An interview with a vampire...

Hello,

Right. The last blog post was a little on the serious side. Let me say one thing about that, I was drinking...heavily. And I was feeling a little blue. So, that's two things, but those two things are facts. And facts are what matters. I think.

Moving on...

I figured I'd Pistola Whip another blog post out before this year goes the way of the years of years past. End on a high note, tie up a few loose ends, mend some fences...you get the general drift.

It has come to the recent attention at the offices of Pistola Whipped that one of our dear readers and good friends has recently underwent some trials of the heart. In fact, her heart was ripped out of her chest (whilst beating), put on a train track, run through a garbage disposal, used as a shot put in Olympic try-outs and then tossed back into her chest cavity in an attempt to sustain several life systems.

In order to at least vaguely attempt to right this wrong, Pistola Whipped has really gone deep...deeper than ever before to find the correct elements that could possibly put some salve on our dear reader's deep wound.

Here is Pistola Whipped's attempt at the impossible...

Edward Cullen (from Twilight) interviews Gilligan (from Gilligan's Island)




Edward Cullen (EC): Gilligan, pleasure to meet you.

Gilligan (G): It's actually Bob Denver. How did you do this? I'm dead.

EC: Okay, Bob Denver...Gilligan. I have no idea who you are either way. As far as you being dead, I'm a vampire. I can talk to the dead. That's what we do.

G: A vampire? Right.

EC: Yes, I'm a vampire for a very popular book and motion picture series called Twilight. What elusive, wondrous creature are you to not know who I am?

G: I'm a dead creature. Remember? I died back in 2005.

EC: And how is being dead work for you? Do you miss how your heart swells and pressurizes hot blood through your thirsty veins?

G: Given that I went through quadruple bypass surgery to correct that very issue, no. Being dead is pretty lame. Kinda boring. I spend a lot of time smoking pot.

EC: Being dead for me is like a frequency, a hum of consciousness that operates at a different pitch.

G: You're a strange and intense little man.

EC: I've been told that before. In fact, I'm often compared to the director Jean-Luc Godard.

G: Never heard of him. I mainly worked with Sherwood Schwartz.

EC: Hmmm...what is your philosophy on love?

G: I'd guess I'd have to say, all we need is love. The Beatles said it best, I guess.

EC: Mine is that I'm happy with the death I have, but I do not have a margin to let just anyone come into my life.

G: Not really changing my opinion that you're kind of a ball of nerves there buddy. You could use a nice vacation on a desert island with a few beautiful women and some hammocks.

EC: No, I fancy dark brews while reading a book from a stack of books I have at my disposal in a dark corner of some trendy restaurant. Such an approach can only lead to satisfaction. I need to act on what is immediately available to me, I reckon.

G: Suit yourself, buddy. But with that attitude your eternity might last longer than mind.

Interview abruptly ends.

And that is what Pistola has to offer for the heartbroken and the downtrodden. Look with clear eyes and open hearts into the new year, even if it's through the bottom of a bottle.

May god have mercy on your souls.

Pistola Whipped '10

Thoughs of mortality on a Saturday night...

Good evening,

The night is a Saturday. The month December. The year is 2010.

I am 32 years old. Childless. Daughter to all or none or some. Single according to the government.

My backyard resembles a yard that a crater came shooting out of the night sky and sent snow flying into solid banks that encircle the patio. And that is where I lay. I don't feel the cold because I am not in a feeling mood. I stare up at the sky. There are stars, but they are faded and distant. If I were in California they would probably be magnificent and I could hang a dream or two on them. But here in Minnesota they are remote. Aloof. Dream free. They are winking at me. And I take it as an invitation to battle. Me vs. the stars.

Thoughts come rushing at me, it's like I'm not thinking them, but someone is throwing them at my brain like a bar dart. Aiming for the bulls eye, but hitting the peripheral instead. That bulls eye is protected like a national treasure.

Still laying here on the patio. Probably under this brick and this layer of clay and our plumbing and our foundation and then under this won't grow-a-fucking-thing soil are bones. I can see the bones like I can see the stars: dark matter and then a glowing light repeated like it's sewed into a quilt.

One day we will all be bones...or ashes, depending on your wishes. We go into the ground or on your mantel or scattered over a place you think matters to you. And those stars just keep on blinking. In one blink you're here and then you're not. Those bones are there with a steady stare. One big bone yard this country. Perhaps those bones will produce something that wars will be fought over one day. It doesn't matter to them because they are just watching, keeping time. They know we will join them soon. The stars just keep on winking, because they know the answer to the riddle and we lay on our patios trying to distract ourselves from the very thing that will kill us in the end.