The zombies are still out there and our country remains in peril. The only positive thing Donald Trump (“Il Douchebag”) was able to accomplish in this long and astonishing presidential race was to pull media attention away from the Kardashian regime for a sustained period of time. Outraged and determined to regain the spotlight, the K’s “managed” to become crime victims in Paris and remain stunned that they still trail Trump in the Freak Polls. Be prepared for “rumors” of a life-threatening disease to pop up soon on the Kardashian front, or another “leaked” porno video or divorce vapors surfacing in yet another futile attempt to steal back the nation’s rabid attention. But nothing is likely to dislodge Trump from the top of the putrid pile for a long time to come.
If Il Douchebag loses the election, that’ll be just another takeoff point in his Assault on Reason. The Republicans have been notoriously sore losers in the past, but there has never been anything that will be able to match the Wrath of Trump. He’ll be screaming about the “rigged” election, he’ll be threatening to sue anyone who doesn’t believe he should be the rightful King of America and Ruler of the Universe, and he’ll throw together an Army of the Obscenely Rich to impeach Hillary Clinton and overthrow the government. The danger in the very air this blowhard exhales is unimaginably potent. If he is actually elected, it will turn catastrophic.
And what of his army of zombies? These freaks will still believe every lie (i.e., every word) that issues from his Gerber-baby face hole as he launches his historic Revolution. His followers are dangerous, having no wills of their own and having long ago lost their ability to reason; he’s hooked ‘em like Hitler (apologies to Beckham).
The greatest immediate danger the Trump Zombies pose is their inability not to vote—they’ve been programmed, each and every one of them, to hit the polls as many times as they can on election day. And they will. It is the duty of each of us who still possesses a brain and a will (and the slightest bit of intelligence) to defeat them at the polls by voting! Please! If you are a human being in charge of your senses, cast your vote to defeat this obscene madman and keep free from any influence he wants to exert on your lives! When Trump keeps saying that the election is rigged, it’s not only his attempt to cover his ass in case of defeat, it’s his attempt to make undecided voters and vulnerable human beings feel they are “wasting their time” by going to the polls. ( His zombies have been rigged not to say the word “rigged”—or even think of it—until after the election, when they are rigged to go ballistic.)
I guess I’ve exhausted myself on this subject. Time to vote.
The above, and much of the content of “Hosing Down” for the past several months, has focused on the insanity and danger of an egomaniacal sociopath who has become a new and forbidding kind of rock star. Those of you who have agreed with me have made me very glad; those who have been offended or angered are, sadly, beyond hope.
Beyond sadness and pain now is John Brizzolara, who passed away last month at the age of 65. He and I shared the same birthday (December 11) and had similar tastes in music and books and movies. And chicks. He would joke that we “share the same microflora” after first realizing that he had unknowingly become involved with a girl with whom I had once had a lengthy relationship.
John was a hell of a writer. His first published novel, Wirecutter, is a terrific thriller set in San Diego. Empire’s Horizon explored the realm of fantasy, as did much of his short fiction, published in magazines such as Twilight Zone. For years he wrote for the Reader—interesting articles and cover stories on an incredibly vast array of subjects, as well as his long-running TGIF column, which was something his many fans eagerly awaited to devour every week.
(I must mention another very important person at the Reader: its publisher, Jim Holman. Not enough people know of the kindness and generosity of this man, who is truly a credit to his faith. Many times it was Jim Holman who rescued John from the streets (literally) when John had succumbed to his own demons, giving him several fresh starts and, I’m sure, adding many years to his life. Bless you, Jim Holman, your life, and your work!)
John flattered me immensely in that he was a fan of mine before Troy Danté introduced us and we became friends. John was a fine guitar player and was soon to spend some years playing bass in my band, José Sinatra and the Troy Danté Inferno. Even after he’d left the band, John remained a friend and a fan, perhaps the most devoted fan I’ll ever know. He was ecstatic over my winning entry in the Reader’s sonnet contest earlier this year, and the solo album, Solitary Vices, that I’ve been working on for far too long. We had recently talked about doing some recording together very soon and now I’ll always regret the “very soon” part—I’ll try my best to banish the phrase from my own vocabulary, even as I know I will fail.
I do have some tapes I made of John alone and three splendid songs he did with Troy Danté, recorded at my Hillcrest cottage back in the nineties. I’ve always called it Unfinished Brizzness and I guess it’s time now to pull it out and finalize it, one way or another. And I have a charming video of a trip we made together to Tijuana. In it, this extremely handsome author/musician/ladies man looks directly into the camera lens and, with a rakish smile, invites the viewer to service him orally. It’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen—the tenderness, the sincerity, the conviction—now recalling to me the joy of a man who made in me a fan for life.