finally released, you can bet that somebody in Mexico will catch one of the Biblical tormentors and sell it on the street.

Horrible, right?  The word "disgusting" is far too mild, and doesn't begin to express the primal revulsion one experiences when visiting the Mexican scorpion vendor.  I asked the guy if he had any strawberry-flavored ones, as in like a filling.  "Ay, cabrón.  ¿Alacránes de fresa?  ¿Tienes?"  He looked at me with annoyance.  He didn't have any strawberry ones.  He was in a bad mood anyway, and obviously didn't want to be there.  But he did let me take a picture (I asked).  And no, of course I didn't really address him as, "cabrón."  That would have been rude.  But I did ask him about the strawberry filling.

It seemed to me like an obvious marketing campaign.  At least soak them in tequila, or fill them with cream cheese, or something.

Do people really eat the damn things raw?

This sculpture was on display in what I remember to be a library of some kind, but which was probably just a museum of gratuitous detritus, in Oaxaca.  It was called La Noche Dolorosa.  The Painful Night, or The Night of Pain.  A bunch of babies sleeping inside a scorpion.

Some crib.  Looks like a hint.  Perhaps a warning.

The scorpion aesthetic was amusing to me in 2019 (though The Night of Pain always creeped me out), but after living with the cursed creatures at several places (mostly in and around Guanajuato), I have nothing but contempt for them.  THANK GOD, the ones that my apartments were infested with were of the smaller, black variety, about half the size (maybe less) of the monsters in the baking pan pictured above, but after living with them, any amusement the imaginary sense of "badassery," or whatever "cool" thing it is they're supposed to be associated with, has completely disappeared from my psyche.

For this reason, even though I like the film, I can't watch the scene in 3,000 Miles To Tijuana when the guy with the scorpion belt buckle rips off the mariachi with the scorpion jacket.  I like Robert Rodriguez in general, and Kevin Costner is charismatic and watchable, and I understand that the scorpion accoutrements make mariachis and rockabilly Elvis guys alike look tough and cool...

But all I see is death.  It doesn't amuse me.  I don't think it's cool anymore.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be
careful about what we pretend to be.”
Kurt Vonnegut

I used to think the scorpion aesthetic was cool, until I lived in places that were infested with them.  I used to think calling my band the "Nathan Payne Memorial Service" was funny, until I OD'd, again.  Be careful how you adorn your kids this year.  Or yourself, for that matter.  Vonnegut is right.  If you're going to dress up this year, or dress up your kids, perhaps the cat ears are a better choice than the bloody hatchet.  Perhaps you can sell the princess outfit to the adamant would-be zombie, instead of the Chucky suit. 

Cuz Chucky works for the Punisher cartel now.  Those are bad associations.  Don't bring them to your house.  It might feel "harmless, amusing, and fun," but let me encourage you against forcing the hand of that "joke."  Don't force the joke to show you how funny it ISN'T.  Being grazed by that bullet is bad enough; God forbid it actually hits the target. 

Of course, it's possible that the whole thing is just having fun with some makeup.  Then again, it may be something more.  Tread lightly.

Is my advice, anyway.  Do what you want.  But while I'm on the topic, I'm going to take this opportunity to personally attest to the truth of Luke 10:19, which says, "Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you."

It's true.  I've lived on it.  God is good.

Thanks for listening.