Kingdom of Failure

I was at my first job in Detroit and I was doing well. I had gotten lucky with some work that won  a  few awards and got me a little press. The agency I was working for was part of a big global network and the work had earned me a small dose of name recognition inside the company. Which is probably why my partner, Bryce, and I got called into the managing director’s office for an “exciting assignment.” “What’s up guys? Come on in.” Bryce looks like a fucking criminal. He wears steel toed biker boots, black everything and reeks of cigarettes. His nails are filthy. His muddy Jeep with enormous knobby tires is always parked across two spaces in the very back of the lot. He’s the kind of guy who can get you anything you want. He’s fun to hang out with and he’s not a bad art director. “You guys ever been to Brazil?” I shake my head no. Bryce hesitates. It’s as if he needs to run through a mental checklist in his head before answering because it’s possible he’s been there but may have forgot

The guy who works on my car is named Jurgen. He’s of some sort of Eastern European descent. I don’t know where exactly. He doesn’t do small talk but he’s the best mechanic in town. Which, when you live in Detroit, is a bold statement. I love dealing with him because there’s nothing he can’t fix and I know he’s not going to rip me off. In fact, he’s always trying to save me money. He’s an old guy. I don’t know how old. With Eastern Europeans it can be hard to tell. The cold war was kinder to some than others. So, I’m guessing he could be anywhere from late 50’s to early 90’s. He’s the most honest man I’ve ever met. Also, I love the way he talks. Phone rings. “Jif. Iz Yurgeen.” “Hey, Jurgen. Figure out what’s going on with that noise?” “Yiz. Iz breks. Dey wern te sheet. Moost replace whole fecking ting.”   A few years ago, I had a little medical situation going on in an extremely sensitive and personal place. I put it off for as long as I could hoping it would just go away. It did not. I

Locust Abortion Technician was the third studio release from The Butthole Surfers. The album’s first song, “Sweat Loaf”, begins with an ethereal instrumental intro with a bit of dialogue between a father and son. It goes like this. “Daddy?” “Yes, son.” “What does regret mean?” “Well son, it’s a funny thing about regret. It’s better to regret something you have done than to regret something you haven’t done. And by the way, if you see your mother this weekend, be sure and tell her SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!” The lead singer of The Butthole Surfers, Gibby Haynes, is a weird and wise fellow. There’s a great documentary about outsider artist and musician Daniel Johnston called “The Devil and Daniel Johnston”. I highly recommend it if you haven’t seen it. Daniel Johnston’s music isn’t for everyone. But if you listen closely, it’s as good as anything written by much more well-known and more critically acclaimed artists. Gibby films his interview while getting a cavity filled at the dentist. I don’